 | The Ambitious Slave : or, A Generous Revenge |  |
29
ACT. IV.
SCENE. I.
Celestina and Rosalin.Cel.
Th'embraces of a King! Poor Satisfaction!
A Monarchs Darling, but a Kingdoms Loathing.
All a dishonourd Blot, the Worlds cheap Theme,
And common Tale of every grinning slave.
The Queen!—Ay, she ev'n in her lowest sufferings
Outshines my tallest Pride. The peoples Love
And th'universall pity of mankind
Like perfum'd Sweets embalm her fragrant Fame.
But me their Hate and Scorn; my very Sex
Stand at a Bay all frighted at my Name
And drive me like a hunted Fugitive
From out the Herd of Life. I cannot bear it.
Ros.
Dear Madam—
Cel.
Oh thou lying Oracle, where's
My promist Mountains, all your Boasted Miracles!
No; Flattring falshood, tell thy Lord of Darkness
There is no Faith in Hell. Did'st thou not Promise
False Prophetess, that I should raign in Pleasure.
Ros.
If Soveraignty, Dominion; if to hold
A King in Chains, and Crowns in Vassalage, be
To raign in Pleasure, she has perform'd that Promise.
Cel.
A King my Slave! poor narrow-bounded Throne!
Thin empty Bliss; for in Possessing His,
I have lost the Hearts of all the World beside.
Nay what has all my mighty Conquest made me
That little despicable Wretch a Harlot.
Oh the foul Blister, Cankers and Diseases!
Is there that humblest of my cringing Flatterers,
That waits th'uprising of my morning Smile,
And pays me his (All Hayl) for the snatch'd blessing,
Even with those Lips that kiss the Earth I move on,
No sooner is his fawning Face turn'd from me,
But with a low reviling Eye puts forth
His forked Tongue and hisses at my Shame.
Ros.
Why all this foolish Murmur! Thus concern'd
For that Course Vulgar Blast the Popular Breath!
Does your exalted Greatness want Their Love!
It is enough they fear you. Fear the noblest
Prerogative, 'twas Fear that first made Gods.
Cel.
No, Girle, this Shallow Sophistry—
Ros.
Nay Madam
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I'm sure have done their Part. And if you have still
A giddy roving uncontented Thought,
E'ne blame your own unsatisfyed desires:
If Womans vain Ambition covets more
Then all Hell has to give, 'tis not Hells Fault but Womans.
Cel.
But oh my Rosalin, I cannot bear
This publick Odium of the World and live.
Only the Mistress of his loose Desires.
His burning Kisses all but Sooty Fires.
That little Outly of his Love, his Mistress.
Ros.
His Mistress!
Why wou'd you be his Queen?
Cel.
His Queen! Ay, that's
A name indeed, that Sacred Post of Honour;
Myriads of pleasures wait the hallow'd Brightness;
A Solid Heaven of Constellated Blisses,
Substantiall Power, untainted Glory: Then
I should have Hearts as well as Knees to serve me.
Ros.
His Queen!—Why truly Madam, since your Wishes
Must soar so high, I know no wondrous Stops
That hold their Flight, considering your Ascendant,
The Eyes you wear, and the fond Heart you govern
Cel.
Ha?
Ros.
Were the Gordian Bar remov'd between you.
The golden Fruit would meet your reaching Hand,
And fairly bid you carve your own Desires.
Cel.
The Gordian Bar remov'd! and fairly carve
My own Desires!—What Bar but poor Herminia?
That feeble Thred—Thou dear inspiring Devil!
Oh what a mountain Thought of vast Ambition—
Comes pouring ore me like a rolling Deluge.
Ros.
Madam, Young Mirvan the Queens favourite Evnuch.
Waits for Access as your petitioner.
Cel.
Mirvan!
Admit him.
Enter Mirvan.
Mir.
Madam, amongst the universall Knees
All bending to salute the rising Sun,
Might poor I dare t'implore one smiling Beam.
Cel.
Push thy fair suit, and try thy generous Fortune.
Mirv.
Then Madam, I've a Brother, and a Brother
Not born like me to curse his riffled Cradle:
A Brother that writes Man, and would write Man
In Characters of Blood. A Youth that dares
As much as Courage can, or Honour ought.
