 | The Ambitious Step-Mother |  |
17
SCENE II.
The Palace.Enter the Queen, Artaban, Mirza, Magas, and Attendants.
Artab.
My Brother then is come.
Mirz.
My Lord, I saw him,
With him old haughty Memnon; as they past,
With fierce disdain they view'd the gazing Crowd,
And with dumb Pride seem'd to neglect that Worship
Which yet they wisht to find; this way they move,
'Tis said to ask an Audience of the King.
Qu.
Mirza, 'tis well, I thank thy timely Care;
Here will we face this Storm of Insolence,
Nor fear the noisy Thunder, let it rowl,
Then burst, and spend at once its idle Rage.
Artab.
Why meet we thus like wrangling Advocates,
To urge the Justice of our Cause with Words?
I hate this parle, 'tis tame; if we must meet,
Give me my Arms, and let us stake at once
Our Rights of Merit and of Eldership,
And prove like men our Title.
Mirz.
'Twere unsafe,
They come surrounded by a Croud of Friends,
To strike thro'these were dangerous and rash,
Fate waits for 'em elsewhere with certain Ruine;
From Mirza's Hand expect it.
Qu.
Be it so:
Auspicious Sage, I trust thee with my Fortune,
My Hopes of Greatness, do thou guide 'em all,
For me and for thy self. My Son give way,
Nor let thy hasty Youth disturb with out-rage
The present necessary Face of Peace;
Occasions great and glorious will remain
Worthy thy Arms and Courage.
Artab.
I obey;
And willingly resign th'unmanly Task,
Words are indeed your Province.
Mirz.
My Royal Mistress,
Pripare to meet with more than brutal fury
From the fierce Prince and Memnon.
Qu.
Well I know
The Insolence and native Pride of each,
With scurril Taunts and blackest Infamy
They load my Name: But let the Wretches rail,
A Woman's Vengeance waits 'em.
Mirz.
They are here.
18
Artax.
Ye tutelar Gods, who guard this Royal fabrick,
And thou, O Orosmades, the Protector
Of the great Persian race. Er'e yet my Father,
Royal Arsaces, mingle with your Godheads,
Grant me once more to lay before his feet
His eldest-born, his once lov'd Artaxerxes,
To offer my Obedience to his Age;
All that a Son can owe to such a Father.
You, who with haggard eyes stare wildly on me,
If (as by your attendance here you seem)
You serve the King my Father, lead me to him.
Qu.
And dost thou wonder that mankind should start,
When Parricides and Rebels, in despight
Of Nature, Majesty, and Reverend Age,
With Impious force, and Russian violence,
Would Rob a King and Father of his life;
Cut off his short remains—
Artax.
Ha! sayst thou, Woman;
I prethee peace, and urge not a reply,
I would not hold acquaintance with thy Infamy.
Qu.
Ye Righteous Powers, whose Justice awes the world,
Let not your Thunders sleep when Crimes like these
Stalk in the open air.
Artax.
Thy Priest instucts thee,
Else sure thou hadst not dar'd to tempt the Gods,
And trifle with their Justice: Canst thou name it
And look on me? on me, whom thy Curst arts
Have strove to bar from native Right to Empire,
Made me a stranger to a Father's Love,
And broke the bands of nature, which once held me
The nearest to his heart.
Qu.
Had he not reason,
when thou with Rebel Insolence didst dare
To own and to protect that hoary Russian;
[Pointing to Mem.
And in despight ev'n of thy Fathers Justice,
To stir the factious Rabble up to arms
For him; and make a murderer's cause thy own.
Mem.
I had another name (nor shouldst thou move me,
Insulting Queen, to words, did not remembrance
With horror sting my Soul for Tiribasus,
Thy murder'd Tiribasus) when by my fatal orders,
And by his own high Courage urg'd he fell,
19
I thought him then a Traytor (for thy arts
Had taught the Royal Mandate so to call him)
Too big for publick Justice, and on that Pretence
Consented to the Snare, that catcht his Life;
So my obedient honesty was made
The Pander to thy Lust and black Ambition.
Except the Guilt of that accursed Day,
In all my Iron Years of Wars and Danger,
From blooming Youth down to decaying Age,
My Fame ne're knew a Stain of foul Dishonour,
And if that make me guilty, think what thou art,
The Cause and the Contriver of that Mischief
Qu.
What namest thou Tiribasus, be his Guilt
Forgotten with his Memory. Think on Cleander,
And let the Furies that enquire for Blood,
Stir Horror up, and bitterest Remorse,
To gnaw thy anxious Soul. Oh great Cleander
Unworthy was thy Fate, thou first of Warriors,
To fall beneath a base Assassin's Stab,
Whom all the thirsty Instruments of Death,
Had in the Field of Battle sought in vain.
Mem.
In sight of Heaven, and of the equal Gods,
I will avow that my Revenge was just;
My injur'd Honour could not ask for less:
Since he refus'd to do a Souldiers Justice,
I us'd him as I ought.
