University of Virginia Library

ACT. I.

The Princess Orundana, attended by Women.
Orund.
I'st not enough that I am born t'a Crown,
Heiress of Persia, Heiress to so large
A share of the divided Globe, those vast
Extended Bounds of Empire, that our God
The Sun, with his wing'd Coursers of the Skies,
Makes almost half his Mornings Race to travel?
And to all these I have a King and Father
That reigns the Terror of the World, whose Sword
Cuts with so keen an Edge that registring Fame
Has blunted her tir'd Pen but to Record
The Kingdoms he has won: And yet not all
Those strong Foundations of Imperial Glory,
Not all these rooted Pillars can support me.
A bold Supplanter of my Blood and Birth-right
Stands ready with the very lighted Brand
To set my Royal Pyramid a blazing.

Enter Otrantes.
Otrant.
Health to the fair Divinity of Persia,
Health to your Hopes, your Fame, your Peace, your Glory.
Now your just Title's heard; your pond'rous Cause
Has turn'd the Ballance of Almighty Justice,
And all the Smiles of ever-favouring Providence
Declare for Orundana! This blest day
Brings home the haughty Rival of your Birth,
And yields him to your Pow'r.

Orund.
Yes, kind Otrantes,
I have at last unseal'd the deafen'd Ears
Of the Incredulous King; so haunted him
With the long Gorgon of his Daughters Wrongs,
That now, his Eyes enlightened by my dangers,
He sees this towring Eagle mount too high,
And is resolved to clip his soaring Wings.

Otrant.
Clip 'em! Yes, that great work th'impending Weight
Of your avenging Influence has begun
Already.

Orund.
True, Otrantes: Was't not worthy
My great Revenge to have the haughty Insolent
Call'd home i'th'height of all his brightest Victories?
No less than the proud Empire of the West
Just truckling to his Sword; the lost Arcadius,
A Successor of the Immortal Constantine,
Half totter'd from his Throne! Was it not brave
To work my jealous Father to recal him
Just in that glorious Hour?

Otrant.
Yes, Madam, to recal him in the head of
Two Hundred Thousand conquering Persians, almost
Entring the very Gates of Constantinople;
To rein his proud Triumphant Chariot back,
Just driving to so vast a Grove of Laurels,
Was such a check to his Ambitious Pride—
But he deserves it all.

Orund.
Deserves it? Traytor!
'Tis true he's Nephew to the Crown; his Veins
Run Royal Blood, and next my nearer self.
He's Heir of Persia; but t'ascend her Throne,
Whilst my Imperial interposing Birth-right
Confronts his impious Plea, is that loud Treason—

Otrant.
Alas! His Treason is not half so monstrous
As th'Hypocritical Mask that covers it.
Methinks I hear him still (for I shall never
Forget the Artful Accents) when his Arm
Claspt round my Neck, and with a heaving Sigh,
As deep as if a Pang of Conscience breath'd it,
He cryed—'Tis hard my Friend, 'tis very hard
T'exclude her from a Throne. But do not think
A lawless wish of wild Ambition turns
This mighty Hinge: Far, far be that vile Taint
Ev'n from my Souls least Thought. No, my Otrantes,
Necessity, invincible Necessity,
The Exigence of State, an Empires Safety,
And the Worlds Peace Command it.

Orund.
Exquisite Fiend!

Otrant.
'Tis true, she's Heiress of the Crown of Persia
And the great Blood of Royal Isdigerdes
Fills her rich Veins with an Immortal Treasure;
And t'heap the Mass Divine, she has so much Beauty,
A second Alexander might be proud to kneel to,
To raise a Race of Monarchs for the Universe.
But still she's but a Woman: and the Scepter,
The Persian Scepter weilded by a Woman!

Orund.
A Woman! Death, a Woman! Can the Villain
Forget that the great Foundress of our Empire
Semiramis her self was but a Woman!
Semiramis, That rais'd the wondrous Walls
Of our proud Babylon; Semiramis
That reign'd, so reign'd; and tho' no more than Woman,
Stands that recorded all Divine Original
That Pettyer Kings, her poorer Successors,
Shine but like waning borrowing Moons beneath her;
Their boasted Manhoods all but fainter Copies
Of one unimitable Female Glory.
And what does the false Slave read in my Eyes,
But that the glorious Orundana wears
A Soul, can buoy up Empire to a height,
Sublime, as e're the proud Semiramis raised it?

