University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Garden belonging to Mirza's Palace.
Cleone is discover'd lying on a Bank of Flowers, Beliza attending.
SONG, by B. Stote, Esq;

Cleo.
Oh Love! Thou Bane of an unhappy Maid!
Still art thou busie at my panting Heart?
Still dost thou melt my Soul with thy soft Images,
And make my Ruine pleasing? Fondly I try
By Gales of Sighs and Floods of streaming Tears,
To vent my Sorrows, and asswage my Passions.
Still fresh Supplies renew th'exhausted Stores.
Love reigns my Tyrant, to himself alone
He vindicates the Empire of my Breast,
And banishes all Thoughts of Joy for ever.

Bel.
Why are you still thus cruel to your self?
Why do you feed and cherish the Disease,
That preys on your dear Life? How can you hope
To find a Cure for Love in solitude?
Why rather chuse you not to shine at Court?
And in a thousand gay Diversions there,
To lose the Memory of this wretched Passion?

Cleo.
Alas! Beliza, thou hast never known
The fatal Power of a resistless Love?
Like that avenging Guilt that haunts the Impious,
In vain we hope by flying to avoid it
In Courts and Temples it pursues us still,
And in the loudest Clamours will be heard:
It grows a Part of us, lives in our Blood,
And every beating Pulse proclaims its Force.
Oh! think not then that I can shun my self;
The Grave can only hide me from my Sorrows.

Bel.
Allow me then at least to share your Griefs,
Companions in Misfortunes make 'em less;
And I could suffer much to make you easie.

Cleo.
Sit by me, gentle Maid, and while I tell
A wretched Tale of unreguarded Love,
If thou in kind Compassion of my Woes,
Shalt sigh or shed a Tear for my mishap,
My greateful eyes shall pay it back with interest.
Help me to rail at my too easie heart,
That rashly entertain'd this fatal guest:
And you, my eyes! why were you still impatient
Of any other sight but Artaxerxes?
Why did you make my Womans heart acquainted
With all the thousand graces and perfections,
That dress the lovely Hero up for Conquest?

Bel.
Had you oppos'd this passion in its infancy,
E're time had given it strength, it might have dy'd.

Cleo.
That was the fatal Error that undid me:
My Virgin thoughts, and unexperienc'd Innocence,
Found not the danger till it was too late.
And tho when first I saw the charming Prince,
I felt a pleasing motion at my heart,
Short breathing sighs heav'd in my panting breast,
The mounting blood flusht in my glowing face,
And dy'd my cheeks with more than usual blushes,
I thought him sure the wonder of his kind,
And wisht my fate had given me such a Brother:
Yet knew not that I lov'd, but thought that all
Like me, beheld and blest him for his Excellence.

Bel.
Sure never hopeless Maid was curst before
With such a wretched passion; all the Gods
Join to oppose your happiness; 'tis said
This day the Prince shall wed the fair Amestris.

Cleo.
No, my Beliza I have never known
The pleasing thoughts of hope: Certain dispair
Was born at once, and with my love encreas'd

Bel.
Think you the Prince has e're perceiv'd your thoughts?

Cleo.
Forbid it all ye chaster powers, that favour
The modesty and Innocence of Maids:
No, till my death no other breast but thine
Shall e're participate the fatal secret.
O could I think that he had ever known
My hidden flame, shame and confusion
Would force my Virgin soul to leave her mansion,
And certain Death ensue.
Thou name'st the fair Amestris, didst thou not?

Bel.
Madam, I did.

Cleo.
I envy not her happiness;
Tho sure few of our Sex are blest like her
In such a Godlike Lord.
Would I had been a man!
With honour then I might have sought his friendship!
Perhaps from long experience of my faith,
He might have lov'd me better than the rest.
Amidst the dangers of the horrid War,
Still had I been the nearest to his side;
In Courts and Triumphs still had shar'd his joys,
Or when the sportful Chace had call'd us forth,
Together had we cheer'd our foaming Steeds,
Together prest the Savage o're the plain.
And when o're labour'd with the pleasing toil,
Stretcht on the verdant soil had slept together.
But whither does my roving fancy wander?
These are the sick dreams of fantastick Love.
So in a Calenture, the Sea man fancies
Green Fields and Flowry Meadows on the Ocean,
Till leaping in, the wretch is lost for ever,

Bel.
Try but the common Remedies of Love,
And let a second flame expel the first.