And tho' his praise suits not my Mouth, to give
Fair Truth her due, he wears a Sword, he thinks
Too brave to rust, a Boy that wou'd lead Men;
And therefore begs by me your gracious Interest
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Cel.
If thy Brother,
Sweet Boy, but fights with half the Grace thou suest
He might lead Armys: Well, kind Advocate,
He shall have a Commission, and a Noble one.
Mirv.
Thus low my Kneeling Gratitude—
Cel.
Rise Mirvin.—
This Boy well manag'd—
[aside.
Rise, my pretty Suppliant,
Thou look'st and talk'st so winningly, there's nothing
I can deny to that petitioning Face.
Mirv.
My Face! 'Tis well
I have a Face to beg a Ladys favour.
[aside.
Cel.
Well, gentle Boy, such early Wit as Thine
Tells me thou know'st the World. How dost thou like
The pleasures of a Court!
Mirv.
How shou'd I like
What I want pow'r to taste?
Cel.
Nay, fye, my Boy.
Thou wrongst my Innocent meaning.
Mirv.
Then to answer
Your Innocent meaning with an Equall Innocence,
That downright Truth your Bounty merits from me
How can I love the Court who hate the World?
Cel.
Thou hate it. What have Thy young Years to quarrell at,
That thou should'st hate the World!
Mirv.
I had a Father in't.
And for his sake I hate it.
Cel.
For his sake!
Mirv.
A poor meanspirited Slave, that got me Man,
And for a wretched Bribe of the Court Gold
Unmade the Thing he got me—For which I owe him
My honest hearty Curses in his Grave,
And for his sake hate the whole loath'd Creation.
Cel.
How Mirvan if thou hate'st the whole Creation,
Thou must hate me, and 'tis not safe to talk with thee.
Mirv.
Nay Madam (and beleive I Scorn to flatter)
Of all the hated World I love you best:
Because I fancy all those Charms were given you
To do a little Mischeif in the World,
That darling Mistress of Eyes dear Mischief.
Cel.
Hate the whole world beside? and I alone
The favourite! Nay this is kind indeed.
But may I trust that Kindness?
Mir.
Trust me Madam!
Now by those Eyes I swear, those bright Incendiaryes
What is't I dare not do to serve that fair Destruction.
Play the proud Juno and command me Labours
Like a young Hercules; and if I shrink or tire
Say I've a Soul as abject and as base
As the poor frame the Imp of man that holds it.
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This is so generous—
Mirv.
Trust me say you.
Nay I will trust you First; and with a secret
Of that prodigious weight.
Cel.
The rarest Tool!
Mirv.
Know then the Queen, the more then Widow'd Queen,
Too sad a Mourner at your fatall Triumph
In pure Despair for her deserting Lord
Resolves this very night—
Cel.
Oh my big Hopes!
[aside.
Mir.
In a disguise to leave the Court and Kingdom;
And bury all her Sorrows in a Cloyster.
Cel.
To my best wish!
[aside.]
Mir.
For this Religious Voyage
Who should she choose her Pilot but my self;
Her singular Trust of my confiding Truth,
Has pickt out Me, her only leading Guide
T'her Melancholy Cell.
Peruse this Letter,
Committed to my Care to leave behind her
As her last farewell to her unkind Lord.
Cel.
Reads.
Letter.
That I have lov'd you even to a Superstition, planted my very Heav'n
in Love, the Transports of my Despair too plainly testify. But when my
feeble fraylty can bear my Wrongs no longer, pardon the Effects of what
Your Unkindness is but the too fatal Cause, when I thus fly from so much
Inhumanity to the Arms of a kinder Heaven.
Herminia.
Mir.
Now Madam, as you like it, make your best on't.
Cel.
Oh Mirvan! now I must beleive thou lovest me.
This is so kind a Trust. Thou toldst me too
That thou lov'dst Mischief.
Mir.
Faith, wou'd You durst try.
How much I love it.
Cel.
Sayst thou so, my Boy!
Nay then darst thou be kind, and let me in
A Party to this Plot, a kind Assistant
To hand this Mourning Wanderer to her Cell!
Say, darst thou let me choose her Cloyster for her?
Mir.
With all my Soul. If any Noble Spight
Glow warm within your Breast, set it a blazing.
At that sweet Game form your own dearest Wish,
And mould Your slave to serve you.
Cel.
