 | Distress'd Innocence : Or, The Princess of Persia |  |
13
ACT. II.
Enter Otrantes and Rugildas.Otrant.
'Tis done, 'tis done! see that dear heap of Ruines.
Oh Divine Vengeance! To ignobler Deities
Let humbler Zealots common Victims burn,
Temples themselves are thy more shining Sacrifice.
Rug.
Nay, for the glorious Consummation of
Our prosperous Design, the very Christians,
By an officious Zeal to quench the Fire,
Thrust their own Necks into the fatal Toyl;
Even their own Innocence, by our manag'd Clamours,
Transform'd into the very Guilt that damns 'em.
But see the King.
Enter King, Orundana, two of the Magi, Guards, &c.
Otrant.
Yes, my Rugildas,
He comes, and with that Lightning in his Eyes,
So hot the raging Fever of his Blood,
As if the very Brand that burnt his Temple
Had made a Transmigration, and his Soul
Was animated by that only Fire.
[Enter King, &c.
King.
Sulphur and Hell! My Royal Temple burnt,
And the accursed Christian Brood the Firebrands!
1 Mag.
Yes, Sacred Sir, our Waking God of Day
Reins his hot Steeds, and mounts his morning Chariot,
To see that Sacrilegious Mass of Villany,
The dire Remains of that black Night of Treason,
That his long Race from the created World
Ne're drove a Round more frightful.
2 Mag.
Oh Dread Sir,
If ever Treason wore a Gorgons Face,
Whose very sight would kill, turn, turn your Eyes
From yon Amazing Heap.
Otrant.
Sound on, sound on,
[aside to the Magi.
My kind Church Trumpeters, rouze him to Blood.
Mischief strikes sure, where bellowing Zeal's the Alarum-Bell.
King.
Oh kind Otrantes, couldst thou have believed
That the warm Snakes nurst in my very Bosom
Should sting like these ungrateful Christian Infidels!
Otrant.
Alas! th'amazing Story sounds so dismal,
As even my frighted Reason trembles at it.
Such a Return for all your Royal Favours!
King.
My Royal Favours! Yes, they have requited them!
Oh, I have rais'd a Race of such Barbarians,
14
Er'e hatcht so black and so deform'd a Brood.
Enter third Magus with the Christian Bishop seiz'd.
3 Mag.
To all this horrid Scene of Christian Outrage,
See here their leading Engin of Perdition!
And Sir, to track the poysonous Fountain Head,
Read that dire, Scrowl seiz'd in his Pocket,
To find the very Dam, the brooding Cockatrice
To the whole nest of Monsters; read that Paper.
[Gives a Paper.
King.
[Reads.]
Burn the Temple and the Kingdom is our own; for which deserving
Service expect a suitable Reward from
Hormidas.
Orund.
Hormidas!
King.
Yes, My Orundana: Hell
Here opes its Cabinet; and wild Ambition,
Drawn to th'full life, stands blazon'd in its whole
Infernal Colours.
Bishop.
Oh, sacred Sir! if e're your Royal Justice
Would lend a pitying Ear to wounded Innocence—
King.
Innocence! No doubt! See here a hopeful sample on't.
Bishop.
No Sir, that lying Paper's all lewd Fiction,
Cheat, rank Imposture; and my righteous Soul
More fill'd with wonder than your own with Horror,
Knows nought of that false Scrowl. How writ, how seiz'd,
How lodg'd about me, all a Mystery
As dark—
King.
Yes, Reverend Impudence, as dark
As the black Soul oth'Traytor that receiv'd it,
And blacker Devil that sent it.
Rug.
Now it works.
Bishop.
Oh, hear me, Sir—
Orund.
Do; Hear the croaking Raven
Stretch his false Throat, and strain his treacherous Lungs
To tune his warbling Notes to Truth and Innocence.
1 Mag.
I Sir, such Innocence,
Such Truth, as starting Fiends would blush at; one
Of his Commission'd Imps i'th'very Fact
I seiz'd, and threatning him with Wracks and Tortures,
The trembling Wretch turn'd pale, and in the Fright
Confest the Guilt: Told me his Prince and Bishop
Ordered this burning Pile.
Bishop.
I order'd it!
1 Mag.
Yes, Thou: So said the Slave; and what he acted,
Was but Obedience to divine Command.
King.
Divine Commands! Ye Oracles of Darkness!