Cleo.
Impossible; as well thou mayst imagine,
When thou complainst of heat at scorching noon,
Another Sun shall rise to shine more kindly,
Believe me, my Beliza, I am grown
So fond of the delusion that has charm'd me,
I hate the officious hand that offers cure.

Bel.
Madam, Prince Artaban.

Cleo.
My cruel Stars!
Do you then envy me my very solitude;
But death, the wretches only remedy,
Shall hide me from your hated Light for ever.

Enter Artaban.
Artab.
Ah! Lovely Mourner, still! still wilt thou blast
My eager Love with unauspicious Tears?
When at thy Feet I kneel, and sue for pity,
Or justly of thy cold regards complain,
Still wilt thou only answer me with sighs?

Cleo.
Alas! my Lord, what answer can I give?
If still I entertain you with my grief,
Pity the temper of a wretched Maid,
By nature sad, and born the child of sorrow.
In vain you ask for happiness from me,
Who want it for my self.

Art.
Can blooming Youth,
And Virgin Innocence, that knows not guilt,
Know any cause for grief?

Cleo.
Do but survey
The miserable State of humane kind,
Where Wretches are the general Encrease,
And tell me if there be not Cause for Grief.

Art.
Such Thoughts as these, my fair Philosopher,
Inhabit wrinkled Cheeks, and hollow Eyes;
The Marks which Years set on the wither'd Sage;
The gentle Goddess Nature wisely has
Allotted other Cares for Youth and Beauty.
The God of Love stands ready with his Torch.
To light it at thy Eyes, but still in vain,
For e're the Flame can catch 'tis drown'd in Tears.

Cleo.
Oh! name not Love, the worst of all Misfortunes,
The common Ruin of my easie Sex,
Which I have sworn for ever to avoid,
In Memory of all those hapless Maids,
That Love has plung'd in unexampled Woes.

Artab.
Forbear to argue, with that Angel Face,
Against the Passion thou wert form'd to raise.
Alas! thy frozen Heart has only known
Love in Reverse, not tasted of its Joys;
The Wishes, soft Desires, and pleasing Pains,
That centre all in most extatick Bliss.
Oh, lovely Maid, mis-pend no more that Treasure
Of Youth and Charms, which lavish Nature gives;
The Paphian Goddess frowns at thy Delay;
By her fair self and by her Son she swears,
Thy Beauties are devoted to her Service.
No! now she shoots her fires into my Breast,
She urges my Desires, and bids me seize thee,
[Taking her Hand, and kissing it.
And bear thee as a Victim to her Altar,
Then offer up ten thousand thousand Joys,
As an amends for all thy former Coldness.

Cleo.
Forbear, my Lord; or I must swear to fly
For ever from your Sight.

Artab.
Why dost thou frown?
And damp the rising Joy within my Breast?
Art thou resolv'd to force thy gentle Nature,
Compassionate to all the World beside,
And only to me cruel? Shall my Vows,
Thy Fathers Intercession all be vain?

Cleo.
Why do you urge my Fathers fatal Power,
To curse you with a sad unlucky Bride?
Cast round your Eyes on our gay Eastern Courts,
Where smiling Beauties, born to better Fates,
Give joy to the Beholders.
There bless some happy Princess with your Vows,
And leave the poor Cleone to her Sorrows.

Artab.
What Queens are those, of most celestial Form,
Whose Charms can drive thy Image from my Heart?
Oh were they cast in Natures fairest Mold,
Brighter than Cynthia's shining train of Stars,
Kind as the softest she that ever claspt
Her Lover, when the Bridal Night was past;
I swear I would prefer thee, O Cleone
With all thy Scorn and cold Indifference,
Would choose to languish and to dye for thee,
Much rather than be blest, and live for them.

Cleo.
Oh Prince, it is too much; nor am I worthy
The Honour of your Passion, since 'tis fixt
By certain and unalterable Fate,
That I can never yield you a Return:
My Thoughts are all to chaste Diana vow'd,
And I have sworn to die her Virgin Votary.

Artab.
Impossible! thou canst not give away
Mine and thy Fathers Right, even to the Gods;
Diana will disown the unjust Donation,
Nor favour such an Injury to Love.
To every Power divine I will appeal,
Nor shall thy Beauty bribe 'em to be partial:
Their Altars now expect us; Come, fair Saint,
And if thou wilt abide their righteous Doom,
Their Justice must decree my Happiness,
Reward my Sufferings, and my Flame approve,
For they themselves have felt the Pow'r of Love.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Temple of the Sun.
Enter Artaxerxes, Amestris, and Attendants.
Art.
'Tis done! 'Tis done! oh let me find some way
To tell the mighty Joy that fills my Breast,
Lest I grow mad with height of furious Bliss.
The holy Priest has ty'd the sacred Knot,
And my Amestris now is all my own.
Oh thou soft Charmer! thou excelling Sweetness!
Why art thou not transported all like me:
I swear thou dost not love thy Artaxerxes,
If thou art calm in this Excess of Happiness.