Otrant.
Madam, I fear I have too rudely moved
Your Royal Genius with this hated Subject;
When I have so often tired your sacred Patience
With the ungrateful sounds.

Orund.
So often! No,
Id'e have my Wrongs alarum'd in my Ears,
Repeated oftner than my very Prayers;
It whets my Vengeance keen, the Edge wou'd rust else.
She who wou'd sing Revenge must play the watchful Philomel;
Hold the sharp pointed Thorn against her Breast
To keep her Ayres awake.

Otrant.
To my best Wishes!
My excellent Royal Engine!

[Aside.
Orund.
Yes, Otrantes,
If Vengeance be the God's, and as they say,
There's Musick in their Sphears; 'tis sure, Revenge,
That fills th'Immortal Harmony: I am certain
Were I a God, and sate to tune the Stars,
Seraphick Raptures, Beatifick Visions,
Angelick Bliss, and Everlasting Quires,
All, all together joyn'd, Divine Revenge
Would sound a Note below thee.

Enter Persian Magi.
1 Mag.
Royal Madam!
We come the Harbingers to Fortune's Minion,
The proud Hormidas, who returns Triumphant,
Like a tall Vessel, bounding as he moves
With his gay Flags, and all his glittering Streamers.

Orund.
Yes, Gaudy Thing! his glittering Streamers fly;
But when I raise the Mountain Waves beneath him:
When Fate is in the Wind, and the rough Billows
Beat Ruine round his Head; then tell me
What glittering thing you find him.

2 Mag.
True, bright Heroine!
Wake, wake our Altar's Champion, and your own;
Consider how th'effeminate Indulgence
Of our tame Monarch has supinely suffer'd
An upstart Christian Sect of Worshipers
To spread a Canker'd Weed through his whole Empire;
Whilst this Aspirer, their Apostate Leader
Mounts up their Faction's Head, his whole Ambition
Too rank a Cyon from that Root, Religion.

3 Mag.
Thus with your Birthright, th'Empire of our God
Is threatned too, and this Gigantick Rebel
At once dares Battail Heaven and Orundana.

Orund.
Yes; Let the Audacious Rebel Battail Heav'n,
And Heav'n as tamely bear't: But from that hour
He durst but lift a Thought against my Head,
I have hoarded up those Shafts, those Bolts of Vengeance;
Shall strike him Headlong, plunging, sinking, drowning,
Below where Heav'n has even the Thought of punishing.

Enter the King, and the Christian Bishop Audas. Guards and Attendants.
King.
Well, Christian, for your Prayers you have my Thanks;
And if that Power, you kneel to, has stood up
That Friend and Champion of my Throne; to shew you
His Favours are not wholy undeserv'd,
Our kind Protection of your Christian Altars
Has paid the Debt we owe.

Bish.
Yes, Royal Sir;
Your kind Protection of our Christian Altars
Stands your Recorded Monument. In all
Those Thousand and Ten Thousand Christian Proselytes,
Through all your spacious flourishing Persian Empire,
Not one Knee bends to the Eternal Throne
Without a Prayer for Royal Isdigerdes.

1 Mag.
That croaking Poysoner hanging at his Ear!
All is not well, my Brother, when that Night-Bat
Hovers so close there.

[Aside, whispering to the other Mag.]
Bish.
Yes, Illustrious Monarch;
By you our Christian Incense perfumes Heav'n;
And Heav'n in its just Gratitude points down
Its pendant Blessings on your darling Brow.
Does your Sword vanquish, and enrolling Fame
Swell Volumes with your Conquests? Does the World
Tremble before you? Yes, the Christians God
Leads forth your Hosts, and combats on your side.
Renown and Victory are sworn your Vassals,
And 'tis the Trump of Angels sounds your Glory.

[Trumpets and Shouts.]
Enter Rugildas.
Rugild.
Dread Sir, a Quire of Universal Joy
And ecchoing Triumph fill these Sacred Walls;
The great Hormidas your Victorious General,
Saluted with resounding Iö Peans,
Welcom'd with all the Breath of Fame, returns.

Bish.
Yes Sir, this shining Leader of your Arms returns:
And if his rowling Glory as it moves,
Gathers the Tribute of the World before him,
He begs Admittance as your faithful Treasurer,
T'unload the splendid Mass, his Hoard of Honours
At their great Masters Sacred Royal Feet.

