 | Friendship Improv'd : Or, The Female Warriour |  |
23
ACT III.
Scene, The City: An Alarm.Enter Soldiers driving in Archias, Maherball following.
Ma.
Off, ye vile Slaves, from this ignoble strife,
Dare such as you attempt a Gen'ral's Life.
[Sold. Ex.
Yield Archias; 'tis in vain to fight or fly,
Yield to your Friend who would not see you dye.
What hast thou, good old Souldier, blindly done?
Why forc'd the Fate, which now thou canst not shun?
How has thy Loyalty been thus misled,
Why hast thou pull'd this Ruine on thy head?
Arch.
Rather, what hast thou done, and why, why draws
The brave Maherball in so bad a Cause?
I taught thy Infant-fingers first to fight,
But never to maintain a Tyrant's Right.
No other Father but my self you know,
And will you fight against that Father now?
On your own Head a double Guilt you bring,
Warring against a Father and a King.
Ma.
'Tis true, my other Parents are unknown,
You have a Parent been; but not my own.
The King I serve first rais'd me up to Power,
I owe you much, but owe my Soveraign more.
Nor would I for his Crown his Cause decline,
But Zoilus shall reign, while this is mine.
[Sword.
Arch.
Rash Youth still hurry headlong on their Fate,
Still go too far, and still repent too late.
You tread as on some Wave-beat Mountain's Neck,
Ready to fall, and I would save your Wreck.
But vain Young Men still laugh, when old advise,
Think us the Fools, themselves alone the wise.
Ma.
Accuse me not of that; your Words, you know,
Have been as Oracles to me till now:
No more for my far distant Dangers moan,
Mind not my Safety, but consult your own.
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Would that were all; blest should this old Man be,
Were there not greater Ills in store for thee.
You do not know your self, these Hands did rear,
Your Childhood, brought you up to what you are.
Due Filial Rev'rence to my Age you bore,
You call'd me Father, for you knew no more.
Would I had never known—
Ma.
Nay, speak —Go on,
Speak to me as a Father, call me Son.
Unload yourself of half your anxious Grief,
And by dividing Woes, receive Relief.
Arch.
My Care at first preserv'd your Infant Breath,
And since diverted oft your threaten'd Death.
Thou hast not sure forgot what Charge I gave,
And what Precautions I prescrib'd to save
Your much lov'd Life from the relentless Grave.
Ma.
I know you've often warn'd me not to Wed,
But shun, like Destiny, the nuptial Bed;
Bid me beware the Syren Woman's Charms,
But cheifly fly the fair Cyllene's Arms.
Arch.
Fly from her Father too, there shun your Doom,
Shun him, and shun a thousand Ills to come.
That way the Malice of your Stars defeat,
The Secret is not ripe for telling yet.
O I could mention things would make you start;
Parch up your vital Blood, and tear your Heart.
But 'tis not yet a time for me to dare
To trust your Youth to its own self so far.
Why should I mention Ills I cannot cure,
And your Humanity would not endure?
Ma.
No, I will have them from the lowest Hell,
For I dare hear what ev'n the Fiends dare tell.
Not the wild Rage of a rebellious Town,
Not a wrong'd Tyrant's unrelenting Frown;
Not Hills of Sand blown 'ore the Lybian Plain,
Nor Tempests tossing the Sicilian Main,
Not tott'ring Earth from its Foundations driv'n,
Nor headlong fall of the fix'd Stars of Heav'n,
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Nor Lightning flashing fast from Pole to Pole
Can shock a well resolv'd, Heroick Soul.
Arch.
The pointed Hour was not arriv'd before,
And now 'tis past, and can be found no more.
The Tyrant comes with an impetuous pace,
Rage in his Motion, Vengeance in his Face:
If to prolong my Life my Wish incline,
'Tis but to tell thee how to lengthen thine.
Ma.
I'll stand 'twixt Thee and Death, my Power is great;
And I'll employ it to prolong thy date:
Thus be my Natural Affection shown,
Be thou my Father till I know my own.