Amest.
Alas! my Lord! my panting Heart yet trembles
In vast Suspence between unruly Joys
And chilling fears; somewhat methinks there is
That checks my soul, and says I was too bold
To quit the pleasures of my Virgin state,
To barter 'em for cares and anxious love.

Artax.
These are the fears which wait on every Bride,
And only serves for preludes to her joys;
Short sighs, and all those motions of thy heart,
Are Nature's call, and kindle warm desires;
Soon as the friendly Goddess of the night,
Shall draw her vail of darkness o're thy blushes,
These little cold unnecessary doubts,
Shall fly the circle of my folding arms:
And when I press thee trembling to my bosom,
Thou shalt confess (if there be room for words,
Or ev'n for thoughts) that all those thoughts are bliss.

Amest.
Yet surely mine are more than common fears;
For oh! my Prince, when my foreboding heart
Surveys the uncertain state of humane joys,
How secretly the malice of our fate
Unseen pursues, and often blasts our happiness
In full security; I justly dread,
Lest death or parting, or some unseen accident,
Much worse, if possible, then each of these,
Should curse us more than ever we were blest.

Artax.
Doubt not the Gods, my Fair! whose righteous power
Shall favour and protect our vertuous Loves.
If still thou apprehendst approaching danger,
Let us make haste, and snatch th'uncertain joy,
While fate is in our power.
Now let us start, and give a loose to Love,
Feast ev'ry sence with most luxurious pleasure,
Improve our minutes, make 'em more than years,
Than ages, and ev'n live the life of Gods:
If after this, death or ill fortune comes,
It cannot injure us, since we already
Have liv'd, and been before-hand with our fate.

Amest.
Oh let me ease at once my tender heart,
And tell my dearest Lord my worst of fears:
There is an ill which more than death I dread;
Should you, by time and long fruition sated,
Grow faithless, and forget the lost Amestris;
Forget that everlasting truth you vow'd,
Tho sure I should not publickly complain
Nor to the Gods accuse my perjur'd Prince,
Yet my soft soul would sink beneath the weight.
I should grow mad, and curse my very being,
And wish I ne'er had been, or not been lov'd.

Artax.
Dost thou?—when every happier Star shines for us,
And with propitious Influence gilds our fortune,
Dost thou invent fantastick forms of danger,
And fright thy soul with things that are impossible?
Now by the Potent God of Love, I swear
I will have ample vengeance for thy doubts.
My soft complaining Fair, shalt thou not pay me
In Joys too fierce for thought, for these suspicions.
The bands which hold our Love are knit by fate,
Nor shall decaying time or nature loose 'em.
Beyond the limits of the silent Grave,
Love shall survive, immortal as our beings,
And when at once we climb yon azure Skies,
We will be shown to all the blest above,
For the most constant pair that e're deserv'd
To mingle with their Stars.

Amest.
'Tis true! 'tis true!
Nor ought I to suspect thee, O my Hero!
The Gods have form'd thee for the nearest pattern
Of their own excellence and perfect truth.
Oh let me sink upon thy gentle bosome,
And blushing tell how greatly I am blest.
Forgive me Modesty, if here I vow
That all the pleasures of my Virgin state
Were poor and trifling to the present rapture.
A gentle warmth invades my glowing breast,
And while I fondly gaze upon thy face,
Ev'n thought is lost in exquisite delight.

Artax.
Oh thou delicious perfect Angel Woman!
Thou art too much for mortal sence to bear:
The Vernal bloom and fragrancy of Spices
Wasted by gentle winds, are not like thee.
From thee, as from the Cyprian Queen of Love,
Ambrosial odours flow, my every faculty
Is charm'd by thee, and drinks Immortal pleasure.
Oh glorious God of day fly swiftly forward,
And to thy Sisters rule resign the world:
Nor haste to rise again, but let the night
Long bless me with her stay; that thy return
At morn may find me happiest of my kind.
Enter Memnon.
My Father! is there an Increase of Joy?
What can ye give, ye Gods, to make it more?

