University of Virginia Library

Act V.

Enter Celestina, Mirvan, and Rosalin.
Cel.
Returning home Victorious!

Mir.
If to leave
A hundred thousand Foes in Battle slain.
If Conquer'd Scythia, and the great Orontes
Led home in Persian Chains can write Victorious,
Tygranes wears that Title.

Cel.
And to grace
His Victory he brings the beauteous Fugitive
A fair Attendant t'his Triumphant Chariot,
To court the Kind forgiving King's Reception
Of the returning Wanderer.

Mir.
If her Religious Ramble (as I've manag'd it)
Has not a little pav'd her Path too rough,
Some such good natur'd Office he Intends her.

Cel.
And thou my little Harbinger kindly com'st
Before 'em to prepare me for their Welcome.

Mir.
Yes, Madam, That's my Errand. For to give
My self, and dear sweet Villany their due,
Mischief and I have both rid Post to serve you.

Cel.
My dearest little Devil, how I love thee!
But, Mirvan, after this first lucky hit,
Darest thou be generous, and play out thy Game!

Mir.
Dare! Can you doubt my Courage, or my Constancy?
Is glorious Treason a design too great,
Or this Young Arm too dastard? Have I launch'd
Thus far and stood thus firm to stagger now?
By my fair Truth this poor Suspicion wrongs me.

Cel.
It does indeed, sweet Youth, forgive my Fears:
I know thy honest Truth too well—to trust it.
[aside.
But my kind Boy, I am afraid I have kept thee
Awake too long. I know this Nights hard Travel
Has tired thy tender Limbs, and thou want'st Rest.
To Bed, my Boy; and when thou hast repos'd awhile
I'll send, my pretty Engineer, and call thee.
Retire sweet Boy, and Sleep—
[Exit Mirvan.
—Thy last; young Fool.
Thy Bed, thy Grave. Yes, my kind honest Traytor
Thy hand has done me too much faithfull Service
To leave thee a dangerous Tongue alive to spoil it.
Besides my little Tool, my ripining Plot
Has business for thy Death: And be't thy Glory:
As thou hast liv'd, so thou shalt serve me Dead.
And therefore sleep thy last.—Now my designs
Are all in my own Breast. Treason's a Jewel
When the rich Cabinet has but one Key.
They're only truly Great who are safely so.

Ros.
Well, Madam, Your Propheticks are all Oracles:
And the mad roving Queens amazing Ramble
Has fill'd the World with wonder.

Cel.
Fame indeed
Talks something loud.—

Ros.
'Tis true, the Prince has sent a soft Express,
And smoothly laid it all upon Religion.

Cel
Religion in a Camp.—Ah, Girl, if the
Soft King has easie Faith enough about him
To think no warmer a Devotion hatch'd
This gentle Pilgrimage, than Zeal and Prayer-Books.
No, Rosalin, he's not that blind believer;
I fear thou'lt find that rougher Faith about him,
A gathering that black Storm as will rain Blood.

Ros.
Herminia's Blood, and Celestina's Glory,
Her Scaffold, and your Coronation.

Cel.
Right;
That sullen Hour that wraps her head in Dust
Wreaths mine in Diadems. Herminia's Grave
The Basis of my Pyramide. 'Tis true,
It is a little hard, thou poor Herminia,
To cut so keen as I must. But Ambition,
Ambition gives the blow; and when that strikes
Remorse nor Pity, no faint check controuls
That two-edg'd Fate tho' bar'd with Lives and Souls.

[Exeunt.
Enter Tygranes, Herminia, and Orontes Prisoner. Guards and Attendants.
1 Atten.
A nobler Game of Glory ne'er was play'd:
Fortune set high, a Kingdom on a Battle,
And one bold Throw has swept the mighty stake.

2 Atten.
By this dear Light that Sun that smil'd to see
The richest Crimson that the Earth e'er dy'd,
Not the proud Jove from the defeated Gyants
Return'd with fairer Laurels than Tygranes.

