University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Nights Scene of the Temple of the Sun.
Enter Artaxerxes and Memnon.
Artax.
Still 'tis in vain! This idle Rage is vain!
And yet, my swelling Passions will have way;
And rend my labouring Breast till they find vent.
Was it for this, ye cruel Gods, you made me
Great like your selves, and as a King, to be
Your Sacred Image? Was it but for this?
To be Cut down, and mangled by vile Hands,
Like the false Object of mistaken Worship!
Why rather was I not a presant Slave?
Bred from my Birth a Drudge to your Creation,
And to my destin'd Load inur'd betimes?

Mem.
The Malice of our Fate were not Compleat,
Had we not been by just Degrees, to Happiness
Rais'd, only to be plung'd the deeper down
In an Abyss of Woes. Early Success
Met and Attended all my youthful Wars;
And when I rush't amidst the dreadful Battle,
The weaker Genij of our Asian Monarchs,
Shrunk from the Force of a Superior Fate;
O're march'd they fell, and by my Sword were swept
Like common Beings from the glorious Field.
Then was the Day of joyous Triumph, then
My Soul was lifted high, ev'n to the Stars.
But now! What am I now? O damn'd Reverse of Fortune!
Now when my Age would be indulg'd in Ease,
And Joy in Pleasure of my former Fame,
Now I am curs'd; held at a Villain's Mercy,
My Foe's Derision and the Scorn of Cowards.

Artax.
Oh! Torture of my Soul! damn'd racking Thought
Am not I too reserv'd for servile Vassalage?
To be the Subject of a Boys Command?
A Boy by Nature set beneath my Sway?
And born to be my Slave! shall he triumph?
And bid me Live or Die? Shall he dispose
His beardless Visage to a scornful Smile,
And tell me that his Pleasure is my Fate?
No! my disdainful Soul shall struggle out
And start at once from its dishonour'd Mansion.

Mem.
Oh! Royal Thought! Nor shall they keep Death
Altho' it's common Means be not in reach.
Shall my Old Soldiers outside rough and hardy,
Scarr'd o're with many an honourable Mark
Be cag'd for publick Scorn? Shall a Dog tell me
Thus didst thou once, and now thou art my Slave;
My Foot shall spurn thee, tread upon thy Neck,
And trample in the Dust thy Silver Hairs?
Shall I not rather choak? Hold in my Breath?
Or smear some Wall or Pillar with my Brains?

Artax.
Rage or some God shall save us from Dishonour
But oh! my Father! Can we take our flight,
Tho' to the Stars and leave my Love behind?
Where is she now? where is my Queen! my Bride!
My Charmer! my Amestris!

Mem.
Speak not of her.

Artax.
Not speak.—

Mem.
Nor think of her if possible.

Artax.
Was she not snatch'd, torn from my helpless Arms,
Whilst every God look'd on and saw the Wrong,
Heard her Loud Cries, which vainly strove to rouse
Their slow unready Vengeance? Was she not
Forc'd from my panting Bosom (yet I live!)
Ev'n on our Bridal Day? Then, when our Flames
Were kindly joyn'd, and made but one desire;
Then, when she sigh'd and gaz'd, and blush'd and sigh'd;
When every touch, when every Joy grew fiercer,
And those that were behind were more than Mortal.
To lose her then! Oh!—
And yet you bid me think of her no more?

Mem.
I do; for the bare mention turns my Brain,
And ev'n now I border upon Madness;
So dreadful is the very Apprehension
Of what may be.

Artax.
Can we make thought go back?
Will it not turn again? Cleave to our Breasts?
And urge remembrance till it sting us home?
Ha! Now the Ghastly Scene is set before me;
And as thou said'st it runs me to distraction.
Behold her Beauties, form'd for Kings to serve,
Held Vile, and treated like an abject Slave!
Helpless amidst her Cruel Foes she stands,
Insulting Artemisa mocks her Tears,
And bids her call the God's and me in vain.

Mem.
Would that were all.

Artax.
Ha! whither would'st thou drive me?

Mem.
Did you like me consider that Dog Mirza
Early to Hell devoted, and the Furies,
Born, Nurs'd, and bred a Villain, you would fear
The worst Effects his Malice could express
On Virtue which he hates, when in his Power.

Artax.
What is the worst?

Mem.
What my old faltring Tongue
Trembles to utter; Goatish Lust and Rape.

Artax.
Ha! Rape! If there are Gods, it is impossible.

Mem.
Oh! dreadful Image for a Father's thought,
To have his only Child, her Sex's boast,
The Joy of Sight and Comfort of his Age,
Dragg'd by a Villain Slave his ruthless Hand
Wound in her Hair, to some remote dark Cell,
A Scene for Horrour fit, there to be blotted
By his foul Lust, 'till Appetite be gorg'd.
Let me grow Savage first, let this old Hand
That oft has blest her, in her Blood be drench'd,
Let me behold her dead, dead at my foot,
To spare a Father's greater Shame and Sorrow.

