University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE the Grecian Camp, at Tenedos.
Enter Menelaus, Ulysses, Neoptolemus; Guards and Attendants.
Men.
Now by my Arms, to yet behold yon' Pile
Of Troy's unshaken Tow'rs, gives me to doubt
What's Right or Wrong. Nay, ev'n th'abetting Gods
Take different Sides. The very Cause of Troy,
An Impious Rape, and violated Bed,
Have Champions arm'd in their Defence above.
Why is this don? If there be Wrong, or Right,
Why are there Pow'rs, that bar the Grecian Vengeance;
And Shield the Head of Troy's Adultrous Paris?

Ulyss.
We search in vain the Cause of Heavn's Decrees;
All's not unjust we cannot Reconcile.
Sometimes the prosp'rous Wickedness of Men
Is but the unseen Policy of Heav'n.
Should Divine Vengeance
Strike with an Universal Sword of Justice,
The Race of Men would Perish, Natures tott'ring
Foundation sink, and the World end too soon.

Men.
Well, if the Great Dispensers of our Fate,
For Reasons of their own, can unconcern'dly stand,
Those cold and feeble Champions of my Cause;
Yet I my self am Guardian of my Honour:
And to my Soul can say,
I have not tamely born my Blazing Injuries:
Not like the common Herd of Drowsy Husbands
Slept oe'r my Wrongs, and Wink'd at pointing Infamy.
No, tis' my Pride that I have Drawn the Swords
Of more then half the World, Asia and Europe;
Push't a long ten Years War; a Noble Vengeance,
And only by th'opposing Gods defeated.
I thank my Starrs, (if I have Starrs to thank)
It is my Glory still, However little
I have receiv'd I have deserv'd from Heaven.

Ulyss.
If such Desert
Has those few Friends above, seek not their friendship:
Carve Your own Vengeance, make the nobler Work
Of Glory all Your own.

Neop.
Ay Sir, Do That,
And fix your Fame immortal. Nor let ten,
Ten long—ten short Years fruitless Labour lost
Make your Cause droop; Revenge like Yours, is worth
An untir'd Ages Patience.

Ulyss.
Far from Ages:
A Few short Days, now Seal the Fate of Troy.
And that unfinish'd Work, where fighting Heroes
Against Stone-walls, Iron-Gates, and Brazen-Tow'rs
Have only Dash't out their unthinking Brains,
This deeper Head shall end; Tis' your Ulysses,
His Conqu'ring Arm of War, wise Art and Stratagem,
Must crown that Work, which Force in vain has toyl'd for.
So far already have my Counsels prosper'd:
This feign'd Retreat from their abandon'd Walls
Has hush'd the Fears of Troy.

Neop.
Lull'd to a Lethargy,
All drown'd in Ryot, and supine Security.
Nor can the Voice of Oracles, their Great
Cassandra wake 'em. Th'unbeleiving Troy
Deaf to the Cryes of her inspir'd Divinity,
Views Your false Flight as an entire Defeat
Of all Your sinking Hopes, till their whole Streets
Ring with one Voice of Universal Triumph.

Ulyss.
Ay! that's the Voice I want. Now moves the Engine
Of Troy's Destruction safe; that Glorious Pile of Mischief,
In whose dark Womb lies the Arm'd Fate of Troy.
There where an Ages Labour has been Lost,
Where Kings, and Heroes, crown'd and laurell'd Heads,
With all their Ayding Legions have been Baffled;
When I resolve, a Toy, a Wooden-Horse,
A Puppet shall destroy, and lay proud Ilium
Heap'd in one Funeral Pile.

Neop.
Already, Sir,
The Trojan's crow'd to see th'amazing Pageant.

Ulyss.
Let 'em gaze on—Oh! I have the rarest Manager
To move this Great Machine; a shining Villain;
A burnisht Front of Brass! He has a Tongue
That can out fawn a hungry Parasite, cringing
For a Court-Office; Heell outly Hypocrisy;
Out-swear a Harlot when she vows Fidelity.
Then hee'll out-weep (Ay there's his Master-peice!)
A young expectant Widow at her old
Departing Usurers Death-bed-side, just sealing her
His sole Executrix.

