University of Virginia Library

SCENE. I.

The Palace.
Enter Artaban and Cleanthes.
Ar.
'Tis Base and Impious! Where are the Ties
Shall keep Mankind in Order? If Religion
And publick Faith be violated; 'Tis an Injury
That beards both Gods and Men; and dares their Justice.

Clea.
The fearful Crowd already take the Alarm,
Break off their Solemn Sports, their Songs and Dances,
And wildy in tumultuous Consort join;
Mischief and Danger sits in every Face,
And while they dread the Anger of the Gods,
The Wise who know th'Effects of popular Fury,
From them expect that Vengance which they fear.

Artab.
The sacred Power of Majesty, which should
Forbid, owns and protects the Violence;
It must not, shall not be; Who steals a Crown
By Arts like these, wears it unworthily.

Clean.
The Queen your Mother, Sir! she will expect
You should approve that Act her Power has done.

Artab.
I'll meet her as I ought, and show my self
Worthy the Noble Rivalship of Empire.

Enter the Queen, Mirza and Attendants.
Queen.
My Son, I come to joy you of a Crown
And Glory certain now, your Fate at length,
Has master'd that Malignant Influence
With which it struggl'd long: You are a King,
The greatest that our Eastern World beholds,
And tho' my widow'd Bed be Cause for Grief,
Yet for thy Sake, my Son, I joy to say,
Arsaces is no more.

Artab.
'Twere vain and foolish,
To mourn his Death with ceremonious Sorrow;
For tho' he died the greatest of our Race,
Yet since decaying Age had sunk him low
And all the Native Majesty was lost,
'Twas time the Soul should seek for Immortality,
And leave the weary Body to Enjoy
An Honourable Rest from Care and Sickness:
Peace to his Ashes, and Eternal Fame
Dwell with his Memory, while we who Live
Look back with Emulation on his Greatness,
And with Laborious Steps strive to ascend
That Height where once he sat.

Qu.
Thou hast already
Attain'd the lofty Summit of his Glory;
His Throne expects thee but to sit and fill it.

Artab.
No, Madam, when the Gods chuse worthy Subjects
On whom to place such Greatness, they surround
The Glorious Prize with Toil and thorny Danger,
And bid the Man who would be Great, Dare greatly.
Be it for dull Elder Brothers to Possess
Without deserving; Mine's a Nobler Claim,
Nor will I Tast the Godlike Joys of Power,
Till Men and Gods with Justice shall confess
'Tis barely the Reward of what I meant.

Qu.
What means my Son?

Artab.
To Wrestle for a Crown!

Qu.
With what fantastick Shadow wouldst thou strive?
The Haughty Rival of thy Hopes is fallen,
He lives indeed, but 'tis to Grace thy Triumph,
And Bow before thee; then be swept away
Like the Remembrance of an idle Dream,
Which tho' of Yesternight, is now forgotten.

Artab.
It grieves me much to say, my Royal Mother,
I cannot take a Crown upon these Terms
Tho' even from your Hands: The Conscious Virtue
That witnesses within my Breast for Glory,
Points me to Greatness by the Paths of Honour,
And urges me to do as a King ought,
That would not wear his Purple as the Gift
Of impious Treachery and base Deceit.

Qu.
Amazement turns my Senses! Or I Dream!
For sure thou canst not mean so poor a Folly.
Hast thou been bred in the Wise Arts of Empire?
Been early taught to know the Worth of Power?
And would'st thou loose the Golden Opportunity
With which thy Fortune Courts thee for a Notion?
An Empty sound of Virtue? A dry Maxim
Which Pedants have devis'd for Boys to Canvas?
Can my Son think so meanly? Go set free
(Since Honour bids) this Lordly Elder Brother
Bow like a Slave before him, wait his Pleasures,
And live a dependant on his scanty Pension;
He may reward thy servile Loyalty,
And make thee ruler of some petty Province
In recompence of Royalty giv'n up.

Artab.
No! (Tho' I must confess I would not hold him
Caught in a Villians Snare, nor do a Murther
Unworthy of a Hang-man) yet to death
I still defie him as my Mortal Foe,
And since my Father's Fate dissolves that Truce,
To which I stood ingag'd; 'tis War again.
Amid'st the steely Squadrons will I seek
This haughty Brother, by his Friends surrounded
And back'd with all th'Advantages of his Birth,
Then bravely prove upon him with my Sword;
He falsely brands me for a bookish Coward,
That Natures Error only gave him Preference,
Since Fate mean't me the King.

Qu.
A Mothers Care is watchful for thy safety,
Else wer't thou lost, thou honourable Fool;
Long might'st thou vainly hunt in Bloody Fields;
For that Advantage which thy willing Fortune
Now reaches to thy hands: In Battles with
Uncertain Wings the wavering Goddess flies,
And oft with partial hand bestows her Favour
On Fools and thick Scull'd Heroes; seize her now
While She is thine, or She is lost for Ever.

Artab.
No matter, Let her fly; the Eagle Virtue
Shall soar beyond her and command her flight;
Fortune is not my Mistress, but my Slave.
Posterity that reads the Name of Artaban
In the Records of Empire, shall not blush
To think I plotted with a Knavish Priest,
The Scandal of his venerable Function;
And mark of the God's Vengeance, to betray
A Prince my Enemy; as if being Conscious
Of lesser worth, and of unequal Courage;
I durst not fairly strive with him for Greatness.
Let the abhorr'd and Impious Treachery
Obscurely die, unknown to future Ages;
Or if our Shame must be deliver'd down
By all the Kingly Hopes that fires my Soul,
It shall not pass without a Brand of Punishment.