Tygr.
Enough my generous sharers of my Fame;
Your lavish Goodness plays too much the Prodigal.
My Victory dares not challenge half this Triumph.
'Tis true, the Fortunate Tygranes fought,
But 'twas the Justice of his Quarrel Conquer'd.
Courage is only ours, Success is Heav'ns:—
And for thy Fate, Orontes—

Oront.
Mine, Tygranes,
Is to curse Life and Thee; my Life alone
Too much to bear; but Life and Shame together,
That double load of Misery—Oh Prince!
When thy keen Sword cut through my Conquer'd Kingdom,
Had it been kind, and carv'd my Heart too, dying
I could have loved thee, but must hate thee Living.

Tygr.
If thou repinest at thy ill Chance of War,
Blame thy bad Cause. If overtaking Destiny
Has dealt thee that hard Lot that does not please thee,
Remember King thy Ruine is no more
Than thy Desert, thy Punishment, Orontes:
And sufferers are not choosers of their pain.—
But to perform my last just Rites of Victory,
Thou Orimon, go Visit our wrong'd Sister;
And in a Brothers Name bear her that Trophy:
A present from her own Triumphant Vengeance.

Oront.
To Clarismunda! My too generous Conqueror,
This is so kind, I'll thank thee for this Goodness
Even in my Grave: For Oh! a Grace so high,
Thou givest me leave at those dear Feet to die.

[Exit Guarded.
Tygr.
But hark, the King approaches.
My Beauteous Charge I am thy Champion now:
A prouder Cause than all my Scythian Conquests.
Enter King attended.
My Royal Lord, low at your Sacred Feet
With the fair Harvest of your own rich Field,
Thus prostrate kneels the proudest of your Vassals,
By your great Cause, that fair inspiring Genius
Led forth to Victory.

King.
Mine, Tygranes, my
Inspiring Genius! No; a little, sure
Of that fair Cause, that soft Inspirer.

Tygr.
How, my dread Liege!

King.
That Beauty, those fair Eyes,
They were so kind to See you Conquer.

Tygr.
Sir!

King.
To stand the kind Spectator of your Victory:
Oh the fair Hand of a soft melting Venus!
To buckle on the Sword of her proud Mars;
To plume his Crest, and send him forth to Battle.

Tygr.
Death and Confusion!

Queen.
Oh my blasted Ears!

Tygr.
Oh thou amazing Voice of Royal Thunder
Break forth from thy dark Cloud, thou louring Heav'n,
And say what mean these Mystick Sounds of Horror?

King.
Mean! Is that a Question
At this loud Hour of all thy Ecchoing Treason,
The crying Shame of that incestuous Devil.

Queen.
Good Gods!

Tygr.
Oh King! what false infernal Malice
Dares blast the Fame of that all beauteous Truth.

Queen.
For the last Blow to all my bleeding Sufferings,
My Loyal Faith, and all my Mourning Innocence
Transform'd into this hideous Gorgon!

King.
Innocence! But my tame Justice sleeps too long.
Sieze this brace of Monsters.

Tygr.
Hold angry King!
Oh stop your headlong Fury!
Till the wrong'd Virtue of that brightest Saint
Has wiped the spots from her fair Ermin Whiteness,
Stab'd the foul Falshood through the Canker'd Throat,
And Seer'd the Tongues of Blasphemy.

King.
No doubt on't.
Run to a Camp to cool her burning Hell,
And in the height of the ingendring Crocadiles
Whine Heav'n and Sanctity.

Queen.
How can I hear these dismal Sounds and Live?

Tygr.
Plot, rank Conspiracy! The Camp!
That undesigning Chance the foolish Error
Of an unlucky Boy. But if so slight
A shadow can assume a shape so dreadful,
Sir, let the Boy be call'd, the fatal Cause
Of this accurst Mistake, young Mirvan.

King.
How! that young Bawd! Dost thou call him thy Witness!
No, thou Grand Fiend, thou know'st thy wiser Politicks
Have husht that Traytor with a Dose of Poyson.

Tygr.
Riddles and Death! Still more mysterious Horror.
Poyson!