Qu.
Amazing Boldness!
And dare'st thou call that Act a Souldiers Justice?
Didst thou not meet him with dissembled Friendship,
Hiding the Rancour of thy Heart in Smiles;
When he (whose open unsuspecting Nature
Thought thee a Souldier honest as himself)
Came to the Banquet as secure of Peace,
By mutual Vows renew'd; and in the Revel
Of that luxurious Day, forgetting Hate.
And every Cause of ancient Animosity,
Devoted all his Thoughts to mirth and friendship;
Then Memnon (at an Hour when few are Villains
The sprightly Juice infusing gentler Thoughts,
And kindling Love ev'n in the coldest Breasts,)
Unequal to him in the Face of War,
Stole on Celander with a Cowards Malice,
And struck him to the Heart,
Mem.
By the stern God,
20
'Tis basely false. In his own drunken brawl
The Boaster fell. I bore his lavish Tongue,
Nor thought him worth my Sword, till (his cold Temper
Warm'd with the Wine) he dar'd me to the Combat,
Then pleas'd to meet him in that Fit of Valour,
I took him at his Word, and (with my Sword
Drawn against his in equal Opposition)
I kill'd him while it lasted.
Artax.
Cease we, my Friend,
This Womens War of railing, when they talk,
Men should be still, and let Noise tire it self.
I came to find a Father, tho' my Fears
Suggest the worst of Evils to my Thoughts,
And make me dread to hear Arsaces Fate.
Lead, Memnon, to the Presence.
Qu.
Prince, you pass not;
Guards keep the Door; the King your Father lives—
Artax.
Ha!—if he lives, why lives he not to me?
Why am I thus shut out and banisht from him?
Why are my Veins rich with his Royal Blood?
Why did he give me Life, if not to serve him?
Forbid me not to wait upon his Bed,
And watch his sickly Slumbers, that my Youth
May with its Service glad his drooping Age,
And his cold Hand may bless me e're he dye.
Nay, be a Queen, and rob me of his Crown,
But let me keep my Right to filial Piety.
Qu.
Well hast thou urg'd the specious Name of Duty
To hide deform'd Rebellion; Hast thou not
With thy false Arts poyson'd his Peoples Loyalty?
What meant thy pompous Progress thro'the Empire?
Thy vast Profusion to the Factious Nobles,
Whose Interest sways the Croud, and stirs up Mutiny?
Why did thy haughty, fierce, disdainful Soul
Stoop to the meanest Arts which catch the Vulgar?
Herd with 'em, fawn upon 'em, and caress 'em;
Appeal to them, to them relate thy Wrongs,
And make them Judges of thy Father's Justice?
Thy cruel and unnatural Lust of Power
Have sunk thy Father more than all his Years,
And made him wither in a green old Age.
Artax.
False all as Hell: Nor had I arm'd my Friends
But to defend that right—
Qu.
Dost thou not come,
21
To bring that Death, the lingering Disease
Would only for a Day or two defer.
Artax.
I hear thee, and disdain thy little Malice,
That dares to stain my Virtue with a Crime
It views with most Abhorrence; but Reproach
Is lost on thee, since Modesty with all
The Vertues that adorn thy Sex is fled.
Qu.
Audacious Rebel!
Artax.
Infamous Adultress!
Stain of my Fathers Bed, and of his Throne!
Artab.
Villain! thou ly'st! oh Madam give me way,
[To the Queen, who holds him, drawing his Sword.
Whatever bars my Fury calls me base,
Unworthy of the Honour of your Son.
Qu.
Hold Artaban! My Honour suffers not
From his lewd Breath, nor shall thy Sword prophane,
With Brawls or Blood the Reverence of this Place,
To Peace and sacred Majesty devoted.
Artax.
Ha! Who art thou?
[To Artab.
Artab.
The Son of great Arsaces.
Artax.
No! 'tis false! thy forging Mother's damn'd Contrivance.
Seek for thy Father in that plotting Fellow,
The Hero's Race disclaims thee. Why dost thou frown,
And knit thy boyish Brow? Dost thou dare ought
Worthy the Rank of the Divine Arsacides?
If so, come forth, break from that Womans Arms,
And meet me with thy good Sword like a Man.
Artab.
Yes! Artaxerxes, yes! thou shalt be met:
The mighty Gods have held us in the Balance,
And one of us is doom'd to sink for ever.
Nor can I bear a long Delay of Fate,
But wish the great Decision were ev'n now.
Proud and Ambitious Prince, I dare like thee,
All that is great and glorious. Like thine,
Immortal Thirst of Empire fires my Soul,
My Soul, which of superiour Power impatient,
Disdains thy Eldership; therefore in Arms
(Which give the noblest Right to Kings) I will
To Death dispute with thee the Throne of Cyrus.
Artax.