Orund.
Rhetorical Priest, there needs not all this Flourish:
His Actions speak themselves without a Trumpet.

Enter Hormidas, Theodosius, and Attendants.
[Trumpets.]
Horm.
My Royal Lord, Thus kneeling, and Thus bless'd,
[kneels
From all my humble Pilgrimage of Honour,
My poorer Race of Fame, and Toyls of War,
Translated to this more exalted Glory,
'Tis here I Crown my consummated Bliss.

King.
Rise, my Hormidas, Rise.

Horm.
No, my Dread Lord,
I have a second Duty yet unpaid:
That Sovereign Fair, the Rising Star of Empire,
Commands my bended Knee

[To Orundana.
Orund.
No, rise Hormidas:
You that command the Knees of Nations, stand
Adorn'd with Wreaths too proud to stoop thus low.

Horm.
Proud, Madam! If I am proud 'tis when I kneel:
[rises.
Proud, that from conquer'd Kingdoms I bring home
A Homager to the Imperial Orundana.

Orund.
A Homager! Fawning Infidel!

[aside.
Horm.
But Sir,
E're I present you with your meaner Laurels,
First let me tender you the proudest Trophy
Of all your Dazling Glories, this Young Prince,
Heir to the Western Empire.

[presents him Theodosius.
King.
Theodosius!
The Great Arcadius's Son! True, kind Hormidas,
This is indeed my proudest Trophy.

Theod.
Oh Sir,
Take heed how you receive me from that Hand.
No, let me give my self; for the too Generous
Hormidas will but over-prize the Present.

Horm.
Returning in your Conquering Armies Head,
(At your Command) with this surprizing Present,
This more surprizing Embassie was sent me.
Go, Valiant Leader, and returning tell
Your Master, that Triumphant Persian Monarch,
His Vanquish'd Enemy, charm'd with the Glories
Of his Illustrious Conqueror, presents him
His Son and Empires Heir, his Pupil and his Nursery:
That rais'd and train'd up in the School of Honour,
Under so great a Master in the Art
Of War, as the Invincible Isdigerdes,
He may wash off a blushing Empires shame,
The Son Retrieve that Fame the Father lost.

Theod.
Yes Sir, from my own Native barr'ner Soyl
Of Glory, his kind Hand transplants me here,
Into your warmer Sun, your fairer Royal Garden,
T'enrich my humbler Growth; and bids me tell you
An Enemy begs this Royal Grace.

King.
An Enemy!
No, from this hour a Friend. Oh kind Arcadius!
So generous and so vast a Trust has cancell'd
The Name of Foe, and a new Bond of Honour
Ties my Eternal Friendship. Yes, Dear Prince,
Come to my Arms, my Arms, thou dear Adoption;
[Embracing Theodosius.
A Father gives thee, and a Father takes thee.

Orund.
The Western Empires Heir! Methinks there's something
Whispers my Pride, and tells me that the Crowns
[aside, looking on Theodosius
Of Constantine and Cyrus joyn'd together
Would make a Chaplet worthy of my wearing.

King.
But, my Hormidas, while I treat thee as
A Conqueror, I forget to Impeach thee as
A Criminal.

Horm.
A Criminal!

King.
Yes, Hormidas,
I have a Charge against thee of so black
A Die, as Sullies all thy Victories.
There have been busie Whispers in my Ears,
That thou aspirest to bar my Daughters Birthright.

Horm.
How; my Dread Sovereign!

King.
That the bold Hormidas
Aspires to wrest th'Imperial Persian Diadem
From my succeeding Daughters rightful Brow,
And on his own plant my devolving Crown?

Horm.
A Traytor!
Oh my bleeding Fame! Is this,
This the Reward of all my Faithful Services?
Ah Madam! whilst this frightful Load lies on me,
The conquering Thousands I have led to Battle,
To hew out Deathless Monumental Statues
To Orundana's bright succeeding Glory,
At the dire sound of this stupendious Forgery,
Will blush a deeper Scarlet than their Swords
E're dy'd to win you Crowns! Nor shall the World
Start only at the sound; the bright Commission'd Ministers,
The Angel Guardians of the Life of Majesty,
Hear not this fowl polluting Calumny,
But tremble at the impious Execration.