King.
Nay, hold, Ulysses.
It looks a little ominous to my Cause
T'have this Black Hand its Champion. Is a Villain,
And such a Villain, think'st thou, a fit Instrument
To consummate my Finishing stroke of Justice,
And right the Wrongs of King's?

Ulyss.
Ay! nothing like him.
His Villany! 'Tis that which Recommends him;
Makes him a Tool for Service.—Mark by that
Distinguishing Desert, the Royal Engine
For blazing Troy's Destruction—Villany!
'Tis the Essential Compound of his Glory.
A Branded Thief setts up an honest Hangman.
States cannot Live without em'; Empire wants em'!
Nature makes nought in Vain. Vipers and Toads
Have their Internal Virtues. Balms and Medicines
Are drawn from Druggs and Poysons.

Enter Phorbas.
King.
Honest Phorbas.
I sent thee Spy to Troy; and thou Return'st
With transport in thy Looks—say, what Discovery!

Phorb.
All Sir, Your Hopes can wish.

King.
Give it a Tongue
And bless me with the Sound.

Phorb.
By my false Face of Friendship
I joyn'd the gaping Fools, that all amaz'd
On the tall Oaken-sided Monster gaz'd.
Beneath the Wooden Prodigy appears
Your Sinon, bound in Chains, and bath'd in Tears.
Whil'st this sad Object their Compassion Draws,
And their kind Pity asks the mournful Cause;
He told that Story of his barbarous Bands
Tyed by the Tyrant Greeks inhumane Hands,
In those sad Accents, every piteous sound
So softly tun'd, and his wet Eyes so Drown'd:
He look'd and talk'd, the Tale so told, so felt,
Till scarce their Hearts less then his Eyes cou'd melt.
Oh 'tis a Glorious Villain!

Ulyss.
Spare his Titles,
And let his Glory speak it self.

Phor.
The Tale so told, was worth a Monarch's Ear,
To Priam then the tatter'd Slave they bear;
Here which that honest Face (to gild the Hook,
That now must catch a King) that innocent Look;
(Truth nearer to the Life no Art cou'd draw,)
He told 'em, how that wondrous Pile they saw;
Not only built by the Divine Commands,
But ev'n the Work of the Celestial Hands,
The pledge of an Eternal Peace design'd,
By the Retiring Greeks was left behind;
No more the Trojan Foes, their Swords all sheath'd
All calm the Air, and nought but Friendship-breath'd
In short, True Sinon all, he talk'd so well,
Till each false sound breath'd forth an Oracle:
Not the Crowd only, but Crown'd Heads deceiv'd,
Courts, Councils, Polititians, all beleiv'd.
Oh Faith; Strong Faith; what Captives dost thou win,
When Statesmen are not Wits, and Kings but Men!

Ulyss.
Now where's the Hand too black to right a King?

Phor.
'Twas then resolv'd, with all the Songs of Joy,
To have it drawn within the Gates of Troy;
Without one Jealous Pang; not the least Fears,
Of the Arm'd Iron Entrayls that it bears.
But th'humble Arches of the City Gate,
Too low for Pageants of that Mountain Height;
Their headlong Frenzy a new Consult calls,
Resolv'd they'll give it Entrance thro' the Walls.

Ulyss.
Now Fate begins to work.

Phor.
Here, Cords, Wheels, Engines,
All that Strength, Wit, or Art cou'd e're design,
Were strait prepar'd to move the vast Machine,
And, There, whole Browds their thousand Hands employ,
With more Destruction Tear the Walls of Troy,
Then all your ten Years Batt'ring Rams: They make,
The Nerves of Flint and Veins of Marble shake.
Already they have made a Breach so wide.

Ulyss.
To let in their Confusion.