King.
Yes Poyson!
Your Midnight Purveyor, your trusty Pandar,
In a return for all his faithful Services,
Your dark designs too great for that weak Counsel-keeper;
By a kind Drug sent Sleeping from the World.
But your thin Arts and all your Cobweb-Veils—

Tygr.
Some most accursed Engine of Damnation.—

King.
Dull canting Fool—But hence, I'll hear no more

Queen.
Yes, Royal Sir, Hear your poor wrong'd Herminia.
By you fair Lamps, and fairer Heav'n that lights 'em,
By all the hopes of my Eternal Peace—

King.
Whining Syren—But
Treason ne'r wants a Knee, nor Guilt a Tongue,
Sighs, Prayers and Tears are the false Tools they cheat with.
Take 'em away; and house 'em in a Dungeon.

Tygr.
Yet hold your mad blind Rage
Till some kind God, the guard of pittied Innocence
In the dear Cause of that all Angel Goodness—

King.
Silence that poison'd Breath, vain talking Slave,—

[Exit.
Tygr.
Oh thou all-ruling Providence, what an
Ungovern'd World thy great first Mover turns,
If Truth has this Reward—And Thou bright Virtue,
Thy most inhumane Wrongs, hard-fated Fair,—
Oh how can the Almighty Justice give
Prevailing Hell this strange unbridl'd Pow'r

Queen.
Yes, Prince, Hell has prevail'd, and 'tis a sad
Sad Portion, but if the Divine Dispenser
Has so ordain'd, 'tis not our part to quarrel
Omnipotence, we may wail Misery,
But must no murmure at it.

Tygr.
Miracle,
Of Goodness.

Queen.
No, Tygranes, if the Toil
Of Fate is set, and our pursuing Blood hounds
Have caught our hunted Lives, our Stars have dealt us
The hardest Lot on Earth, only to purchase
The fairest Crown in Heaven.

Enter a Messenger who speaks to the Officer that has the Custody of the Queen and Tygranes.
Mes.
'Tis the King's Pleasure
That Execution be dispatch'd immediately.
The Queen and Prince are both those popular Darlings,
Delay may be unsafe; and for that reason
He calls this hastning blow.

Officer.
Curse on the Office.
[Aside.
If forc'd Obedience to the King's Command,
And the ungrateful Duty I must pay,
Kneels to the Queen and Prince.
May hope a Pardon.—

Queen.
If the King Commands
Rise and Obey: Thy Part, poor Slave, is innocent,
If he must Kill, and guiltless Veins must bleed,
The Axe is blameless, 'tis the Judge that's cruel.

Tygr.
But, cruel King, thou merciless Arm of Fate.
Have all my Laurels, And what's more than Laurels?
Has that chaste Mourner deserv'd his hard hard Fate?

Queen.
What we have deserv'd, Tygranes
Is ours no more; What we must suffer, Prince,
Is all our Business now? We must prepare
For Death, Death! Is that all! Witness ye Pow'rs,
That I dare Die—The only pain in Dying
Will be to leave a blotted Name behind me,
The branding Blazon of Recorded Infamy.

Tygr.
No, thou fair Saint,
To Die's too much; fear not a Second Murder.
Treason and Perjury may have pow'r to Kill
The Innocent, but not Innocence. The Martyrdom
Of Honour, Slander'd Truth, and traduced Virtue
Are so Divine a Charge, that care of Providence,
That if no earlier Justice wakes to right 'em,
The very Prodigies of Heav'n and all
Their aiding Miracles rise up their Champions.
Thy Fame, Herminia, must not dye, though thou must.

Queen.
Shall my Fame live? Nay, then to death lead on.
Lye white my Winding-Sheet, and soft my Grave.
But Prince, must thou bleed too? Herminia's Ruines
Pull down thy Fate with mine. Thy Blood Tygranes!
This is too much, ye Gods. How shall I make
My last great Audit at th'Eternal Throne,
For thy unhappy Death. At my own Grave
There I can smile, but I must weep for thine.

Tygr.
A tear, that fair rich Pearl of Life for me!
My poorer Veins not worth the care of Heav'n!
When such neglected brighter Virtue bleeds.
But, if the generous Fair, must play the Prodigal,
Oh! let me teach thee how to give me Blessings
Beyond the price of Lives: When on thy Throne
Thy radiant Throne of Stars those Eyes I meet
T'obtain in Heaven what was on Earth too great,
Shall I have leave to kneel at those dear Feet?