1 Mag.
And Sir, as I was bringing him before you
15
Toucht with a sense of his uncover'd shame,
His babling fear that had so prodigally
Unlockt the hideous Plot, drew forth a Dagger
Unmatcht, and struck it to his own false Heart.
Bishop.
What dares not Falshood breath!
Orund.
Now, where's the Christian Innocence?
King.
Where? Daughter!
Where it shall groan in Blood, My Orundana.
Oh thou shalt see me knot those Whips of Vengeance!
Rug.
But, Father, Was there really that Christian
Confest the burning of the Temple? Gods!
[Aside to the Mag.
Can there be Truth—
1 Mag.
Truth Fool! Is't not enough
The Reputation of my holy Robe
[Aside in answer to Rug.
Delivers it for Truth?
Rug.
Thou art i'th'right o'nt,
This Reverend Rogue outshoots my Bolt of Villany.
[Aside.
Bishop.
Oh Royal Sir! Take heed to what strange Precipice
This wicked Spirit of Delusion, these
Misleading Meteors guide your wandring Faith;
That I am true, the whole bright Host of Heaven,
Immortal Truth it self can witness for me.
But oh! What dare not the seer'd Consciences
Of harden'd Falshood speak, when their great Prompter,
The Father of all Lies, has steel'd their Foreheads!
King.
No; Thou fair painted Saint! What is't the bold
Black Hands of Rampant Zeal dare not commit,
When an Enthusiastick Altar-Coal
Lights the Infernal Brand? But I am too patient.
But haste, take hence the Missioner of Hell
And hang him on a Gibbet.
Orund.
Godlike Monarch!
King.
Yet stay; one word of Comfort e're thou dyest;
With thy descending Soul this pleasure bear;
Thou shalt not walk the burning Plains alone,
A wandring unattended Ghost; I'll send thee
A thousand and a thousand bleeding Followers.
I tell thee, Priest, in all the Christian Blood
That the renown'd immortal Nero shed,
His poorer Roman Sacrifices shall be
But Scars to the more gaping Persian Wounds.
Bishop.
And let me tell thee King, in all these Wounds,
Thou shalt not hear a Groan. Oh thou shalt view
The beauteous Face of Martyrdom so lovely,
With all those Bridal Smiles upon her Cheek,
16
And in thy hottest persecuting Fires,
When thou shalt see our Earthly Dross fall from us,
Our Rags of Flesh unstript for Robes of Glory,
Oh thou shalt hear our cheerful dying Notes
Tun'd to Angelick Quires, Celestial Harmony,
Whilst each rich Drop from our exhausted Veins
Shall shine that Ruby in our Starry Coronets,
As distant Eyes so dazled shall behold,
Till every Christian Grave, shall Nurse those Roots
Whose Branches shall or'e-spread the Convert World.
King.
I'le hear no more, To Death with the vain Babbler.
[Exeunt Bishop and a Party of the Guards attending.
Orund.
In this bright Justice, Sir, you look so awful;
My Duty will grow up into Religion,
Mistake the Father and adore the God.
Enter Hormidas.
Horm.
Oh this black Night! What angry Providence
Has loosed the raging Demons, to uncalm
The Royal Brow with this mad Scene of Mischief?
King.
And does Hormidas come a kind Condoler
Of his afflicted King?
Horm.
Yes, Royal Sir;
I know this Night's sad accident disturbs
Your Sacred Rest; and my each Loyal Heartstring
Toucht with a feeling pang has brought me hither
A duteous Mourner.
King.
Does Hormidas mourn?
Horm.
Mourn! My most honour'd Lord, when the rough Blast
Can tempest-toss the Mighty Sovereign Vessel,
The humbler Barks must drown: The Storm that shakes
Your Peace must shipwrack mine.
King.
Yes, Mourning Crocadile,
I see a trickling Brine from those false Eyes
To weep where thou hast betrayed. Seize, seize the Traytor.
Horm.
A Traytor is a Name—
King.
Too humble for you.
And in so narrow, and so poor a Title
Perhaps, Gigantick Fiend, I have under dignified
Your more exalted Villany.
Horm.
Oh Horror!
What sounds are these?
King.
Strange ones, no doubt, such as
Your simple Christian Innocence knows nothing of,
But for your Comfort, one of your rank Saints
Already I have rewarded; your Church-Tool,
Your bearded Fire-ball, that Religious Compound
17
I thank my watchful Stars, I have dispatcht that Monster.
Horm.