King.
If thou wert innocent, Hormidas—

Horm.
If I were innocent!—Name me my Accuser.
Ah Royal Sir, if the traducing Monster,
Whose foul-mouth'd Falsehood and invenom'd Malice
Durst stab the Honour of your Faithful Soldier,
Be an incarnate Fiend that walks in Flesh;
Oh name him, name him to my just Revenge,
That my keen Sword may hunt him through the World,
And prove my Truth on his false perjur'd Heart.

King.
No, my young Son of War, reserve your Sword
For Nobler Foes. Let it suffice, we have not
Been over credulous, nor fondly lent
A listning Ear to this vile Imputation.

Horm.
Ah Sir! perhaps this Poysoner of my Fame,
This Dunghil Snake, is some poor low-born Wretch
Below the Vengeance of my Arm, a Nephew
T'your own rich Veins th'Imperial Blood of Persia,
And you're asham'd that I should stoop to punish him.

King.
Yes, my Hormidas, he's below your Sword,
A Slave unworthy—

Horm.
Is that all? Unworthy!
No, Royal Sir, let not that bar your Justice;
Take all my Titles, all my Wreaths of Glory;
Unplume me, rifle me, degrade me. Oh!
Be kind, and strip me naked, that my Sword
May right my Honour by the Traytor's Blood.

2 Mag.
Gods! How he talks? But oh dread Sir! consider,
The mightiest sounds come from the hollowest Hearts.
[To the King.
Ah wou'd you but believe!—

King.
Wou'd I believe, my saucy Conscience-Driver!
What if I cann't believe? Who made you Lords
Over the Faith of Kings?

1 Mag.
Foolhardy Babler!
[Aside to the other Mag.
Is this a time for talking?

King.
Well, my Souldier,
To hold the Ballance even, I will not lodge
A Thought against thy Truth. But to perform
The Duty of a Father and a King;
To Morrow early in our great Pyræum,
The sacred Temple of our God the Sun
Lighted with burning Victims, and perfum'd
With solemn Odours, be it your charge to publish
[To the Magi.
Our Orundana, Our Imperial Daughter's
Succession to our Throne, that we may bind
The Homage of succeeding Generations,
And point 'em where to kneel when we are Dust.

Horm.
Now you are God-like good.
Yes, Sir, Proclaim your Orundana's Birth-Right,
With all that bright inaugurating Lustre,
Rites so sublime, and Jubilees so loud,
As not Remoter Worlds alone shall hear,
But th'Ecchoing Vault of Heav'n repeat the sound:
And tho' th'unfortunate Hormidas cannot
Be an assisting Minister at your Altars,
I'le pay my humbler Duty at my own—
Yes, hear me Men, and listning Angels witness,
My very Prayers, the seconds to my Sword,
I'le wrestle Heav'n, as I have battail'd Earth,
For Blessings on that Brow.

King.
Enough my Warriour.
Enter Cleomira, Cleontes and Doranthe.
Come my Imperial Charge—

[To Theodosius.
Hormid.
My Cleomira!

[running to embrace her.
King.
My Breast and Empires Guest! My Court has Honours
To pay thee; and the bending Genius
Of the proud Babylon waits to salute thee.

[Exeunt King Theodosius, Guards, Attendants, &c.
Manent only Hormidas, Cleomira, Cleontes and Doranthe.
Cleom.
And am I blest once more!

Hormid.
Thou softest Beauty!
So full my Soul, so vast my Joys; beyond
The Circle of these Arms, Ambition has not
A Wish, Delight a Rapture, Life a Blessing,
Or Earth a Crown to give!

Cleom.
Oh! That these melting Eyes and kind Embraces
Could hold thee ever fast! Hold thee so fast
That envious Glory from the Arms of Love
Should never snatch thee more.

Hormid.
Envyous Glory!
Yes, My fair Life, in all my Chace of Honour,
Such distant and divorcing Worlds between us;
There's not a Laurel I have won in Battle,
But I have bought it at no less a price,
Than thousand thousand Sighs for Cleomira.

Cleom.
If such thy Sighs, think what my Tears have been;
Think with what waiting Patience I have watched
The trickling Sand of Time's slow Glass, and counted
The numbred Minutes o're a whole long Year,
So thoughtful Sorrow, and so wishing Love.

Doranth.
Amongst the greeting Joys and ecchoing Shouts,
For your Return, we come, Illustrious Prince,
To tender your our Loyal Welcome too,
When Love permits you leisure to receive it.

Cleont.
Yes Sir, 'mongst the stout Bowls, crown'd Healths and hearty Wishes for you;
You must accept our Mite in part of payment.