Queen.
Yes Prince, thou shalt kneel there. And if there be
One richer, fairer Coronet above
For wondrous Truth, and more prodigious Love,
O're that dear Brow with the Jemm'd Wreath I'll stand,
And Crown thee Martyr with my own kind Hand.

Tygr.
Nay, then to Death, to Life, to Glory, all
At one kind Blow.

Queen.
And oh to meet that Blow
With all the pomp of Martyrdom we'll go;
And Shine above, to Light the World below.

[Exeunt.
Scene Changes, Enter Orontes and Clarismunda.
Oront.
To Heaven the dearest, and on Earth the Fairest,
Thy Guardian Gods have done thee Justice now.
A Hundred thousand slaughter'd Scythian Ghosts,
In the fresh Blushes of their Crimson Gore,
Walk the black Strand, to tell the trembling Shades
The wondrous Tale of Clarismunda's Vengeance.

Clar.
Yes, King, my Stars at last are just.

Oront.
So Just, that all yon bright Eternals,
The Pow'rs that gild the Night, and guide the Day,
Rank'd their embattell'd Fires for Clarismunda,
All the proud Champions in thy darling Cause:
So keen the Sword that arming Beauty draws.

Clar.
If aiding Heav'n has battel'd on my side,
It has no more than plaid its own Revenger;
Mine are Heavens wrongs, their own Divinest Image
Stabb'd in my Wounds, and their own scourge has punisht 'em

Oront.
If their own scourge has punish'd 'em, and all
The pouring Vials of immortal Wrath
Have fill'd the whole embitter'd Draught of Woe,
May I have leave to ask that beauteous Judge
Is her avenging Sword of Fate yet satisfied.

Clar.
Satisfied!

Oront.
That Sword, thou dear Divine Destroyer.
After such streams of Blood, and piles of Graves,
Is the keen Death, the reeking Point still drawn
At poor Orontes Heart?

Clar.
Indeed thou askst that Question—

Oront.
I would have thy Mercy answer.
Say, thou All-Angel Sweet, if angry Heaven
Has emptied all its Quivers on this Head,
Has Clarismunda still new Bolts to Kill.

Clar.
New Bolts! No, wretched King, those righteous Pow'rs
Have made my Wrongs that ample satisfaction,
I now can ask no more.

Oront.
If those kind Pow'rs
Have paid thee all the whole indebted Summ,
May I presume to ask that fair Offended,
If a poor punisht Criminal, his stains,
Wash'd with the Bloud of thousand thousand Lives,
From tott'ring Pow'r, and falling Empire lost,
From all the glitt'ring Wreaths of Royal Honours
Crusht to base Chains, a vile inglorious Slave,
Say, is this little Out-cast of the World
Still that strange hateful Monster?

Clar.
No, Orontes,
Thou'rt faln so low, I must not hate thee now.

Oront.
What says that Breath of Life?

Claris.
Must hate no more.
No, suff'ring Wretch, thou hast met thy Crimes Reward:
And Justice, when her executing Aim
Has struck the Blow, turns her veil'd Eyes away
And sees the Guilt no more. On thy proud Throne
And tow'ring at thy prouder Armies head
When Death met Death, and Thunder grapled Thunder,
Orontes then in all thy circling Glories
The Tyrant Lord of Pow'r was worth my Frown,
I could look up and hate thee, down I must not.

Oront.
Then farewell Empire, Thrones, Dominion, all
The plagues of Pow'r, and curse of Crowns farewel.
And my dear Chains, and Glorious Misery Welcome.
For now she hates no more, Chant that blest Sound,
Ye great Angelick Quires, immortal Sweets
Perfume the hallow'd Breath, and bear it round
The ecchoing Skies, and all the list'ning Globe
That Clarismunda now can hate no more.
My Chains, my Fetters! No, thou Dear all Heav'n,
My Bracelets, strings of Pearl, and links of Gold—
But thou all Sacred Sweetness, cou'd that kind
Unclouding Brow to all this infinite Goodness
Add one rich Blessing more, cou'dst thou love too—

Clar.
Love! Love!

