 | Mariamne |  |
3
SCENE II.
PHERORAS, SOHEMUS.Sohemus.
My Lord, the province you've assign'd agrees
With Narbal's talents; none is better form'd
To gild the pageant of a gawdy day:
He's nobly born, and popularly vain;
Rare tinsel-stuff t'adorn a room of state!
But in the council, where the publick care—
Pher.
In that high sphere you, Sohemus, alone
Must ever shine; and may your wisdom raise
Your master's fortune, to divide the globe
With this new Cæsar; and no longer sway
A short precarious sceptre, which must shake
With each tempestuous gust that blows from Rome.
Soh.
With blushes I must hear you call me, wise,
When one impassion'd woman can destroy
My surest plans, and with a sigh blow down
The firmest fabrick of deliberate thought.
Heav'ns! that a King consummate for a throne,
So wise in council, and so great in arms;
Shou'd after nine long years, remain a slave
Because his wife is fair! What art thou, Beauty,
Whose charm makes sense and valour grow as tame,
As a blind turtle?
Pher.
Is thy wisdom proof
Against the blandishments of warm desire?
It ill defends thee from Arsinoe's charms:
The sullen sweetness of a down-cast eye,
A feign'd unkindness, or a just reproach,
Breath'd in a sigh, and soften'd with a tear,
Wou'd make thy rigid marble melt, like snow
4
Soh.
In thoughtless youth, gay nature gives the rein
To Love, and bids him urge the full career:
But Herod should restrain his head-strong course,
Now reason is mature.
Pher.
He never can;
For Mariamne with superior charms
Triumphs o'er reason; in her look she bears
A paradise of ever-blooming sweets:
Fair as the first idea beauty prints
On the young lover's soul: a winning grace
Guides every gesture, and obsequious Love
Attends on all her steps; for, majesty
Streams from her eye to each beholder's heart,
And checks the transport which her charms inspire:
Who wou'd not live her slave!—Nor is her mind
Form'd with inferior elegance!—By her,
So absolute in every grace, we guess
What essence angels have.
Soh.
Who can admire
The brightest angel when his hand unsheaths
The vengeful sword, or with dire pestilence
Unpeoples nations? If Death sits inthron'd
In the soft dimple of a damask cheek,
He thence can aim his silent dart as sure,
As from the wrinkle of a tyrant's frown;
And that's our case! Yet with a lover's eye
You view the gay malignance, that will blast
Both you and all your friends.
Pher.
We sure may praise
The snake that glitters in her summer pride,
And yet beware the sting.
Soh.
But low in dust
Crush the crown'd basilisk, or else she kills
Whate'er her eye commands.—You need, my lord,
No clearer light than this, by which to read
The purpose of my soul.
5
Tho' 'tis obscure,
It strikes like lightning that with fear confounds
The pale night-wanderer, whilst it shews the path.
You, Sohemus, have cause to think the Queen
Charges the taking of her uncle's head
To your advice; and gladly wou'd attone
Her kindred blood with yours: revenge still glow,
Though hid in treacherous embers, and you'll feel
The dire effect, whene'er occasion breathes
A gale to waken and foment the flame.
But I, unpractis'd in th'intrigues of courts
And disciplin'd in camps, will not supply
Increase of fuel to these home-bred jars:
I hope the King will see them soon supprest;
Or care succeeding care will ever tread
The circle of his crown.
Soh.
If to persue
The safest measures to secure his throne,
Shall irritate the Queen to make me fall
A victim to her rage, the conscious pride
Of having acted what the King ordain'd,
Enter a Messenger with a Letter to Pheroras.
Will yet support me. 'Tis not worth my care,
Whether the trembling hand of age must shake
From the frail glass my last remaining sand;
Or fortune break the phial, ere the sum
Of half my life is told.
Pher.
'Tis from the King:
A most unpleasing message for the Queen.
Soh.
May I, my lord, partake?
Pher.
The infant Prince
Must live an hostage of the league at Rome:
Cæsar hath sent a minister of trust,
With guards to wait him. This perhaps the King
Hath kept conceal'd, that his return might calm
Th'afflicted Queen, and soften the surprize.
6
Names he, my lord, the General to whose care
The Prince must be consign'd?
Pher.
Rome cou'd not chuse
For that high charge a nobler delegate,
Than my Flaminius; for, a bolder hand
Ne'er flew her conquering eagles at their prey.
We in the Parthian wars together learn'd
The rudiments of arms; the summer sun
Hath seen our marches measur'd by his own:
In battle so intrepid, that he shew'd
An appetite of danger; oft I've heard
The weary veterans resting on their spears,
Swear by the gods and majesty of Rome,
They blush'd with indignation, to behold
The garland of the war, by partial fate
Transferr'd from theirs, to grace a stripling's brow—
But I with Narbal will prevail, t'impart
This most ungrateful order to the Queen.
[Exit Pher.
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