To my Arms
Thou kindest little Engine, serve me, but
As the Rewards I'le pay thee shall deserve,
And melt me into Gold.
Mir.
Alas dear Madam,
There needs not a Reward to buy my Faith.
Be but your Great Designs what I can wish 'em,
Without the needless Bribe of Gold or Treasure,
I wou'd give Wealth to purchase such a pleasure.
Exeunt.
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Oron.
From Scythia's Throne, and my proud Armies Head,
From softer Majesty, and rougher Wars
All glittering Plumes, all my once bright Regalia
Stript to this narrow Shrowd to wrap my Woes,
And bring my Death to Clarismunda's Feet.
Oh Love! How unaccountable's thy Power.
Enter Clarismunda attended.
Clar.
From that loath'd Name—
Oront.
From that loath'd Name Orontes
To that lov'd Heaven, his cruel Clarismunda,
He has commanded these Commission'd Knees
To beg one listning Minute.
Clar.
Your Petition
Is an Ungrateful Theme. Yet I am not
So deaf to my worst Foe, but my kind Patience
Shall lend the Ear thou ask'st.
Oront.
Thus then by me
That Sentenc'd Criminal speaks. If by that fairest Hand
Death shakes his Glass, and waves his Brandish'd Shaft;
If executing Destiny's gone forth,
And meager Graves with all their hungry Yawn
Wait their last Gorge of poor Orontes Blood:
To his ador'd destroying Angels Ear,
Thus breath his Dying Accents.—Oh Bright Madam!
If Tears that would melt Rocks, if Groans enough
To wake the Sleep of Tombs; if tortur'd Conscience
Above the very Pangs of lost Eternity.
And to all these a Penitence so true,
Enough to unlock Heaven.—If these, all these
Might beg his Life from Cruel Clarismunda,—
Clar.
Could all these beg his Life—
Oront.
And with that Life
His Clarismunda's Love.
Clar.
My Love!
Oront
Thy Love,
Dear, all Divine! For without Love 'tis Death still.
Oh could that dear forgiving Mercy take
A pardon'd Penitent to those dear Arms,
Not Ransom'd Slavery, not Life Reprieved,
Not Crown'd Ambition, nor translated Martyr,
Half, half so bless'd as he! To those fair Eyes
He'd raise those Monuments of mighty Love
Should out-live Worlds; and finishing Time close up
His last Recorded Volume with the Story
How bless'd Orontes loved.
Clar.
Mistaken Advocate
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They should have spoke before Orsanes Death.
Oront.
And does that Louring Vision wake for ever;
The lost Orontes Crime so all impardonable!
Clar.
So impardonable, that
To leave the World with my loud wrongs unrighted,
When I shall meet my great Forefathers Souls,
'Twould make me blush in Heaven.
Oront.
Too Cruel Fair!
Clar.
Sir, I must hear no more. Go bear your Master
This Answer, as my fix'd Eternal Vow;
I will have my Revenge: But tell him too
So much I owe to his Repenting Tears
That when my Arming Wrongs that hunted Blood
Shall spill, I'll give the Executing Blow,
Calm as the Priestess at an Altar Kills,
Yet still must Kill.
Oront.
But can that Beauteous Priestess
Accept no gentler Sacrifice, no less
Appeasing Victim than the poor Orontes
All streaming Blood? And is one Thought of Mercy
That strange Impossible?
Clar.
So much impossible,
Perhaps beyond the Grave I may forgive him,
On this side Death I must not.
Oront.
Then dear Cruelty,
[Discovers himself.
Take, take my thirsted Blood.
Clar.
Good Gods, Orontes!
Oh King! How poorly thou hast thy self undone?
Hast put thy wretched Life into my Power;
And I must tamely take it. Hadst thou met
My Nobler Vengeance in thy Armies head,
Thrust thy bold Breast against ten thousand Javelins,
Thou might'st have fall'n with Honour, Honour, King!
But now, now I must take this poor Advantage.
(Thou kill'st Orsanes poorly)
Forget thou art a King, Uncrown'd, Unthroned,
Led like a Vulgar Slave, bound in Vile Chains,
And at the Tomb of the great Cyrus, there,
There through thy humble naked yielding Throat
Hew out my Vengeance, carve thy bleeding Heart
A Sacrifice to Clarismunda's wrongs.