Horm.
Doranthe, and the good old kind Cleontes,
The Honour'd Father to my beauteous Princess,
(For I must call you so) thus let me pay you—

[Kneels to them.
Cleont.
Rise Prince for shame, I am not half Father
Enough to her, to deserve all this Homage:
Were she my own Flesh and Blood I might say something to it;
But Pox of these Foster Fathers; this rearing of
Children by Adoption: We have all the pains in bringing 'em
Up, without the pleasure of getting 'em.
Had I got thee my self, dear Rogue—

[To Cleom.
Doranth.
Thou get her! No; she has nobler Veins than thine.

[Aside.
Horm.
But, Oh my Love! I have strange Newes to tell thee;
I have play'd a wondrous Game: whilst I have won
Renown abroad, I have lost it here at home:
Some whispering Slanderers, (wouldst thou believe it?)
To blacken my fair Truth, have told the King
That I am an Aspirer.

Cleom.
An Aspirer!

Horm.
Yes, My dear Sweetness, to divert the Crown
From Orundana's Brow.

Cleom.
'Tis very hard,
That such unspotted Faith shou'd be thus blemisht

Horm.
True, I'st not hard? Perhaps 't has reacht thy Ear.
What hast thou heard the censuring World talk of me?

Cleom.
I hear, my Lord? No; In thy mournful absence
The World and I have been such strangers, that
My Prayers and Love have been my sole Companions.
Alas! I have only talkt to Heav'n and thee.

Enter Otrantes.
Horm.
That hated Slave here!

[Aside.
Otrant.
Sir, Perhaps you'll wonder
In your congratulated Victories,
To see me one amongst the bending Croud.
I must confess, I have born hardships from you
Wou'd shake a Saint; but that I can forget 'em,
Th'attesting Gods, and th'Honour I still pay you
Stand my Record.

Horm.
Substantial Testimony;
If I durst take the Credit of the Voucher.

Otrant.
'Tis true, I have had sufferings and severe ones:
For after more than twenty years a Souldier,
And a Commander too, to be cashier'd,
Disgracefully cashiered like me, i'th'Head of
Two hundred thousand Witnesses, was hard;
But this I can forget.

Horm.
No, Sir, Remember it
To my Recorded Justice, you deserv'd,
And had what you deserv'd.

Otrant.
Deserv'd!

Horm.
Deserv'd.
And 'twas my Mercy that that publick shame
Compounded for your Life, your forfeit Life.
Did you not wrong the Souldiers of their pay?
A Robbery more infamous than that
That hangs the midnight Cut-throat on a Gibbet.

Otrant.
Alas Sir! What if once, once in a Life,
Some pressing Chance or personal Misfortune
Forced that unwilling Trip: The kind Hormidas
Might sure have wink'd at greater Faults in me;
Some more than common grains of Mercy sure
Might have been shown me for that Beauty's sake.

Horm.
For hers?

Otrant.
For the fair Cleomira's sake.
Who raised that beauteous Envy of all Eyes,
And Darling of your own, but kind Otrantes?
Who crown'd your Love in those dear Arms? Otrantes,
Who but Otrantes the Original Founder
Of all your boundless Joys? Was not the Mother
Of this then unborn Cleomira,
Now almost twenty Years, took by my Sword
A Captive in the Alexandrian Wars?

Horm.
Perhaps she was.

Otrant.
And the young Cleomira,
The Offspring of an unknown Father, then
The Burthen of her Captive Mother's Womb,
When born, in pity by my Hand committed
To the indulgent care of that kind Sister,
[pointing to Doranthe.
Now the Honourable Wife of this most Noble Lord?

Horm.
'Tis true, all this I own.

Otrant.
And if
The growing Love of this kind, more than Father
Adopted her his own, bred her in all
The Splendor of the most exalted Blood,
Adorn'd her gay in all the shining Beams
Of a Court-star, till she subdu'd
The great Hormidas's Heart; was't not by me?
And for my sake this generous Lord—

Cleont.
Your sake!
Fair and softly, good Brother-in-law; a little for your sake
I confess, but a great deal more for her own.
For let me tell you, my Lord,
[to Hormidas.
She grew the sweetest, well-favour'd, and the most vertuous
Little Rogue—
So fair, my Lord, so lovely and so witty,
No Cherubim was ever half so pretty.