Artax.
A Father! What's a Father's Plague to mine?
A Husband, and a Lover! If it can be,
If there is such a hoarded Curse in store,
Transfix me now ye Gods, now let your Thunder
Fall on my Head, and strike me to the Centre,
Least if I should survive my ruin'd Honour
And injur'd Love; I should ev'n Curse your Godheads,
Run Banning and Blaspheming thro' the World,
And with my Execrations fright your Worshippers
From kneeling at your Altars.

Enter Cleone with a dark Lanthorn and Key.
Cleo.
This way the Ecchoing Accents seem to come,
Sure it is the wretched Prince! Oh can you hear him
And yet refuse to lend your Aid, ye Gods?

Artax.
This Gloom of horrid Night suits well my Soul,
Love, Sorrow, Conscious Worth, and Indignation,
Stir mad Confusion in my lab'ring Breast,
And I am all o're Chaos.

Cleo.
Is this, alas!
The State of Artaxerxes, Persia's Heir?
Not one Poor Lamp to chear the dismal shade
Of this huge Holy Dungeon; Slaves, Murderers,
Villains that Crosses wait for, are not us'd thus;
I'll shew my self.

[She turns the Light, and comes towards Art. & Mem.
Mem.
Ha! whence this Gleam of Light?

Artax.
Fate is at Hand, let's hast to bid it welcome,
It brings an end of Wretchedness.

Cleo.
Speak lower.
I am a Friend; long live Prince Artaxerxes.

Art.
What Wretch art thou, that hail'st me with a Curse?
Come from that Cloud that muffles up thy Face,
And if thou hast a Dagger, shew it boldly.
We wish to die.

Cleo.
Think better of my Errand,
I bring you Blessings, Liberty and Life,
And come the Minister of happier Fate;
[Turns the Light on her self.
Now down my Blood! down to my trembling Heart,
Nor sparkle in my Visage to betray me.

[Aside.
Artax.
Ha! as I live a Boy! a blushing Boy!
Thou wer't not form'd sure for a Murderer's Office,
Speak then, and tell me what and whence thou art.

Cleo.
Oh! seek not to unvail a trivial Secret,
Which known imports you not. I am a Youth
Abandon'd to Misfortunes from my Birth,
And never knew one Cause to joy in Life,
But this that puts it in my Pow'r to save
A Prince like Artaxerxes. Ask no more,
But follow thro' the Mazes that I tread,
Until you find your safety.

Artax.
Thus forbidding
Thou giv'st me cause t'Enquire; are then the Guards,
That when the Day went down, with strictest Watch
Observ'd the Temple Gates, remov'd or fled?

Cleo.
They are not but with Numbers reinforc'd
Keep every Passage; only one Remains
Thro' Mirza's Palace, open to your Flight.

Mem.
Ha! Mirza! there's Damnation in his Name,
Ruin, Deceit, and Treachery attend it;
Can Life, can Liberty or safety come
From him? or ought that has an Int'rest in him?
Rather, suspect this feigning Boy his Instrument,
To plunge us deeper yet, if possible
In Misery; perhaps some happy accident
As yet to us unknown preserves us from
The utmost Malice of his Hate, while here.
This sets his wicked Wit at work to draw us
Forth from this Holy Place, much better be
The Pris'ners of the God's, than wear his Fetters.

Cleo.
Unfortunate Suspicion! What shall I say
To urge 'em to be safe and yet preserve
My wretched self uuknown?

Artax.
Surely that Face,
Was not design'd to hide dissembled Malice,
Say Youth, art thou of Mirza's House; (as sure thou must,
If thou pretend'st to lead us that way forth;)
And can'st thou be a Friend of Artaxerxes?
Whom that fell Dog, that Minister of Devils,
With most opprobrious Injuries has loaded.

Cleo.
Tho' I am his, yet sure I never shar'd
His Hate; shall I confess and own my Shame
Oh Heavens!—

[Aside.
Mem.
Mark th'unready Traytor stammers;
Half-bred and of the Mungrel Strain of Mischief,
He has not Art enough to hide the Cheat,
His deep designing Lord had better plotted.
Away! thinks he so poorly of our Wit,
To gull us with a Novice? If our Fate
Has giv'n us up, and mark'd us for Destruction,
Tell him, we are resolv'd to meet it here.

Cleo.
Yet hear me Prince, since you suspect me sent
By Mirza, to ensnare you, know I serve,
Oh Gods! to what am I reduc'd! (Aside)
—his Daughter;
Some God compassionate of your Woes has stirr'd
A Woman's Pity, in her softer Breast:
And 'tis for her I come to give you Liberty.
I beg you to believe me.

[She weeps.
Artax.
See, he weeps!

Mem.
The waiting Tears stood ready for Command,
And now they flow to varnish the false Tale.

Artax.
His Daughter, say'st thou? I have seen the Maid,
Dost thou serve her? And could she send thee to me?
'Tis an unlikely Riddle.