My Guards, my Slaves there.
[Enter Attendants, Guards.
1 Attend.
Madam, Your Commands?
Clar.
If your lost Honour, and your bleeding Country,
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Can rouze your Swords—
Oront.
Strike, strike 'em through this Breast.
Yes, generous Persians, behold before ye
The black Orontes, Scythias Tyrant Lord,
Stain'd in the Blood of Thousand, Thousand Persians;
And the deplored Orsanes barbarous Murderer.
But bear me to the Tomb of your great Cyrus;
There hew your Vengeance, carve my bleeding Heart
A Sacrifice to Clarismundas Wrongs.
Clar.
So pleas'd with Fate! Then thou'rt in love with Death!
Oront.
So much in Love, that on my Knees I'll meet it.
I wear a Load of useless Life about me;
And thou'rt so kind to ease me of my Burthen.
Now Gentlemen, perform your Royal Charge:
Bear me to Death, to Death with the Vile Monster.
Loaded with Chains, led forth a publick Spectacle
To pointing Infamy and hissing Scorn:
For that fair Doom will have it so.
Clar.
Will have it so!
Orant.
Quick, quick, ye tedious Slaves
Can she speak Death, and you want Wings to execute?
Let not Crown'd-Head, nor King, those titular Sounds
Tye up your Hands, those forfeit Names my Crimes
And this wrong'd Fair—
But bear me to my Death, to Scaffolds, Gibbets,
Stript to a Naked Dungeon Malefactor,
Tread my crush'd Soul.—
Clar.
Stand off ye Impious Villains!
A Monarch's Blood, and shed by Hangmens hands!
Oh, whither was my Fleeting Glory going!
His bending Neck like a tame bleating Sacrifice,
A stroke beneath my Scorn—But haste Arsaces.
Raise all my Persian Guards, and in their Head
Go, bear him back, back to his moving Armies,
Safe to his headed Legions. There Orontes,
At the Proud Froat of all thy Royal Squadrons,
With Groves of Spears, and walling Shields around thee,
Rich in thy Crested Plumes, and Glittering Steel,
Worthy the Persian Swords, and Clarismundas Vengeance,
Strike then my Arm of Fate.
Oront.
Oh wondrous Honour!
Even in amazing Cruelty!
Clar.
Yes Scythian.
Though all the Persian Bolts
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My whole rich Game of Death; yet not to snare
My hunted Lyon in Ignoble Toils—
No, King; Return, return; thy Crown, thy Arms,
And Royal Standard want thy leading Sword.—
Oront.
So brave a Foe!—
Clar.
Reserve thy Sword thy Answer:
Arm'd at the head of slaughter'd Fields, there Scythian
Fall thy great self, Die warm my Royal Enemy;
To morrows hotter Veins my Vengeance pay:
Thy Blood Orontes is too cold to Day.
[Exit.
Oront.
Die warm! Yes, Generous Foe, thy envy'd Glory
Shall light my Fire; Despair to Fury turn:
In my last Flash my brightest Blaze shall burn.
Through Blood and Death move on 'gainst all thy odds,
Thy Wrongs, the Arming World, and battailing Gods!
For by those Eyes a Sacrifice decreed,
'Tis just I should a glorious Victim bleed.
[Exit.
Scene Changes. Enter Celestina, and Rosalin.
Cel.
The Bolt is shot, and now a Crown stand fair.
[aside.
Ros.
Madam, I'm all Amazement at the News!
Cel.
Amaz'd, at what? To hear a mad young Wife
Has took a Midnight's Ramble!
Ros.
But the Queen!
Oh Madam! Certainly some strange Despair
Has caused this Secret Flight, perhaps to seek
Some solitary Grot to Sigh and Die.
Cel.
To Sigh and Die! Poor innocent Simplicity!
What if she's stoln to some retiring Solitude,
To meet a private Lover?
Ros.
How! a Lover!
Cel.
Mark the Truth, I tell thee
That very thing a Lover.
Ros.
'Tis impossible!
Such Tears, and so much Nuptial Faith—
Cel.
Why, All
That's nothing: Womans Truth like Womans Beauty,
Is not a thing Immortal.
Ros.
But dear Madam,
Herminias rigid Principles of Honour,
And her fond Sighs even for her Faithless Lord,
Admit a Lawless Love!