Do this, and thou art worthy of my Anger:
O Energy divine of great Ambition,
That can inform the Souls of beardless Boys,
And ripen 'em to Men in spight of Nature.
I tell thee, Boy, that Empire is a Cause,
22
Then let my Soul exert her utmost Vertue,
And think at least thou art Arsaces Son,
That the Idea of thy fancy'd Father
May raise and animate my lesser Genius,
And make thee fit to meet my Arm in Battel.
Artab.
Oh doubt not but my Soul is charm'd with greatness,
So much it rivals even the Joy of Knowledge
And sacred Wisdom. What makes Gods divine,
But Power and Science infinite?
Hear only this; our Father, prest by Age,
And a long train of Evils which that brings,
Languishes in the last Extremes of Life:
Since thou wouldst blot my Birth with base Dishonour,
Be this my Proof of filial Piety,
While yet he lives cease we our Enmity;
Nor let the hideous Noise of War disturb
His parting Soul.
Artax.
I take thee at thy Word:
Let his Remains of Life be Peace betwixt us,
And after that let all our time be War.
Remember when me meet, since one must fall,
Who Conquers and Survives, Survives to Empire.
[Exeunt severally, Queen and Artab. Artax. Mem. cum suis
Manent Mirza and Magas.
Mirz.
Most fortunate Event! which gives us more
Than even our Wishes could have askt. This Truce
Gives lucky Opportunity for thinking;
'Twill lull these Thoughtless Heroes to Security.
Mag.
Th'approaching Festival will more confirm it:
Of all those sacred Times which heretofore
Religion has distinguisht from the rest,
And to the Service of the Gods devoted,
This has been still most venerable held;
Among the vulgar, Toil and Labour ceases
With Chaplets crown'd, they dance to the shrill Pipe,
And in their Songs invoke those milder Deities,
That soften anxious Life with Peace and Pleasure;
Slaves are enfranchis'd, and inveterate Foes
Forget, or at the least suspend their Hate,
And meet like Friends. Pernicious Discord seems
Out rooted from our more than Iron Age:
The Gods are worshipt with unusual Reverence,
Since none, not ev'n our Kings, approach their Temples
With any Mark of Wars destructive Rage,
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Mirz.
A lucky thought
Is in my mind at once compleatly form'd,
Like Grecian Pallas in the head of Jove.
When Memnon, Artaxerxes, and their friends,
Shall, in obedience to the Holy Rites,
To morrow at the Altars bow unarm'd,
Orchanes with a party of the Guards,
Who in my Palace shall this night be plac'd,
May at that private door which opens into
The Temple, rush at once, and seize 'em all.
The Heads once safe, the mean and heartless Crowd
With Ease may be disperst.
Mag.
What you propose
Wears a successful Face, were it as innocent:
An Act of such outrageous Prophanation,
May shock the Thoughts ev'n of our closest Friends,
And make 'em start from an abhorr'd Alliance,
That draws the Vengeance of the Gods upon 'em.
Mirz.
Art thou the first to start a Doubt like that?
Art thou (who dost inspire their Oracles,
And teach 'em to deceive the easie Crowd
In doubtful Phrase) afraid of thy own Gods?
In every change they were on thy side still,
And sure they will not leave thee now for Trifles.
The Gods shall certainly befriend our Cause,
At least not be our Foes, nor will they leave
Their happy Seats (where free from Care and Pain,
Blest in themselves alone, of Man regardless,
They loll serene in everlasting Ease)
To mind the trivial Business of our World.
Mag.
But more I fear the superstious Vulgar,
Who tho' unknowing what Religion means,
Yet nothing moves 'em more than zealous Rage
For its Defence, when they believe it violated.
Mirz.
I was to blame to tax the Priest with Scruples,
Or think his Care of Interest was his Conscience.
[Aside.
My Caution shall obviate all thy Fears;
We will give out that they themselves design'd
To fire the Temple, and then kill the King.
No matter tho' it seem not very probable,
More monstrous Tales have oft amus'd the Vulgar.
Mag.
I yield to your Direction, and to strengthen
The Enterprize, will secretly dispose
A Party of my own within the Temple,
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Mirz.
It joys my Heart to think
That I shall glut my Vengeance on this Memnon:
That I shall see him strive in vain, and curse
The happy Fraud that caught him. Like a Lyon,
Who long has reign'd the Terror of the Woods,
And dar'd the boldest Huntsmen to the Combat;
Till catcht at length within some hidden Snare,
With foaming Jaws he bites the Toils that hold him,
And roars and rowls his fiery Eyes in vain?
While the surrounding Swains at pleasure wound him,
And make his Death their Sport.
Thus Wit still gets the Mastery o're Courage.
Long time unmatcht in War the Hero shone,
And mighty Fame in Fields of Battle won;
Till one fine Project of the Statesman's Brain
Bereaves him of the Spoils his Arms did gain,
And renders all his boasted Prowess vain.
[Exeunt.
| The Ambitious Step-Mother | |