University of Virginia Library

Scena quarta.

The Scene continues:
Enter Phedima, and Orinda.
Orind.
Love in my breast should with slow progress move,
Were there no other interest in Love.

Phed.
Why, what more can there be?

Orind.
—Yes, I would have
My Beauties Captive be my Honours slave.
Brave Conq'rours scorn the prize they win, whilst they
Aim onely at the fame of Victory.
But your too humble Love takes a low flight,
When you thus dote upon a Favourite:
Can your Darius—

Phed.
—Can Darius seem
Unworthy then of Phedima's esteem?
'Twere Impious to wish my passion less:
His merits, not my Love, have their excess.

Orind.
Love, like a pleasant Dream, disturb'd or crost,
The fancy wakes, and then the pleasure's lost.
My presence then will but injurious prove,
[Scornfully.
Silence and privacy are fit—for Love.

[Exit.
Phed.
And can she be so cruel, to reprove
Her heart which to Darius does incline?
Whom all the World can do less than Love,
At least, if I may judge all hearts by mine.

Enter Smerdis, who having a while gaz'd upon her, advances to her; she seeing him, draws her Veile over her Face.
Smerd.
Madam, too late you do my sight deprive,
What's in a moment born, an Age may live.
This makes you think (that since your pow'r is such)
Where an assault has won, a siege too much.
Having th'assurance of your Conquest found,
You hide the Weapon now you've given the wound.

Enter Patasithes, unseen.
Pat.
Ha! this strange language does mysterious sound;
It is a Riddle which I can't expound.

Smerd.
Yet you must pity those chaste flames you raise,
The gods themselves smile on their Votaries.
And yet the Heav'ns, when they vouchsafe to smile,
Suffer no Clouds to interpose the while.
But your injurious Veile permits no glance
Should my fond hopes with the least glimpse advance.

Phed.
Stranger, what means this language, and how dares
Your ill-bred confidence assault my ears?
This boldness merits more than my disdain
And frowns can punish.

Smerd.
—Yet your self restrain
The Pow'r of both, whilst you thus Veil'd, confute
That punishment your frowns should execute.
The fiercest Lightning never wounds, when thus
A Veile of Clouds is drawn 'twixt that and us.

[Unveiles her.
Phed.
A Persian Ladies honour is profan'd,
Who bears this usage from an unknown hand.
What frenzy has possest your soul?

Smerd.
—Your eyes
Do ill to make my heart their sacrifice;
And then condemn him who does offer it.

Phed.
My scorn's too little, where th'affronts so great.

[Proffers to go.
Smerd.
Hold, cruel fair, and your just anger stay,
With such repentance I'le my fault repay:
That I will shew my Love is so sublime,
That it can expiate a Lovers Crime.—

Pat.
(aside).
Ha! how does his distracted fancy rove,
Prefer'd to Empire, to submit to Love!

Smerd.
—I prest too far, I must confess, yet though
Your coyness threatned, it invited too.
Thus curious, we int'angry Comets pry,
Which but, at best, threaten ill destiny:
When our inquiry does not reach so far,
To know the aspect of a milder Star.

Pat.
Th'Infection spreads. No longer I endure
To see that which I must prevent, or cure.
Love, like the stars that rule't, should active move,
You are too idle, Sir, to be in Love.
[To Smerd.
Come, Sir, she's yours.

Phed.
Ye gods!

Smerd.
—Hold, Sir, you wrong—

Pat.
I only tell you, that you talk too long.
Lovers should not such tedious treaties hold,
Love is a thing that's sooner done, than told.
But you mistake; Love takes a Nobler course,
Conquests are not by parley won, but force.
Here, take her then.

[Thrusts her rudely to Smerd.
Phed.
Defend me, Heavens.

Smerd.
—Rash Man,
Hold your rude hands; you all that's good profane.

Phed.
Audacious—
[To Pat.
—Oh, I understand you now:
[To Smerd.
Have you Confed'rates and Assistants too?
How dares your salvage fury grow so rude,
To force that Virtue which you can't delude?

Smerd.
Dispell your fears, your Virtue is secure,
Since your protection is in your own pow'r:
Thus doubly guarded, by the pow'rs of Heav'n,
And by those pow'rs Heav'n to your charms has giv'n.

Phed.
No, Ravishers; no more this language use,
The success failing, you the guilt excuse.
Your sting-less fury wants the pow'r to hurt,
You know you are within the Persian Court:
Your Violence chose an improper stage:
This sanctuary guards me from your rage.

[Exit.
Pat.
See with what courage she her cause protects;
You but the King, but she the Tyrant Acts.
But she derives her pow'r from your tame fears:
She knows that Lovers dare not give offence:
Thus fear makes gods; who deify'd the stars,
But onely those who fear'd their Influence?
If you then Lov'd, why did you not enjoy?
Can a Kings Modesty his hopes destroy?

Smerd.
Such base and unjust deeds would but proclaim
Me an Impostor greater than I am.

Pat.
'Tis Kings make Justice, and not Justice Kings,
And in that name you may Act greater things,
And still be just. The Persian King's design
No Woman more than for a Concubine.
And in that onely name she should not have
The Courtship of a Mistress, but a Slave.
You then should force her whom you could not move.

Smerd.
Force may support my Empire, not my Love.
Beauty, like Majesty, is sacred too:
And must it then be thus profan'd by you?

Pat.
Your thoughts and passions are too humble grown,
You do forget you're seated on a Throne.

[Exit.
Smerd.
Can Patasithes so inhumane prove?
He gave me Empire, but destroys my Love.
This is that Phedima I've seen before;
What I then but admir'd, I now adore.
My privacy my passion then confin'd;
A flame too noble for so low a mind.
Now nothing my Love's freedom can controul;
My Empire's limits do enlarge my soul.

[Exit.