Cel.
Though it be Lawless
Is it not Love still, Fool?
[Enter King.
King.
Dear Sovereign of my Soul,
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Thou all amazing Brightness to my Bosom.
Cel.
Oh Prince! Encircled in these Arms, methinks
The Transport of my Joys bears my wing'd soul so high
Till I look down on Under-Worlds beneath me.
King.
Look down indeed, thou dear Triumphant Fair,
Whilst those poor Under-Worlds all blushing own
Their whole Creation cannot match these Eyes,
Cel.
Nay, now you flatter.
King.
By those sweets I cannot.
For thine are Charms above the reach of Flattery.
But, Madam, t'add one Trophy to your Eyes,
The poor Resenting Queen (wouldst thou believe it)
Is this Night fled from Court.
Cel.
Alas, poor pittied Sweetness!
King.
Prithee be kind, and Read this murmuring Scrole,
A Farewel Letter she has left behind her.
Celest.
Reads.
That I have Loved you to a Superstition, planted my very Heaven in
Love.—Your Unkindness is the too Fatal Cause when I thus
fly—to the Arms of a kinder Heaven.
Herminia.
King.
That she is gone, and th'angry Cause that drives her,
Her Letter speaks too plain. But whither gone?
That she has wrap'd in Mystery. I suppose
I must be kept in Darkness from that Secret.
Cel.
Darkness and Mystery! Why is there any thing
In this plain, easie, naked, honest Letter
Writ in that Cypher that it wants a Key to't?
King.
Why, Canst thou Read her meaning?
Cel.
Fie, my Lord,
Can you not Read it?—Why this idle Question?
You will not Read it, Sir.—And 'tis so generous
I love you for this goodness.
King.
Will not Read it!
Cel.
Ay, will not, must not: And 'tis Noble in you.
A little innocent Ignorance is sometimes
A Manly Virtue, worthy even a King.
King.
Madam, This is all Riddle!
Cel.
Riddle!—Nay, Sir, as if you did not know
Where, and to whose Embracing Arms she's gone.
King.
Arms, and Embraces!
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Ah poor Lady!
We little guess the pains of slighted Love.
But her Despair has took the wisest remedy.
Her Griefs have found a very gentle Cure.
Nay, she's so kind to make it her Confession,
And you're more kind to wink at little Frailties
King
Still you talk in Clouds.
Has she made you the Confident of her Flight,
Or is there ought coucht in that mystick Scrole
My shallow Reason has not depth to fathom!
If so, 'twere kind you would instruct my weakness.
Cel.
Nay, if you'll force me then to play th'Interpreter,
T'explain a Ladies blushing weakness. Mark Sir—
She tells you first she lov'd t'a Superstition,
Planted her very Heav'n in your embraces.
And when that slighting unkind Heav'n forsakes her,
Tells you, as honestly, to supply your room,
She'as chose the Arms of a much kinder Heav'n;
And pray what Heav'n, what Arms, but kind Tygranes?
King.
My Brother! ha!
Cel.
You know he's gone to th'Camp:
And she's as kindly gone to meet him there.
King.
God's! 'tis impossible:
Cel.
Nay, to convince you.
'Tis now stale news, even Boys and Varlets talk it.
King.
Confusion!
Cel.
The young Mirvan, Sir's, my Oracle.
That ushering Squire to her amorous Errantry;
The Boy (as Boys will talk) the mighty Secret
Alas, too weighty for his tender strength,
Amongst his small Companions at their parting,
Dropt it behind him, and the Tale thus handed
Amongst my laughing Slaves it reacht my Ear.
King.
So hot my Minion,
A follower of a Camp,
A Leaguer Devil.—
Cel.
Nay, now you're too unkind. What has she done!
Remember, Sir, she brought you Youth and Beauty,
And scarcely tasted Love before she lost it;
And if poor Lady, forsaken thus unkindly,
It takes some harmless freedom. Is't so great
A Fault in our poor Sex to look abroad
Only to borrow what we've lost at home!
King.
My Brother too, that Preaching Saint her Stallion!
Cel.
Oh fie, Sir, such hard Words, and such sad Names!
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Damnation! This is Impudence enough
To fire the Veins of Statues. Had she plaid
The private Wanton, took her scapes in Covert,
In Groves or Shades—But in the face of Day.