Drums, Trumpets; Enter Zoilus victorious, Locris, Soldiers.
Zo.
Fortune and Fate are mine, my Arms are crown'd
Where er'e my Streamers wave, or Trumpets sound:
No more rebellious Troops their Standards rear,
No more the Roman Eagles tow'r in Air:
Let to the Gods our publick Thanks be giv'n,
And Incense smoak thro' all the Round of Heav'n.
By Heav'n; my Rebels now shall feel my Rage,
But cheifly this, had he old Nestor's Age.
Speak, Venerable Traytor—tell me—say,
Where has Araxes been this dreadful day?
I made his Name thro' every Squadron ring,
I challeng'd him to meet and fight a King.
Speak! Did he perish in the first Alarms?
Or does he live, and durst not meet my Arms?
Arch.
Long may he live; and all his Foes survive;
I left him last unwounded, and alive.
Not but he fought, thro' the whole Battle ran,
Mov'd like a God, performing more than Man.
Your bravest Men of War declin'd the Strife,
And no Sicilian durst attempt his Life.
Zo.
Dar'st thou speak this, old Detard—
Arch.
King, I dare—
I'm now so old Life was not worth my care,
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Fell by your rage, or dropt like ripen'd fruit.
Zo.
Yet I'll be calm, for I have power at last,
To punish, after all my Questions past:
Where is your Prince? all that you know reveal,
Tell your whole Plot, not the least part conceal;
The Secret of your sudden Flight unfold,
'Tis a King asks; a King that will be told.
Arch.
Let me be dumb for ever; let the Tomb
Gape wide, swallow me quick, and keep me dumb.
Lest Whips, Racks, Dungeons, Tortures should prevail,
And broke with Torments feeble Nature fail.
Zo.
Away with him to Racks, and let him feel
The burning Pinchers and the bearded Steel.
While in a lingring Agony he lyes,
Long wishing for his Death before he dyes.
Ma.
Pronounce not, Royal Sir, so rash a Doom,
There's no recalling Secrets from the Tomb.
His would be buried with him, if he fell,
And you would put him past the Pow'r to tell.
You know him obstinate, perverse, and old,
Mild ways must win him, leave him me to mould.
When Kings of Rebels, and Rebellions hear,
Showing their Fury, they betray their Fear.
For your own Safety then, defer his Fate,
'Tis rumour'd he can save, or sink the State;
Wise Princes will prolong a Traytor's Breath,
For their own Use, and then pronounce his Death.
Zo.
Then be it as you will, my faithful Friend,
My Crown your Arms, and your Advice defend.
But bear him to the Dungeon, there secure
[Arch. is led off.
His Legs, Hands, Arms, fast fetter'd to the Floor.
How shall I recompense what thou hast done,
This day wears fast, and the Sun's Course is run,
Next day shall see you equal with my Son.
When Locris, and Orythia's Hands shall joyn,
I'll give my lov'd Cyllene's into thine.
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Beat Drums, sound Trumpets, let your Banners fly,
And with expanded Streamers sweep the Sky.
Sound while your Emp'rour is triumphant led,
Sound while his Son ascends the Genial Bed.
[Ex. cum Sold.
Manet Maherball, Locris.
Ma.
Revive, ye dying sounds of distant War,
Roll with recover'd fury from afar.
Strike louder than before the thund'ring Drum,
More Romans, more Sicilian Rebels come.
In Fields the Godlike Heroe gains his Fame,
While neighb'ring Nations tremble at his Name.
No Feild is now for any Martial Deed,
But drowsy Peace, and droning Wives succeed.
Lo.
What can the Fates design, my noble Friend,
And where will all these threatning Mischeifs end?
My desp'rate Father knows when e'er I Wed,
Unerring Oracles have doom'd me Dead.
Yet his Commands are for my Nuptials given,
In spight of Oracles,
In spight of every Ordinance of Heaven.
