University of Virginia Library

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.