To run t'a Camp, and publish my Dishonour
Before Two hundred thousand Witnesses,
Like a trail'd Scent for the whole Hunting World
To run me down a Monster—
Cel.
Now the kind Gods defend your Sacred Peace.
Why all this Rage?
King.
Death! At an Armies head;
The Din of War to tune her sporting Dalliance,
'Larm'd to Lust, and Trumpeted to Infamy!
Cel.
Nay, if I thought I should have rais'd this Storm!—
King.
Now, by the Fame of all my Royal Ancestors
That sleep beneath the Dust, or wake above the Stars
If I show Mercy on 'em—
Cel.
How, Sir, Mercy!
King.
Bring the returning Fiends but to my reach;
Not interceding Victory, Crowns, Laurels,
The Conquer'd Scythia, nor Orontes Head
Shall buy their forfeit Lives.
Cel.
How, Sir, their Lives! Oh Heavens what have I done!
King.
Madam, forgive me one retiring Minute,
And think no common Fire my Bosom warms,
When it has pow'r to snatch me from these Arms.
[Exit.
Cel.
Both, both their Lives! A hearty Promise King,
And I'll take care thou shalt perform as heartily.
Yes, through their Hearts my path to Empire lies;
Chalk'd out so plain my Devils must booty play,
If in so fair a Walk I miss my way.
[Exeunt
Scene, A Camp.
Enter Herminia and Mirvan.
Mirv.
Command the Chariot to attend.
Queen.
Where is't thou lead'st me, Boy!
Mirv.
To a Cloyster, Madam.
The silent Cell for your reposing Sorrows.
Queen.
But Boy, is this my way! Methinks I hear,
The sound of neighing Steeds, and ecchoing Trumpets,
And view a spacious Plain before me, cover'd
With Tents and Standarts, say, my gentle Boy
Where am I?
Mirv.
In the Camp?
Queen.
Ha! In the Camp.
Mirv.
The Persian Camp.
Queen.
Oh Boy, What hast thou done?
40
Nothing, dear Madam; only executed
Your dread Commands.
Queen.
Mine!
Mirv.
Since the Glorious choice
Of your retiring Solitude, a shrine
Worthy so bright a Saint, was Charge, too weighty
For my young Years, I have conducted you
This way, that kind Tygranes—
Queen.
How! Tygranes!
Mirv.
Yes, Madam, that that generous Prince's care
May be your Nobler Guide, and kindly finish
That Sacred Trust my weakness undeserves.
Queen.
Good Heaven! The Prince!
Mirv.
Madam, I have sent for him.
Pardon th'officious Zeal of your poor Slave.
Queen.
Thou rash unthinking Boy
Enter Tygranes.
Mirv.
And see he's here.
Tygr.
Madam, a pleasing, but surprizing Message
Told me, that that all beauteous Excellence
My Camp thus Honour'd with her Royal Presence,
Was pleas'd t'have some Commands for poor Tygranes.
Queen.
Commands, Tygranes! No; that idle Boy,
That naughty thing—Oh Prince, I am all Confusion.
Tygr.
Let not a faint desire check your fair Thoughts.
Nor doubt your Vassals Honours, nor Obedience
If there's ought lodg'd within that Sacred Breast,
There needs no more than that dear Breath of Life,
To speak and to create.
Queen.
Alas Tygranes,
I know not what to say: And yet my Silence
Has such a guilty Look Forgive my Blushes,
And I will speak, Oh Prince, despairing Loves
Tormenting Pangs have brought this wretched wanderer,
Stoll'n from a hated Court.
Tygr.
How, Madam!
Queen.
Stoll'n
From all the Syrens Songs, and Circes Bowls
That from these Arms have stoll'n my dearest Lord.
I have left th'uneasie Load of tarnish'd Diadems,
In some lone Cell to seek my Peace and Grave—
But this unlucky Guide, this foolish Boy—
Mirv.
My Royal Mistress too much Honour'd Confident.
But the important Charge too great, my Zeal
For her dear Service has surpriz'd her hither,
Only t'implore your kind assisting Hand—
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Madam, in this rash Deed, what have you done!
Queen.
Done Tygranes!
Left Infidelity, Ingratitude,
False Oaths, gay Sin, and glitt'ring shame behind me.
Tygr.