Otrant.
Cou'd not this Merit plead a little for me?
And soften your unkindness to Otrantes!

Horm.
'Tis true, thou hast done all this for Cleomira;
And yet, (I know not why) I cannot love thee;
A strange aversion rooted in my Soul
Sets thee the eternal Object of my loathing;
As if some darting Blast, some secret Poyson
Shot from thy Eyes, and swell'd me at the sight.

Cleom.
Alas my Lord! nor can I see that Face,
But something rises in my Blood against him,
More than against even my most mortal Enemy;
For Enemies my Religion bids me love.
But at his sight, methinks my disturb'd Fancy
Walks Ghastly like a restless Ghost, about
Some hidden Treasure lock't from mortal knowledge.

Doranth.
Yes, sweet wrong'd Innocence, thy true Princely Veins
[aside.
That, that's the hidden Treasure that must lie
Lock't and seal'd up for ever.

Cleom.
Sure, Otrantes,
Thou hast strangely wrong'd me, or th'immortal Goodness,
The Guardian of my Soul would never suffer
These aking Thoughts against thee.

Horm.
If he has wrong'd thee
Be't to his own black Conscience—But because
Thou seemst to come suppliant for my favour
[to Otrant.
The Grace thou seekst thou shalt obtain; and that
The greatest I can give, which is, to shun
That hated Face, and never see thee more.

[Exeunt Hormidas, Cleomira.
Manet Otrantes solus.
Otrant.
Nor thy more hated Face will I e're see,
Unless to cover it with greater shame
Than e'er thou heapst on me. I owe thee Ruine;
Yes, Prince, I ow't, nor will I die thy Debtor.

Enter Rugildas.
Otrant.
My honest Ingineer, the kind Rugildas!

Rug.
Yes Sir, your sweating Cyclops at the Anvil.

Otrant.
But, oh my Friend, this unbelieving King;
I am afraid, his cooling Jealousie
Stands strong against us, and our great Design
Has Crags and Rocks to work through.

Rug.
Why this Fear?

Otrant.
Alas, all's hush't; the Princess's Succession
I'th'Temple of our Sun proclaim'd to morrow.

Rug.
Proclaim'd to Morrow! No, that fatal Morrow
Our Sun shall never see. Oh, my Otrantes,
I have a Plot would rouze thy drooping Vengeance
Even from a Grave. What say'st thou if that Temple
Its blazing Roof in one bright Conflagration,
Before to Morrows Sun shall lie in Ashes.

Otrant.
Oh this rich Thought!

Rugild.
I tell thee, Friend, to night
The Temple of our Sun shall burn by me,
And the whole Christian Race bleed for't to morrow.

Otrant.
This is a Master-stroke!

Rug.
Yes, my Otrantes.

Otrant.
I am all Rapture!

Rug.
T'increase your Transport,
Of all the whole Artillery of Fate;
See here the keenest Shaft. The very Temple
Doom'd to one burning Pile, and great Hormidas
Himself the leading Firebrand.

[giving Otrantes a Paper.
Otrant.
[reads.]

My Orders are, That in the silence and dead of Night you set their Temple
on fire; in which be silent as you prize my favour. Burn but their Temple, and
the Kingdom is our own. For which deserving Service expect a suitable Reward
from

Hormidas.

Excellent Forgery!

Rug.
Forgery! No, his own,
His own Hand-writing.

Otrant.
Gods! his own Hand-writing!
Oh how! when? where? speak, I am lost in wonder.

Rug.
No more that Question now: Leave your kind OEdipus,
T'expound that Riddle at a leisure hour.
Let it suffice he writ it; and the King
By my own Spectacles shall read it.—This
Dear Paper by some dextrous Conveyance,
Lodg'd in the Pocket of their leading Sanctity,
Their bearded Holiness, the Christian Bishop,
And by wise Conduct seiz'd and found about him,
Like a sly Snake from a kind Furies Head,
Oh think but how 'twill hiss and how 'twill sting!

Otrant.
Let me embrace thee for this pregnant Mischief:
The great Minerva from the brain of Jove
Was not a Birth like this.

Rugild.
Yes proud Hormidas,
This for my Brothers Blood I owe thee, murdered
By thy Tyrannick Justice, merciless Judge;
His Gibbet and my shame, owe thee this payment.

Otrant.
Now dear Revenge, the glittering Ore behold,
For through this Mine we dig to Veins of Gold.