Mem.
Ye Blessings of my Age: Whom when I view,
The Memory of former Woes is lost.
Oh Prince! Well has this glorious Day repay'd
My Youth and Blood spent in Arsaces Service.
Nor had the Gods indulg'd my vainest Wishes,
Durst I have askt for such a Son as you are.
But I am roughly bred, in Words unknowing,
Nor can I phrase my Speech in a apt Expression,
To tell how much I love and honour you.
Might I but live to fight one Battel for you,
Tho' with my Life I bought the Victory,
Tho' my old batter'd Trunk were hew'd to pieces,
And scatter'd o're the Field, yet should I bless
My Fate, and think my Years wound up with Honour.

Art.
Doubt not, my noble Father but even yet
A large remain of Glory is behind.
When civil Discord shall be reconcil'd,
And all the Noise of Faction husht to Peace,
Rough Greece, alike in Arts and Arms severe,
No more shall brand the Persian Name with softness.
Athens and Sparta wondring shall behold us,
Strict in our Discipline, undaunted, patient
Of Wars stern toil, and dread our hostile Vertue.
Those stubborn Commonwealths, that proudly dare
Disdain the glorions Monarchs of the East;
Shall pay their Homage to the Throne of Cyrus.
And when with Lawrels cover'd we return,
My Love shall meet, and smiling bless our Triumph,
While at her Feeet I lay the Scepters of the World.

Mem.
Oh glorious Theme! By Heaven it fires my Age,
And kindles Youth again in my cold Veins.

Art.
Ha! Mirza and the Queen! retire my fair,
Ungentle Hate and brawling Rage shall not
Disturb the Peace, to which this happy Day
Is doubly sacred. Forward, to the Altar.

[Exeunt Axtaxerxes, Amestris, Memnon, and Attendants.
Enter at the other Door, Queen, Mirza, and Attendants.
Mirz.
All are dispos'd, and Fate but waits our Orders
For a deciding Blow.

Qu.
Your Caution was
Both wise and faithful, not to trust my Son
Too rashly with a Secret of this Nature.
The Youth, tho' great of Soul, and fond of Glory,
Yet leans to the fantastick Rules of Honour,
Would hesitate at such an Act as this,
Tho' future Empire should depend upon it.

Mirz.
When time shall add Experience to that Knowledge
With which his early Youth is richly fraught,
He'll be convinc'd that only Fools would lose
A Crown for notionary Principles.
Honour is the unthinking Souldier's Boast,
Whose dull Head cannot reach those finer Arts,
By which Mankind is govern'd.

Qu.
And yet it gives a Lustre to the Great,
And makes the Croud adore 'em.

Mirz.
Your Son shall reap
The whole Advantage, while we bear the Guilt:
You, Madam, when the sacred Hymns are finisht,
Must with the Prince retire; our Foes when seiz'd,
Within the Temple may be best secur'd,
Till you dispose their Fate.

Qu.
The Rites attend us,
[Solemn Musick is heard.
This Day my Son is Monarch of the East.

Mirz.
Lend us, ye Gods, your Temples but this Day,
You shall be paid with Ages of Devotion,
And after this for ever undisturb'd,
Brood o're your smoaking Altars.

[Exeunt Queen, Mirza, and Attendants.

SCENE II.

The Scene opening shews the Alter of the Sun, Magas and several other Priests attending. Solemn Musick is heard; then Enter on one side Memnon, Artaxerxes, Amestris, and Attendants, on the other side the Queen, Mirza, Artaban, Cleone, Cleanthes, and Attendants; they all bow towards the Altar, and then range themselves on each side of the Stage, while the following Hymn is perform'd in Parts, and Chorus by the Priests.
HYMN to the Sun, by W. Shippen, Esq;
Chorus, &c.
Chorus, &c.
Choras, &c.