Yes, left Shame, to meet Shame.
Queen.
What says Tygranes!
Tygr.
What all Mankind must say. Oh Madam, think,
Think what reflecting Names the censuring World
Must give so frail a weakness. Fled from Court,
Run, poorly, run!
Queen.
Yes, with my wrongs.
Tygr.
Wrongs, Madam!
Are Wrongs so heavy as to out-weigh Honour!
Queen.
And is it that dishonourable Flight
To quit the World, to seek the Arms of Heaven?
Tygr.
Heaven must be sought as Heaven prescribes our seeking
Thou art a Wife, Herminia; and the Seal
Of plighted Faith, entail'd Obedience on thee.
Is this Commission'd Flight thy Lords Command?
Or 'cause he breaks his Vows, must thou break thine?
Queen.
What's this I hear?
Tygr.
Wou'dst thou seek Heaven Herminia,
A noble Patience is thy Scale to mount it.
Is it a pain to live too near thy wrongs,
To see thy Lord run Faithless from thy Arms
To an Adultress Bed? Let thy wet Eyes
Turn from his Shame, and weep for his Conversion.
If he be False, wait his return to Truth:
But if he ne'r return, perform Thy part:
Finish thy lingring mourning Race of Martyrdom
And win the Crown of Love.
Queen.
Oh Prince, thou talk'st—
Tygr.
As thou shouldst Act Hermina. But this mean
Ignoble Flight will blemish all thy Brightness.
Thy Fame, thy Virtue, thy Religion, all
stand frigthed at the Thought.
Queen.
Kind Prince, no more.
Tygr.
Yes, one thing more, let my prevailing Pray'rs
Recall thy wandring Reason, and return thee
To thy ungrateful Lord.
Queen.
Enough, dear Prince,
You've wak'd my Shame, and touch'd my Soul so near,
That I must follow where such Glory leads:
Tygr.
Then instantly I'll dispatch a kind Express
T'excuse thy blushing Fault, and smooth thy way.
Till then, this Night accept a poor Pavilion,
42
Shall make up what the humble Roof has wanting.
Queen.
Dispose me as you please.
Tygr.
To Morrow's Sun decides the face of Scythia.
If Victory shall please t'attend my Chariot,
Ill be my self thy proud returning Guard.
But if I fall, with my last dying Breath
To the surviving World I will bequeath thee,
A charge worthy the World, protected Innocence.
Mirv.
It goes on rarely.
Tyg.
Look up, dear Madam; Heav'n may still have Joys;
Reserved. But if of all all hopes berest,
Thy wrongs are all thy mournful portion left;
Shine through thy Clouds, bear thy sair Head above
The frowning World, and mount a smiling Star.
In all thy Loads, too low disdain to stoop
'Tis brave to suffer, when 'tis poor to droop.
Queen
Herm. Oh Prince, thou hast read me so Divine a Lesson.
And painted Ruine in a Face so lovely,
That thou hast tuned my Soul to all the Musick
Of a whole Quire of Angles. Yes Tygranes,
To my too cruel Lord I will return
Return to all the Pangs, to all the Miseries
Of ever mourning Love; Life's bitter Draught
Lift to my Lips with that unshaking Hand—
For oh thou hast taught me to be greatly wretched
To be Divinely Blest.
Tygr.
Do this Herminia!
Queen.
No more my wandring Pilgrimage, no, Prince,
I'll build my House of Sorrow in a Palace,
Under my Roof of Gold a Hermit dwell;
A Court my Cloyster, and a Throne my Cell.
[Exeunt all but Mirv.
Mirv.
So now the Toil is set, and dear Destruction
Comes rolling on apace. What a vast Pile
Of Ruine shall I build. 'Tis hard Herminia,
And I could pity thee—Why should I pity?
My bloody Cradle, and my barbarous Parents,
And shall I feel remorse, when ev'n my Father
To his own Blood ne'r felt it. No, vain pity,
Seek softer Breasts; mine has no room to lodge thee.
Besides, I move by that commanding Influence.
I know not, Celestina, by what Charm.
But thou hast bound my Soul, and Nerv'd my Arm,
Joyn'd in thy Cause, we that bright Comet Reign,
Thou the Fair Star, and I the Blazing Train.
Exit.
| The Ambitious Slave : or, A Generous Revenge | |