University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

HEROD, PHERORAS.
Pheroras.
The silent night hath pass'd her sable noon;
In mercy to your realm, regard your health,
Compose your self to sleep.

Her.
Bid the wretch sleep,
Whose limbs extended on the rack, endure
The utmost stretch of pain: I suffer more!
More, my Pheroras, more! The balm of sleep
Can ne'er refresh these eyes, 'till the pale hand
Of death shall draw their curtains, and exclude
The busy buzzing swarm of stinging thoughts.
My bed, the scene of all my blissful hours,
Of all my tender, chaste, endearing joys,
Which now have wing'd their everlasting flight,
Is grown the den of horror and despair.
O Mariamne!—With my setting sun,
Ill fortune now projects a deeper shade:
I wish I were as I had never been;
Number'd among the dead!

Phe.
Sir, let her crime
Erase the faithful characters, which love
Imprinted on your heart.

Her.
Alas! the pain
We feel, whene'er we dispossess the soul
Of that tormenting tyrant, far exceeds
The rigor of his rule.

Phe.
With reason quell
That haughty passion; treat it as your slave:
Resume the monarch!

Her.
Where's the monarch now?—
The vulgar call us gods, and fondly think
That Kings are cast in more than mortal molds:
Alas! they little know that when the mind
Is cloy'd with pomp, our taste is pall'd to joy;
But grows more sensible of grief or pain.
The stupid peasant with as quick a sense,
Enjoys the fragrance of a rose, as I;
And his rough hand is proof against the thorn,
Which rankling in my tender skin, wou'd seem
A viper's tooth. O blissful poverty!
Nature, too partial! to thy lot assigns
Health, freedom, innocence, and dowy peace,
Her real goods: and only mocks the great
With empty pageantries! Had I been born
A cottager, my homely bowl had flow'd
Secure from pois'nous drugs; but now my wife!—
Let me, good heav'n! forget that guilty name,
Or madness will ensue—