Ma.
The same was told me by my Father's Ghost,
That when I marry'd, I was surely lost.
Thrice his shrill Voice denounc'd my doom aloud,
And thrice he call'd me Son, and thrice I bow'd.
Tho' void of Fear, to Wars, and Dangers bred,
Yet such a Message from the mighty Dead
Deters me from the Fair Cyllene's Bed.
Lo.
Saw you the Shape the Ghost assum'd before;
What aspect, and what form, or port he bore?
Mark'd you the Features—
Ma.
That, alas! I can
Give no account of; Pale he look'd, and Wan,
The Shade retaining little of the Man.
Lo.
None but Cyllene? did the rev'rend Shade
Name none besides, except no other Maid?
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None else—
Lo.
'Twas strange.
Ma.
And strangely has it wrought,
And still revolves within my labouring Thought;
I'll to the King, and beg him to suspend
Our threatned Nuptials, till the War shall end.
Ev'n that may gain us time, and we may find
Some way unthought of yet to change his Mind.
If granted not, I'll leave him to his Crown,
And fly to foreign Camps to win Renown.
He tyrannizes most o're human Life,
Who would, against our Will, impose a Wife.
[Exit.
Manet Locris.
Lo.
Thou shal't not noble Youth, go hence alone,
I'll share thy Exile, till thou shar'st my Throne.
I'll follow thee, thou Charmer of my Soul,
Where ever Tempests beat, or Billows roll.
Thro' foaming Seas, and scorching Sands I'll flee,
And leave my Parents, and my Crown for thee.
Enter Semanthe.
Sem.
And art thou found again, but do I boast
Of finding thee, who must so soon be lost?
Fate, like the Sword, hangs threat'ning o're our Head,
Held only by a single, slender Thread,
Which, when that breaks, will fall, and strike us dead.
The furious King with his drawn Sword I see,
Now he kills Locris, now he murthers me.
Now down the Shore he drags us side by side,
And throws our mangled Bodies to the Tide.
Lo.
Would I had never been, to cause your pain,
But yet be calm, take courage once again.
The Gods that have by their almighty Aid,
Amidst fierce Wars preserv'd a feeble Maid,
Will not permit me now to be betray'd.
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Why was Bellona's work so quickly done?
Why are the Trumpets Clangors hush'd so soon?
Rush to new Wars, new shouting Squadrons Head,
Or fight—or fly—
Do any thing to shun the Nuptial Bed.
How gladly could I here my Life resign?
But oh! Your Miseries would not end with mine.
Gods! 'Tis too much to bear; Slaves bound in Chains,
Broke upon Wheels, and rack'd with mortal Pains,
Feel not my Woes, but with more ease expire,
Let me go mad, or give me back my Peace.
O cruel Husband! O unnatural Sire!
O wretched Child! O most unhappy Race!
O miserable me!
[Falls.
Lo.
Rise, and I'll fall,
I'll perish for us both, I'll bear it all.
Fate cannot such a just Request deny,
For you who gave me Life I ought to dye.
Sem.
Thou: thou hast been midst desp'rate Dangers taught,
From Infancy to value Death at naught.
But I, my Child, in these declining years,
Bend with my feeble Age, and feebler Fears.
Lo.
Then let my Youth your feeble Age sustain,
Trust to my strength, you shall not trust in vain.
Around my Trunk, like fearful Ivy twine;
Yours be the Safety, as the Duty's mine.
The Gods will then prevent the threatned Stroke;
Their Thunder dares not rend their Sacred Oak,
Sem.
There are no pitying Gods; or, if there are,
Nor you, nor I have ever been their Care.
I'll act a Bacchanal, and scour the Plain,
Feign madness—that, alas! I need not feign.
O're Hills and Dales with desp'rate Fury fly,
Make distant Woods restore my frantick Cry,
Meet from wild Beasts a less unnatural Doom,
Or in the Forest dig our quiet Tomb.