Qu.
'Tis wondrous well! Young Man you King rarely!
You mean to be renown'd for early Justice,
And mark your Ostentacious Love of Virtue,
Ev'n in their Bloods, who lift you up to Power;
Perhaps we too, our self must be Arraign'd
Before your puny Bar, and feel your Ax;
'Twill be a Noble Subject for your Praise,
And yield much Matter to declaiming Flatterers.

Artab.
You, Madam, are my Mother, Nature blinds me,
And bids me see no Faults in her that bore me;
Those other Slaves that dare—

Qu.
May be Immortal,
For ought that thou can'st do to cause their Fate.
Is not thy Power the Creature of my Favour
Which in precarious wise on me depending,
Exists by my Concurrence to its being?
Mistaken Youth! Whose giddy Brain, Ambiton
Has like the Fume of drunken Vapours turn'd;
Think'st thou that I whose Soul was form'd for Sway,
Would lay the Golden Reins of Empire down?
Or trust 'em to the guidance of a Boy?
Who shall dispose of me, or those that serve me,
According to the dictates of Old Mortals,
His bearded Tutor gleans from musty Authors.

Artab.
Nay then 'tis time I should Assert my self,
And tho' you gave me Birth; yet from the God's
(Who made my Father be as he was, Royal,
And stamp't the Mark of Greatness on my Soul;)
I Claim my Right to Empire; may I fall
Vile and forgotten if I Ever own
Any Superiour Being but those God's.

Qu.
Thou rav'st! And hast forgot me.

Artab.
No, you are
My Mother, and a Woman, form'd to Obey;
On that Condition all Sexes Priviledges
Are founded, the Creating Hand has mixt
Softness and Beauty in your Composition,
To Charm and bend the Mind of Man Impatient
Of the Ignoble Pleasure; you were made for
The Weakness and Necessities of Nature.
Ill are your feeble Souls for Greatness suited,
Desire of Government is Monstrous in you.

Qu.
Thou mighty Goddess Nature! Dost thou hear
This Rebel Son! This insolent Upbraider!
Still fondly Nurst in my indulgent Bosom!
To build whose future Greatness to the Skies,
My Anxious Soul has labour'd more than when
I felt a Mothers Sorrow for his Birth,
Ungrateful Boy!—
Know Fool! That vaunt'st thy self upon thy Manhood,
The greatest he that rougher kind e're had,
Must have confest Woman's Superiour Wit,
And own'd our Sexes just Prerogative.
Did not a Mother's Fondness plead hard for thee.
Thy Head should pay the Forfeit of thy Insolence;
For know (Young King!) that I am Fate in Persia,
And Life and Death depend upon my Pleasure.

Art.
The World would be well govern'd, should the God's
Depute their Providence to Women's Care,
And trust them with the Fate of Kings and Empires.

Qu.
Yet thou art Safe! Away! Nor tempt me farther,
The Patience ev'n of God's themselves has Limits,
Tho' they with long Forbearance view Man's Folly.
Yet if thou still persist to dare my Power,
Like them I may be urg'd to loose my Vengeance,
And tho' thou wer't my Creature, strike thee Dead.

Mirz.
'Beseech you Sir, retire; the Queen your Mother
Labour's with wisest Foresight for your Good,
And is incens'd to see you thwart that Purpose.

Artab.
What is the good of Greatness but the Power?
Madam I leave you; my own Innate Virtue
Arms me against your Rage Unjust and Impotent,
Wait but the great Success my Soul divines
And you will own your little jugling Arts
Have only serv'd to obstruct a while my Glory,
And Skreen this elder Brother from my Conquest.

[Exit Artaban and Cleanthes.
Qu.
Some Envious Pow'r above, some Hostile Demon,
Works under-hand against my stronger Genius,
And counter mines me with Domestick jars.
Malicious Chance! When all abroad was safe,
To start an unseen Danger from my self!
Mirza! Did'st not thou mark the haughty Boy?
With what assuming Pride he own'd his daring?
And claim'd superiority of Power?
Oh can I live and bear to be Controul'd?
To Share the Pleasure of Supreme Command,
With him or any one? Oh Artemisa!
Did'st thou disdain subjection to a Husband,
The Proudest Title of that Tyrant Man?
And canst thou yield t'a Boy? A Son? By Nature
And grateful Duty to Obedience bound?

Mirz.
Madam, Let me intreat you, by the God's,
To calm your just Resentments: Medling Fortune,
(Whose Malice labours to perplex the Wise,)
If not prevented, will unravel all
Those finer Arts, which we with Care have wove.
The Prince, led on by this pernicious Honour,
May set the Pris'ners free, think, if that happen,
To what a shock of Fate we stand expos'd.

Qu.
'Tis true! this foolish Honour ruine's all,
Ridiculous Notion! as if, self-Interest
Were not the first and noblest Law of Nature.
Say then wise Lord, and let thy ready Wit,
Still present to it self, avert this blow.

Mirz.
One Method tho' ungentle yet remains
To remedy the Fears this Ill produces;
This Instant let a Guard confine the Prince;
E're he can gain the Means t'Effect that Mischief
He meditates against himself, and us:
To Morrow, early as the Morning dawn's
The Prisoners all shall Die; that once dispatcht,
This raging Fit of Honour will relax,
And give him leisure to consider cooly,
Th'Advantage of his Fortune.

Qu.
You have Reason;
And tho' I fear his haughty Temper will
But badly brook Confinement, he must learn
To bear it as he can, perhaps 'twill bend him
And make his Youth more plyant to my Will.

Mirz.
Your Orders cannot be dispatch't too soon,
Each Minute of the flying Hours is Precious.

Qu.
The Eunch Bagoas! let him attend us,
He shall receive Instructions on the Instant.

[Exeunt the Queen and Mirza severally.