Mem.
Perhaps 'tis meant,
That she who shares his poisonous Blood, shall share
The Pleasure of his Vengeance, and inure
The Woman's Hands and Eyes to Death and Mischief.
But thou her Instrument, be gone and say,
The Fate of Princes is not Sport for Girls.

Cleo.
Some envious Power blasts my pious Purpose,
And nought but Death remains; O that by that
I might perswade him to believe and trust me;
And fly that Fate which with the Morning waits him.
[Aside.
I grieve, my Lord, to find your hard Suspicion,
Debars me from preserving your dear Life
(Which not your own, Amestris wishes more)
To Morrow's dawn (oh! let me yet prevail!)
The Cruel Queen resolves shall be your last.
Oh fly! Let me Conjure you, save your self.
May that most awful God that here is worshipp'd
Deprive me of his chearful Beams for ever,
Make me the wretched'st thing he sees while living,
And after Death the lowest of the Damn'd,
If I have any thought but for your safety.

Artax.
No I have found the Malice of my Mistress,
Since I refus'd her Love when she was proffer'd
By her Ambitious Father for my Bride,
And on a worthier Choice bestow'd my Heart,
She vows Revenge on me for slighted Beauty.

Cleo.
My Lord, you do her most unmanly wrong,
She owns the Merit of the fair Amestris,
Nor ever durst imagine she deserv'd you.
Oh spare that Thought, nor blot her Virgin's Fame.
In silence still she wonder'd at your Vertues,
Blest you, nor at her own Ill Fate repin'd;
This wounds her most, that you suspect unkindly
Th'Officious Piety that would have sav'd you.
Careless of an offended Father's Rage;
For you alone concern'd she charg'd me, guide you
When Midnight Sleep had clos'd observing Eyes,
Safe thro' her Father's with this Key—
And if I met with any that durst bar
Your Passage forth, she bid me greet him thus—
[Stabs her self, Artax. catching her as she falls.
What hast thou done rash Boy?

Cleo.
Giv'n you the last,
And only Proof remain'd that could convince you,
I held your Life much dearer than my own.

Mem.
Horrid Amazement chills my very Veins!

Cleo.
Let me conjure you with my latest Breath,
Make hast to seize the means that may preserve you,
This Key amidst the Tumult of this Night
[Giving the Key.
Will open you a way thro' Mirza's Palace,
May every God assist and guard your Flight;
And oh when all your Hopes of Love and Glory
Are Crown'd with just Success; will you be good,
And think with Pity on the lost Cleone.

Artax.
Ten thousand dismal Fancies crowd my Thoughts,
Oh! is it possible thou can'st be she,
Thou most unhappy fair one?

Cleo.
Spare my Shame,
Nor call the Blood, that flows to give me Peace,
Back to my dying Cheeks. Can you forget
Who was my Father? And remember only
How much I wish'd I had deserv'd your Friendship?
Nay, let my Tongue grow bold, and say, your Love,
But 'twas not in my Fate.

Artax.
What shall I say,
To witness how my grateful Heart is touch'd?
But oh why would'st thou give this fatal Instance?
Why hast thou stain'd me with thy Virgin Blood?
I swear, sweet Saint, for thee I could forgive
The Malice of thy Father, tho' he seeks
My Life and Crown; thy Goodness might atone
Ev'n for a Nation's Sins; look up and live,
And thou shalt still be near me as my Heart.

Cleo.
Oh! charming Sounds! that gently lull my Soul
To Everlasting Rest; I swear 'tis more
More Joy to die thus blest than to have liv'd
A Monarch's Bride; may every Blessing wait you
In War and Peace, still may you be the greatest,
The Favourite of the God's, and Joy of Men—
I faint! oh let me lean upon your Arm—

[She dies.
Artax.
Hold up the Light my Father; ha! she Swoons!
The Iron Hand of Death is on her Beauties,
And see like Lillies nipp'd with Frost they languish.

Mem.
My tough old Soldier's Heart melts at the Sight,
And an unwonted Pity moves my Breast,
Ill fated Maid too good for that damn'd Race,
From which thou drew'st thy Being! Sure the Gods
Angry e're while, will be at length appeas'd
With this Egregious Victim; Let us tempt 'em
Now while they seem to smile.

Artax.
A Beam of Hope,
Strikes thro' my Soul, like the first Infant Light,
That glanc'd upon the Chaos; if we reach
The open City, Fate may be ours again;
But oh whate're Success or Happiness
Attend my Life, still fair unhappy Maid,
Still shall thy Memory be my Grief and Honour,
On one fix'd Day in each returning Year,
Cypress and Myrtle for thy Sake I'll wear,
Ev'n my Amestris thy hard Fate shall mourn,
And with fresh Roses Crown thy Virgin urn.
Till in Elysium blest thy gentle Shade
Shall own my Vows of Sorrow justly paid.

[Exeunt.