King.
Yes, Ulysses,
Now dawns the Morning of my Rising Glory.
Revenge, now Great Revenge, guide my keen Sword
To the Adultrous Helens canker'd Heart:
And, oh, 'twill give me more divine Delight,
Then all the Raptures of her Bridal Night:
Let puny whining Husbands, sigh and pine,
For a Revolted Infidel;
Fond Fools, that only give themselves a Pain,
At what th'Adultress gives her self a Pleasure,
Mistaken Dotage all—The Generous Soul
When a fair falling Star drops from his Arms,
Puts out Loves Fire, and with new Raptures warms,
Such dear Revenge, are, thy Exalted Charms.
In those dissolving Sweets his Soul expires,
The no less Glorious nor less fragrant Fires,
Her Heart before did my fond Transports raise;
But now her Hearts last Drop can only please,
Thus true or false, the Syren or the Saint
Oh, Beauty; Beauty! Thou can'st Charm so well;
Thou givest us Joys both in thy Heaven and Hell.

[exeunt.
The Curtain draws, and discovers the Town of Troy, with a Magnificent Chariot twenty Foot high, drawn by two White Elephants, placed in the Depth of the Prospect, between two Triumphal Columns; the one bearing the Statue of Pallas, and the other of Diana, and fronting the Audience. In the Chariot are seated Paris and Helen; In the two front Entryes on each side of the Stage, advanced before the side Wings, are four more White Elephants, bearing, each a Castle on their Backs, with a Rich Canopy over each Castle, and in each three Women; on the necks of all the Elephants a Negro Guide. Each of these Paintings Twenty two Foot high.
Par.
Now Troy's invincible: Yes, my Fair Helen,
The Coward Greeks are fled,
And leave me Lord of Thee: Nor are those Eyes,
Less worth then the whole ten Years Blood they cost;
I would not buy thee Cheaper. Oh! the Pleasure,
That I have put the World in Arms, and drawn
The angry Gods to Battle;
Made Heav'n and Earth, both Glitter in thy Cause:
With such attracting Pow'r Bright Beauty draws;
But now when the tir'd Worlds long Discords cease,
Tune all your Trumps of War, to Songs of Peace.

Here enters a Procession of Men-Singers, ranging on each side the Stage, and joining in Consort with the Women on the Castles.

The Vocal Musick.
War , War, and Battle, rage no more:
The Gods have giv'n their Vengeance o'er.
Paris is now Heav'ns darling Boy;
Whilst smiling Peace, and halcyon Joy,
And brood around the Walls of Troy.
The Gods by this a proof have giv'n,
That Love's the Care of Heav'n:
Love, Love's, the Care of Heav'n.
Then drive my Chariot, drive me round,
And let the loud tongu'd Trumpets sound.
The Earth, the Air, yet louder still,
With Io, Io Pæans fill.
Crack, crack your brazen Throats asunder,
So loud till list'ning Worlds shall wonder,
And Jove, Almighty Jove, shall eccho back in Thunder.

Paris and Helen descend, and advance to the Stage.
Hel.
Oh my lov'd Paris! These soft Airs of Joy,
Wars rude Alarms shall now no more Destroy.
Her Martial God let Love's soft Goddess greet,
In his rough Steel, the fierce Destroyer Meet.
In Flowry Garlands, and in flowing Gold,
Let these Embraces, my Dear Paris hold.
To meet My Eyes lay by thy Martial Charms,
And come the sweet Adonis to these Arms.

Par.
Adonis I, thou more then Venus Raign.
Not the fair Queen of Love, on Ida's plain,
With half thy Beauties Shin'd.
Not the three Rival Goddesses, all joyn'd,
Stampt in one Form Divine, cou'd match thy Lovely Mould:
'Twas this Fair Hand deserv'd the Ball of Gold.
Thus doubly blest with such Triumphant Charms,
Peace round my Gates, and Beauty in my Arms,
Where Hector drag'd in Blood, I'll drive around,
The Walls of Troy with Love and Laurels Crown'd.