Oront.
Yes, Love, thou All descending Goodness:
Turn not those beauteous Eyes away. Oh Arm
Those pointed Deaths no more. I am no longer
The black Orontes now: 'twas Scythia's Tyrant
Pride and Ambition's Purple Devil, all
The burning Hells of Power that sinn'd against thee.
But I am now no more. No, thy kind Brother
Like the Great Jove has crusht the tumbling Giant,
Stript all my guilty Greatness to a little
Poor naked Slave, an humble crawling Wretch.
The Scepter'd Savage, and Imperial Monster,
Those hideous Names all banisht from the World,
And I am nothing now but kneeling Love.
And if that pardoning Mercy—

Clar.
Oh Orontes.
Thy Tears, thy Penitence, and to Crown all
Thy murmuring Love pleads with that courting Eloquence—
But ha! What says my Heart?

Oront.
Oh speak thou dearest Oracle of Life,
Breathe the Celestial Sound—Methinks I saw
The pitying God in those relenting Eyes
Just issuing down with all his glitt'ring Mercy,
But those seal'd Lips shut up the lovely Paradise,
And cruelty hold back the kind descending Heav'n.

Clar.
Well Prince, if I must speak,—But oh forgive
My blushing weakness, when these Eyes must tell thee,
That thou hast conquer'd, thou hast conquer'd, King,
My tenderest melting Souls all softest Pity.

Oront.
And cou'd that softest Pity—

Claris.
Aske no more:
For beyond Pity 'tis all vast Eternity,
The All my utmost Life can ever give thee.

Oront.
The All.

Claris.
Alas! my Love's beyond my Pow'r.
But I have given too much. Hence from my Sight;
For from this Hour I ne'r must see thee more.

Oront.
No more!

Claris.
Retire without Reply, lest my reviving Wrongs.
Recall my prodigal blushing Mercy back.
Yes, Fly to some far corner of the Earth
Whilst I have pow'r to give thy pitied Sufferings
This last kind Tribute from my melting Eyes,
Go, and bear with thee round the wander'd World
A Sigh from Clarismunda.

Oront.
'Tis enough.
That Sigh, that Pity, all Eternal Bliss,
And, Gods, I ask no more.—
But, Madam, when I fly from those dear Eyes,
The wander'd World will be too short a Walk.
No, Clarismunda, Love's last Race must run,
Beyond the narrow Travels of the Sun;
Far above Worlds, and Days dull mortal Light:
Thus he takes Wing, and thus sets out his Flight.

Stabs himself.
Clar.
By thy own Hand thy Hearts last pouring Flood.
Oh King! so kind a Stream, this rich atoning Sacrifice
Has wash'd thee all so White, and touch'd my Soul so near,
That I must whisper in thy dying Ear;
Had I a Heart to give 'twere all thy own.

Oront.
Oh Divine Harmony! Now I am blest.

Clar.
Oh generous Prince! thou fill'st my painting Veins
With all that tender'st warmth: But hast, oh haste!
Mount the bright Stars, and bear this Message with thee:
When thou shalt meet thy own great Martyr there;
Tell him, thou nast left
His Clarismunda a Divided Heart:
Thine all my Pity: all my Love Orsanes.

Oront.
Yes Madam, I'll obey your blest Commands;
Speed, speed my Posting Soul, and when we meet, Orsanes,
I'll Rival thee in Heaven. But oh! how much are all
My Sighs o'erpaid to die in these blest Arms;
How worthless is dull Life, when Death's all Charms.

[Dies.
Clar.
Now all the work I had on Earth is done!
My Dear Orsanes, that long waiting Bridegroom,
Holds an immortal Chaplet for my Brow.
Shut from the World, then to a Cell I'll fly:
There my dear Winding-sheets, my Robe of Glory,
Sweet Death's kind call with bending Knees I'll stay,
The Trump to my great Coronation Day.

[Exit.
Scene Changes. Enter Celestina and Rosalin.
Ros.
What can this mean! Not Lunacy more wild!
Her wander'd Reason, and distracted Senses
Stung with that strange Tarantula—

Cel.
Hush, Mirvan! Not a word.—Should Boys tell Tales—
Not for a thousand Worlds. I'll have the Secret
Shut in a Marble Chest, lock'd up in Graves,
Deep as the Center of the groaning World,
That not one angry murmuring God shall hear it—
But ha! we are betray'd, betray'd dear Mirvan!
See there that grinning Tarquin in the Hangings,
Looks with a listning Face—and yonder Parrot,
Oh 'tis a prating Bird—The Air will breath it,
Winds whistle it, Ravens croke it—

Ros.
Dear Madam—

Cel.
Rosalin! Ha, art thou here!