Oh what has your mistaken Fury done?
King.
Done, Miscreant! Only hang'd him on a Gibbet
To preach to Crows and Ravens.
Horm.
Oh Barbarity!
That Reverend Piety, that unblemisht Virtue,
Cloath'd with such hideous Infamy!
King.
How, Insolence!
Weepest thou his Fate, and shakest not at thy own!
Hormid.
Shake! Let the trembling Criminal Conscience shake!
I know no Guilt, and therefore feel no Fear.
But in that Venerable Holy Man
You have murder'd that poor martyr'd Innocence—
King.
Murder'd! Bold Slave; yes, you are both such Innocents:
But to tear off the Scales from your false Eyelids,
T'unblind your wilful Ignorance; read there
[giving him the Paper.
My obstinate Infidel. And now,
If through that thick impenetrable Front
'Tis possible to blush—
Horm.
Blush Sir!
King.
Blush Traytor?
Yes blush, if all yon guilty flaming Pile
Can warm your glowing Cheeks.
Horm.
And is this Paper
Produc'd against me for the burning of
That Temple?
King.
Does that Forehead ask that Question!
Horm.
Oh Sir! To what a Labyrinth of Confusion
Has some accursed plotting Villany
Misled your abus'd Ear! That very Paper
I writ four years ago, your General
In the Chaldean Wars, when for your sake
By a Martial Stratagem I burnt their Temple
Of Jupiter, and won their Kingdom by't.
Orund.
Oh nimble witted Saint!
Rugild.
Of his own Canonizing.
King.
Burnt! Yes, I own that the Chaldean Temple
Of Jupiter was burnt, but not by thee.
Do not their own still mourning Priests record it,
Burnt by a Lightning Flash from their own angry God!
Has not the universal Voice of Fame
Confirm'd it such, and the whole World rung loud on't?
And darst thou say that thou—
Horm.
Yes, that I burnt it,
Burnt for your sake. My Army with diseases
Half lost, my Foes too strong, my Fortune hazardous,
18
Knowing that the Chaldæan Superstition
Had founded all their Hope, their Trust, their Strength
Upon that Temple; their whole Confidence
Lodg'd in their painted Shrine, and moulten God,
I chose two trusty Hands by this Commission
To burn their Temple. They obey'd and burnt it;
Whilst the Chaldæan Army's drooping Hearts
Lost at that mortal Shock, I won their Kingdom.
King.
If for my sake this burning Feat was done,
Pray tell me (for it's wond'rous worth my knowledge)
Was there a Service of no less importance,
Than winning me a Crown, and I not worthy
To know the glorious Stratagem that gave it me
But this Romantick Service must lie dormient
For four long sleeping years.
Hormid.
Alas! That only Truth I durst not tell you.
For tho my own Religion wou'd permit me
To burn a Temple,
To win my King a Crown: I knew the secret,
Tho' with the purchase of a Diadem,
To your offended Zeal wou'd sound too impious;
And therefore with no less than fifty Talents
I brib'd my very Instrument, to silence:
And pusht this Popular Fame around the World,
That it was burnt by Lightning, to conceal
A Truth too dangerous for your Royal Ear.
King.
A Truth! No doubt a most stupendious one.
This very Paper (mark him) to sum up
This great miraculous Truth, writ four years since,
A Military Order, found this Morning
I'th'Pocket of a Priest: Yes, found this Morning,
My Temple burning, and the guilty Christians
Caught in the Fact.
Hormid.
All a false treacherous snare for your delusion
And my undoing. But kind Heav'n I thank thee,
One of the very Instruments, that both
Receiv'd and executed that Commission,
Stands here before you. Now I'll make Truth shine
Bright as a Morning Star. Speak kind Rugildas,
Say, was not the Chaldæan Temple burnt
By this Commission and thy Hand?
Rug.
By mine!
I light th'unhallow'd Brand to burn a Temple!
Oh Execrable! I, I burn a Temple!
Not for a Thousand Worlds.
Hormid.
How's this! Rugildas!
19
Seals up thy silence, and thou darst not owne
Thou burnst a Temple. No, let not that fright thee.
Alas! the King's too generous—
King.
Yes, Rugildas.
If thou hast ought within thy knowledg, utter it;
Speak Truth, tho' ne'r so black; speak it, and meet
My Favour not my Frown.
Horm.
Oh speak! Rugildas.
Rug.
Sir, wou'd you have me say, I burnt that Temple?
