University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Street near the Pallace.
Enter Martian alone.
Mar.
'Twas not well done, to fly from my Preservers;
What tho' my Love; and good Cleander's Care;
Dragg'd me away from out the lucky Fight
That set me free, I should have lost occasion,
And dy'd with such brave Friends;
Well, I will back,
At least to know 'em; if I can't assist them.

Enter Cleander.
[Is going.]
Clean.
O which way, Sir—O whither are you going?

Mar.
No more—I will not thus desert my Friends;
Such noble Friends, that snatcht me from Destruction
In Rome, almost within the Tyrants hearing.

Clean.
Had I, Sir, known what since I have beheld,
I had not forc'd you from the doubtful Combate,
To pain your Soul with Tortures worse than Death.

Mar.
What dost thou mean? thy Words, and frightful Looks
Import some strange Event; is Portia dead?
Has she outgon me in the Race of Love?
O wretched Martian, mean inglorious Martian;
To fly from Death, while Portia sought it out!

Clean.
O Sir, she lives! is too well pleased with Life.

Mar.
Ha!

Clean.
This Minute, Sir, I saw her pass the Court;
Joy in her Face, and Pleasure in her Eyes,
To her black Nuptials with the Emperor.

Mar.
What, Portia!

Clean.
Portia.

Mar.
My Portia?

Clean.
Your Portia, Sir.

Mar.
The softest Dear protesting vowing Maid,
That ever sooth'd a Doating Lover's Passion;
Can she be false?

Clean.
Ev'n she is false;
She h's caught the curst Cantagion from her Brother;
And in the very Moment of your Death,
With Smiles and fond Caresses, weds your Butcher.

Mar.
Impossible and false!

Clean.
I'd not abuse her,
Nor you; I saw it; with these Eyes I saw it.

Mar.
Thy Eyes deceiv'd thee then; for thou saw'st her
Dragg'd to the impious Bridals, all in Tears;
In struggling Agonies, in the Pangs of Death:
If she would live, ev'n to endure so much;
If thou saw'st Portia, 'twas thus that thou did'st see her:
Do I not know her strong Immortal Virtue?
Did she not swear that she would not outlive me?
And yet within an Hour wed my Murderer?
No more, lest thou provoke my lasting Hate.

Clean.
I've done, Sir.

Mar.
But art thou sure thou saw'st her?

Clean.
I dare not, Sir, repeat it; for I fear,
More than my Death you hate.

Mar.
Tell me, I say,
Art sure that it was her that thou didst see?

Clean.
The Hall's now full of most amaz'd Beholders,
And in the Throng, disguis'd, you may see all;
If I have urg'd a falshood, ever hate me.

Mar.
If this be so—O Friendship, Love, farewel!
If this be so—where is the Wretch like me?
If this be so—but I'll not wrong her Virtue,
Nor Credit ought, but my own Eyes against her.

[Exeunt