When the Musick is ended Memnon, Artaxerxes, &c. Queen, Artaban, &c. go off as they enter'd, severally: only Mirza comes forward, and the Scene shuts; he looks after Amestris going out, and then speaks.
Mirz.
What means this foreign warmth within my Breast?
Is this a time for any thought but Vengeance?
That fatal Beauty dazles my weak Sense,
And blasts the Resolution of my Soul:
My Eyes in contradiction to my Purpose,
Still bent to her, and drunk the Poyson in;
While I stood stupid in Suspence of Thought.
And now like Oyl my flaming Spirits blaze;
My Arteries, my Heart, my Brain is scorch't,
And I am all one Fury. Feeble Mirza!
Can'st thou give way to dotage, and become
The jest of Fools? No! 'tis Impossible:
Revenge shall rouse, and with her Iron Whips
Lash forth this lazy Ague from my Blood,
This Malady of Girls. Remember Statesman,
Thy Fate and future Fortunes now are forming,
And summon all thy Counsels to their Aid,
Ev'n thy whole Soul. It wo'not be; Amestris
Still rises uppermost in all my Thoughts,
The Master-piece of Nature. The Boy God
Laughs at my Rage, and triumph o're my Folly.
Ha! by the Gods 'tis doing! Now my Stars
[A tumultuous Noise is heard.
Be kind and make me Master of my wish at once.
Enter Magas.
But see the Priest! Why dost thou state and tremble,
Have we succeeded, say; and ease my Fears.

Mag.
My Soul is pierc'd with Horror! Every God
Seems from his Shrine to threaten us with Vengeance.
The Temple reels and all its pond'rous Roof
Nods at the Prophanation.

Mirz.
Base and fearful!
How can thy wretched Soul conceive such Monsters?
Can'st thou who would'st be great be Superstitious?
But 'tis the Cowards Vice. Say; are our Enemies secur'd?

Mag.
They are; the Prince, Old Memnon and his Daughter
Are in Orchances Hands, only Tigranes
With some of lesser Note are fled.

Mirz.
No matter:
These are the Soul, the rest a lifeless Mass
Not worth our Apprehension.

Mag.
Will you stay,
Too meet the furious Thunder of their Rage?

Mirz.
I will; thou may'st retire and summon back.
Thy scatter'd Spirits; Let not the Crowd see
Thy Fears, 'twill make the Vile and Cheap among 'em

[Exit Mag.
Enter Artaxerxes, Memnon and Amestris Prisoners, Orchances and Guards.
Art.
Slave! Villain! Answer, say how hast thou dar'd
To do this Insolence?—

Orch.
I know my Orders
Which from the Queen my Mistress I receiv'd,
Who will avow her own Authority.

Art.
Ha! from the Queen! She durst not! 'tis impossible!
'Tis Sacriledge! 'tis Treason! 'tis Damnation.
Am I not Artaxerxes? Born to Empire,
The next Degree to God's. Oh thou bright Sun!
That roul'st above the Object of our Worship.
Can'st thou behold and not avenge thy Race?
Thy injur'd Race? if I could ought admit
Unworthy of thy great Original.
Let me be doom'd to fall this Villain's Slave,
If not!—Why am I made the Scorn of Wretches?
So much below me that they hardly share
The Common Priviledge of Kind; but are
As Beasts to Men—

Mem.
See where the Master Villain stands! unmov'd
And harden'd in Impiety, he laughs
At the fictitious Justice of the God's,
And thinks their Thunder has not Wings to reach him;
But know the Joy thy Triumph brings is short,
My Fate (if the God's govern) or at least
My Mind's beyond thy reach, and scorns thy Malice.

Mirz.
Dull valiant Fool thy Ruin is the least
The most ignoble Triumph of my Wit.
Cleander's Blood asks for substantial Vengeance,
And when the Thought that Labours in my Breast
Appears in Action, thou shalt know the Cause
Why I remain to view thy hated Face,
That blasts me with its Presence; thou shalt know it
And curse thy self, curse the ill omen'd Day
That gave the Birth, renouncing all the God's,
Thy self of them renounc'd, shalt sink to Hell
In bitterest Pangs and mingle with the Furies.

Mem.
Unhallow'd Dog, thou ly'st! The utmost Force
Of all thy study'd Malice cannot move me
And if the God's in Tryal of my Virtue
Can yeild my Life up to thy Hangman's Mercy;
I'll shew thee with what ease the Brave and Honest
Can put off Life till thou shalt damn thy Arts,
Thy wretched Arts, and Impotence of Malice.

Mirz.
Rest well assur'd, thou shalt have Cause to try
The Philosophick Force of passive Vertue.

Art.
Oh death to Greatness! Can we fall so low
To be the slavish Objects of his Mirth?
Shall my just Rage and violated Honour
Play the Buffoon and Minister to laughter?
Down, down my swelling Heart, hide thy Resentments,
Nor prostitute the ruffled Majesty
Of injur'd Princes to the gazing Crowd,
My Face shall learn to cover the Emotion
My wounded Soul endures. Ha! my Amestris?
My Love! my Royal Bride! the spoiler Grief
Defaces every Feature, like the Deluge
That rais'd the Beauties of the first Creation;
I cannot bear it Villains give me way!
[He breaks from the Guard that hold him and catches hold of Amestris.
Oh let me hold thee in my throbbing Bosom,
And strive to hide thy Sorrows from my sight,
I cannot see thy Griefs; and yet I want
The Power to bring Relief.