Horm.
I'd have thee say what thy Soul knows thou oughtst to say.
Rug.
Alas! dear Prince, so much I honour you,
That with my Blood, my Life, I'd freely serve you!
But with a Lye I dare not. Own I burnt
A Shrine of the Immortal Gods. My Hand
Commit that Impious, that Outragious Sacriledge!
Alas! I tremble at the very name on't.
Enter Theodosius.
Horm.
Oh, thou vile Wretch!
King.
Now, wher's your shining Truth, your Morning Star!
Horm.
By Earth forsaken, and by Man betray'd!
Yet Heav'n, Heav'n knows my Soul; there my recorded
Innocence—Oh for some generous pitying Power,
Some kind attesting Angel—
King.
Attesting Angels!
Yes Fiend, such Angels as thy self, the black
Infernal Crew, who, for their uplift Hands,
Against their Sovereign omnipotent Head,
Fell headlong, hurl'd into the smoaking Lake,
And burnt and groan'd as thou shalt—such, such Angels
May be thy pleading Advocates.
Theod.
Oh, Sir!
Take heed how you condemn the brave Hormidas:
His Loyal Faith and Noble Vertue—
King.
Vertue!
Thou art too young, sweet Prince, to sound the Depths
Of Treason.
Theod.
I dare pawn my Birth-right for him,
He's honest.
King.
No, kind Prince, pledge not thy Glory
On a Security so weak.
Theod.
Alas! Sir,
The very Principles of his Religion
Forbid so dire a Thought.
King.
In such black Treason,
Religion's but a mask, an outside Varnish
To the rank Brass within.
20
But Royal Sir!
King.
I tell thee, Prince, his Doom's irrevocable,
His too notorious Guilt has light my hottest
Vengeance, and thou plead'st in vain.
Horm.
If you've decreed my Death—
King.
Death! No, I know
That thou dar'st dye. Death's but the pain of Cowards.
Death for thy punishment! That puny Torment!
No; Thou shalt live; wear a long Life, proud Traytor,
To bear a lasting weightyer Load of Vengeance.
Horm.
A lingring Life, my long, long Execution!
Yes, angry King, heap up your wrathful Coals
Till they outpile proud Ætna's smoaking Furnace;
And thou shalt see my suffering Truth undaunted
Walk o're the Mountain Ordeal.
King.
Slaves, away with him:
So preacht th'old canting Fool before him:
[Exit Hormidas guarded.
Drive on bright Charioteer; nor shine less kind!
For tho' in heaps thy ruin'd Temple lies,
Thy Altar's lost, I'le find thee Sacrifice.
[Exeunt King, Magi, Attendants, &c.
Manent soli Theodosius and Orundana.
Theod.
Stay, stay, bright Excellence.
Orund.
Young Prince!
Theod.
Ah Madam!
If Mercy's an Inhabitant of Earth,
Sure with the Fair it dwells, the softest Attribute
Lodg'd in the sweetest tenderest Divinity.
And if all other deaf relentless Ears
Are bar'd to the unpityed poor Hormidas,
May I not hope the gentler Orundana—
Orund.
Plead'st thou for Mercy to Hormidas? Mercy
To the Ambition of that proud Aspirer!
I tell thee, Prince, the headlong Phaeton
Fell not so low, as shall that tumbling Traytor.
His burning World pull'd not that Vengeance down
As shall my burning Temple.
Theod.
Beauteous Cruelty!
What do I hear! And oh what do I feel!
Guard, guard my Heart.
Orund.
Yes, my unkinder Stars,
Ye durst set up that Rival of my Glory.
But if I er'e forgive him; or in spight of you
Push him not, Gods, to everlasting Ruine;
Load me with all the Plagues my Sex er'e bore,
Or what's worse, all the Plagues my Sex er'e hatcht.
'Tis true, for what I stand indebted, Heav'n,
21
Gods, is your Work, to wear it is my own.
[Exit.
Theod.
Oh poor Hormidas! I came here to court
Pity for thee, and want it for my self.
Thy beauteous Murderess so frowns, so dooms
And kills with such a Grace, that lovely Tyrant,
That whilst I tremble at the Thunder, I
Adore the Thunderer. But fair Destroyer!
Oh, if the random Shot dart from thy Eye
So sure; How must thy levell'd Lightning fly!
Finis Actus Secundi.
| Distress'd Innocence : Or, The Princess of Persia | |