Lo.
So frantickly, alas! you look, and speak,
I feel my stubborn Heart begin to break:
Custom has given me Courage, which secures
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Sem.
Then I'll be silent, thou no more shall't know,
Alas! I've let thee know too much of Woe.
But henceforth to my self my griefs shall be,
Whate'er I feel, I'll hide it all from thee.
Lo.
Rather speak on, speak on, and let us share
Suffrings alike—am I too weak to bear?
Silence, alas! would be too sure a Sign
Of desp'rate Grief; one part at least be mine.
Yet do not, do not give it such a Scope,
Trust on the Gods; there still is room for hope.
Sem.
Who talks of hope, what flatt'ring Tongue presumes
To bid me hope? Can that be found in Tombs?
Let Hope from this unhappy Climate fly,
For who can hope, that sees my Locris dye?
No more the voice of Comfort let me hear,
Speak not—
Or if you speak, speak nothing but Despair.
Look yonder, where the Winds and Waves engage,
Hark, how they roar, behold them how they rage!
Survey this troubled Earth, that thundring Sky,
What cause have they to storm, what not have I?
Stand off, and give me leisure to complain,
And think—O no,—no, never think again:
Stand off, and give me way, 'tis mine to rave,
Driv'n by each Wind, and dash'd by every Wave;
What art can succour us, what pow'r can save?
[Exit, supported by Locris.
Enter Cyllene.
Cyl.
I heard Despair pronounc'd, and fain would see
That wretched Creature who dspairs like me.
Whoe'er thou art, worse Ills thou can'st not prove,
For my Despair is the Despair of Love.
O Fool, abandon'd Fool! to stoop so low,
So to pursue the Man who slights you so.
Sure it is thus by some Divine Decree,
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I'll answer to my self—
Fate's hand is in it, or it could not be.
Enter Maherball
Ma.
Where's Locris? ha—
[aside.
Cyl.
Now hold my beating Heart:
What makes thee blush, what caus'd that guilty Start?
Am I so monstrous? can my Gorgon sight
Put so renown'd a Champion in a Fright?
Since our near Nuptials are the Stars Design,
Thou should'st have nam'd no other Name than mine.
Ma.
What am I doom'd to bear?
Cyl.
What have you born?
'Tis I, fond fool bear all; your Salvage Scorn:
Or worse then Scorn; Indifference! cruel Fate!
Let him but shew me either Love or Hate.
Is that so hard to grant?
Ma.
For Heavens sake, cease,
And give your self, and give Maherball Peace.
You wrong me, and in your impetuous Rage
Blame me for Pains, which I must ne'er asswage.
Cyl.
You wrong me more, you wrong my Father's Crown,
Who nobly rais'd thee from a Wretch unknown.
Brave, gen'rous Proofs of Gratitude you bring,
But still 'tis thus with a too gracious King:
Should he now know how you disdain my Bed,
Instead of giving me, he'd take your Head.
Ma.
The King thinks better since.
Cyl.
'Tis thou hast taught;
'Tis thou, ingrateful, hast inspir'd the Thought:
Brave as thou art, thou may'st be yet afraid
Of the Revenge of a rejected Maid.
Fly to some dismal Cave, or dreadful Den;
Herd with your Fellow-Brutes, and not with Men.
Go, stupid Wretch! whom Beauty cannot move,
Thou art not bless'd with Soul enough to love.
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Humbly I take my leave.
Cyl.
Hold yet, and stay;
O Heav'n! What have I done? What can I say?
Hell! how he catch'd the word to haste away!
I call'd thee back but to pronounce thy Fate,
To show my Rage can like my Wrongs be great.
When Love is fled, Revenge supplies his room;
Dread then a certain and a sudden Doom.
Know, from this time, ingrateful Wretch! I tear
Thy Image from my Heart—
Or if that will not be, I'll stab thee there.
[Ex. severally.
| Friendship Improv'd : Or, The Female Warriour | |