Ros.
Yes, Madam, a poor Mourner.—

Cel.
Oh fie, in Tears, and on my Wedding day!
This is unkind: Ay, Girl, I am to be Married,
Dost thou not see the Courting kneeling King!
Oh 'tis the fondest fool to make a Husband.
That kind believing thing. See he presents me
A Bracelet strong with bleeding Lovers Hearts,
And every Pearl a Tear of dying Innocence—
Poor Herminia,
Dost not thou hang a blushing Ruby there.

Ros.
Gracious Heav'n!

Cel.
Who talks of Heav'n? Oh 'tis a Golden Palace,
Where my kind Mirvan, Jove's dear Darling Ganimede,
Fills the proud Thunderers Imperial Bowl,
To quaff the World's Confusion.

Ros.
Oh my Fears!
There's something talks in these wild Dreams!

Cel.
Fear Rosalin!
What canst thou fear, my Wedding Robe won't please me!
Ah no! 'tis dyed in that deep Royal Crimson
Not all the Waters of the Sea can whiten.

Enter King, Attendants, and Guards.
King.
What's this I see! Why this disorder'd frame!
Is this a Dress? Is this a Brow, when Diadems
Wait your receiving Hand. The canker'd Sweets
Of Lawless Joys no more,
Prepare to mount the bright Crown'd Queen of Persia.

Cel.
The Queen of Persia! Queen of Hell, dull Fool—
Look, Rosalin, look—

Ros.
Look, Madam!

Cel.
Dost not see
Yond' wrinkled wither'd Witch, the sooty Proserpine!
She with that dowdy Face, Great Pluto's Queen,
Enthron'd the Glorious Partner of Damnation;
And Celestina but a puny Devil!
No, by yond' spightful Stars, I cannot bear it.
I'll dash the tumbling Hag from her proud Seat,
Snatch from her flaming Brow her blazing Diadem,
And mount her burning Throne.

King.
All raving Frenzy.
But tell me honest Rosalin, how long
Have these strange Phantoms all these waking Dreams
Shook her soft peace?

Ros.
Since fair Herminia's Death.

Cel.
Who names Herminia's Death: I will not hear it.
There's Treason in the sound.—But see! Oh see!
She comes, she comes, she comes!
[The Ghosts of Herminia and Tygranes descend in Glory.
—Oh my sick Eye-balls!
How have I sin'd to wake these hideous Forms!
Have I done more than all my Sex beside?
Alas, the poorest Lowborn Peasant Girl,
That never heard of Crowns above a Garland,
Yet but to Reign the Sovereign of the Plains,
And have the bending Knees of Swains and Bores,
Wou'd cut through Hearts and Lives to be a Queen:
And I have done no more.

King.
What says my Fairest?

Cel.
Say King! I say thou smelst too rank of Blood,
Blood, easie cheated Fool!

King.
Death and Confusion!
There's something in this dark mysterious Horror
That strikes my aking Soul.—Pray Heav'n the poor
Tygranes and Herminia—

Cel.
Are a blest pair of ever Royal Martyrs.
Innocence, Innocence, Innocence! Betray'd by me,
And by thee Murder'd!

King.
Murder'd! Oh—

Cel.
But look all Heavenly Fair, cloath'd and enrob'd
With the rich Beams of pure immortal Day.
Myriads of Angels, and Eternal Quires
All waiting for their Coronation Glory.
Yes, mount fair Stars, ye radiant Twins of Light,
Whilst I must set in Everlasting Night.

[Dies.
King.
Dead! Thou fair Curse and Painted Sin farewel.
Oh that my shame and Guilt were with thee Dead.
Ah no! a thousand Racking Tortures live
To tear my sinking Soul. Oh Blood Blood! Blood!
Herminia! Poor wrong'd sweetness, could the price
Of Crowns or Worlds restore thee to my Arms—
No, Lovely Truth, too late we find thy Charms.

[Exeunt omnes.