Ames.
Ah! No my Prince!
There are no Remedies for Ills like ours;
My helpless Sex by nature stands expos'd
To all the Wrongs and Injuries of Fortune,
Defenceless in my self, you were my Refuge,
You are my Lord to whom should I complain,
Since you cannot redress me: were you not
The Honour, Joy, and Safety of Amestris?
For you alone I liv'd, with you alone
I could be happy, oh my Artaxerxes!
One influence guides our consenting Stars,
And still together are we blest or curst.

Mirz.
With a malignant Joy my Ears drink in,
Hear each Harmonious accent every glance,
Goes to my Heart and stirs, alternate Motions
Of Heat and Cold, a lazy Pleasure now
Thrills all my Veins, anon Desire grows Hot,
And my old Sinews shrink before the Flame.

Artax.
Go on! And charm me with thy Angels Voice,
Sooth and asswage the Fury in my Breast,
That urges me to unbecoming Passion,
My Rage grows cool amidst thy soft Complainings,
And though thou talk'st of Woes of Death and Ruin,
'Tis Heaven to hear thee.

Ames.
Since this is all our wretched Consolation,
Let us indulge our Grief, till by long use,
It grows Habitual, and we lose the Pain.
Here, on the marble Pavement will we sit,
Thy Head upon my Breast; and if remembrance
Of cruel Wrongs, shall vex thy noble Heart,
The Murmer of my Sighs shall charm the Tumult,
And Fate shall find us Calm; nor will the Gods,
Who here inhabit and behold our Sufferings,
Delay to end our Woes in Immorrality.

Artax.
Ha! say'st thou? God's! Yes certain there are God's,
To whom my Youth with Reverence still has bow'd,
Whose Care and Providence are Virtues Guard,
Think then my fair they have not made us great,
And like themselves for miserable ends.

Mirz.
God's might behold her and forget their Wisdom,
[Aside.
But I delay too long! Orchanes lend thy Ear.

[Mirz. whispers Orch. and Ex.
Mem.
My Children! you were still my Joy and Happiness.
Why am I made your Curse? this hated Head
To death devoted, has involv'd your Innocence
In my Destruction.

[Guards lay hold on Artax. and Amestris.
Ames.
Alas, my Father!—

Artax.
Barbarous Dogs! What mean you?

Orch.
Convey the Lady to Lord Mirza's Palace,
'Tis the Queen's Will she shall be there confin'd.

Artax.
Thou can'st not mean so damn'd Villany!
Thou dar'st not! shal't not part us! Fate cannot do it!

Mem.
Cursed Old Age, why have I liv'd to see this?

Orch.
Force 'em asunder.

Art.
Hew off my Limbs ye Dogs! I will not lose 'em—
Oh Devils! Death and Furies! my Wife! my lov'd Amestris—

Ames.
My Lord! my Husband!—

Orchances and one Party of the Guards force Artaxerxes and Memnon off one way, and the other Party bears Amestris another.
Re-enter Mirza.
Mirz.
This was most noble Mischief! it stung home,
'Twas Luxury of Vengeance—'twas not ill
To keep aloof; these boisterous Beasts have Paws,
And might have scratcht: The Wise should not allow
A possibility to Fortunes Malice.
Now to the rest; this Prince! this Husband! dies:
To Morrows dawn brings his and Memnon's Fate.
This Night let 'em despair, and Bann, and Rage,
And to the wooden Deities within,
Tell frantick Tales; my Hours shall pass more pleasingly;
If Love, (which yet I know not,) can give Pleasure,
Love! What is Love? the Passion of a Boy,
That spends his time in Laziness and Sonnets:
Lust is the Appetite of Man; and shall
Be sated, till it loath the cloying Banquet.
The Wise are by human frailty,
To tast these Pleasures, but not dwell upon 'em;
They marr and dull the faculty of thinking;
One Night I safely may indulge in Riot,
'Tis Politick Lewdness, and assists my Vengeance;
I will grow young, and surfeit on her Charms,
Her luscious Sweets; then rising from her Arms,
The nauseous, momentary Joy forget,
And be my self again; again be Wise and Great.

[Exit Mirz.