University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Agamemnon's Pavillion.
Enter Chryses the Priest, and Chalcas the Soothsayer.
Chr.
See him I will, and Must.

Chal.
See him you may, but wait a better time.

Chr.
Chalcas, What time? Whose time shall Chryses wait?
Shall I, who to th'assembled Gods can say,
Let me be heard, And straight they bend their Ears,
And at all Hours, are ready to my Prayers;
Shall I upon a Mortal's Leisure wait?
I say, I will be heard, and now.

Chal.
Forgive me, Holy Chryses, Prince of Prophets;
Thou Oracle, unerring when thy Gods
Enlighten thee to speak their dark Decrees,
But Humane born, retaining Humane frailties,
Your Reason by your Passion is misled;
To temperate Tongues, Unbyass'd by resentment
Trust your Demands; Or failing to persuade
You may provoke. For tho' the King be mild,
Enclin'd to Good, of easie Disposition,
Yet he's of hasty temper, catching Fire,
As the best Natures, are indeed most apt:
Surprize him not, nor work him unprepar'd,
He knows not your arrival yet; Let us begin
By easie steps to lead him to your wish;
And if we fail, then urge what you think fit.

Chr.
Why do we pray for Children? Call 'em Blessings,
And deem the Barren Womb, a Curse? O Marriage!
Unhappy! Most unhappy of all States!
Matching with sorrows, Teeming still with more,
The Vexed Womb, seems to bring forth to Vex,
Producing none but to Disgrace or Ruin
The rash Begetters. Had Hellen never been,
Troy were safe: Or had Chruseis been un-born
Greece had been well reveng'd—O fatal Pair!
Most Mischievous where most Belov'd: Pleasing
And yet Destroying. Not Medusa kills
With her envenom'd Glances, half so sure,
Not Hector's Sword, has cost more Argive lives,
Nor has Achilles's Spear, more Dardans slain,
Than each of these, with her devouring Eyes.

Chal.
Well am I pleas'd to find your Soul thus mov'd,
If you can pity, sure you will redress,
Where Pity rests, there Mercy too will lodge.
These heavy Vengeances that press so sore
Are owing to your Pray'rs, incensing Heaven.
O Chryses, Chryses, Look on yonder Camp,
Behold what heaps of Dead, without one wound;
Behold how like the Dead, the Living look,
So near their End, that they who wait their Friends
To the last Rites are burnt on the same Pile:
The sturdy Greeks, unsinew'd by Diseases,
That firmly went, impressing deep the Ground
On which they trod, with their large lusty strides,
Now scarcely crawl, supported on their Spears:
No Friendly Ray, to shew us to our Tents,
But a dim Red, that overcasts the Sky,
A blood-shot Beam, all dreadful to behold:
Nor march we now, by any other Light
But Funeral Fires.

Chr.
Nought canst thou urge from this
But that the Gods are just.

Chal.
The Gods are just, but they are Merciful,
Were Chryses so, these Woes would have an End.

Chr.
Th'un-injur'd at their ease, forgiveness preach
At second-hand: But all who smart alike,
Forgive alike: Vengeance is Natures debt,
And all who can, will have it strictly paid;
Forgiveness is the Cunning of Revenge,
A wise delay, for want of Pow'r to hurt,
And but Dissimulation at the best;
Had Chalcas lost a Daughter, thus had I urg'd
To him, and he had heard like me.

Chal.
Of all the Attributes, that Jove can boast,
Mercy's the most Divine; and of all Men
The Merciful are pleasing to the Gods.
Let but a Truce be granted, till we know
The King's resolve.

Chr.
No—Not a Moment's respite will I give,
By dangers I'll awake him from delights,
Whom Plagues shall spare, the Merciless sword shall cut,
And who escape the Sword, new Plagues shall reach.
None rate their Love so high, but they will part
When Life's the Price—Why do I dally here
In idle talk? Now, now perhaps, this Moment,
The Sacrilegious Ravisher's at work,
And shall I wait, till his hot fit be done?
Shew me the way, and let me rush upon him—

[Going.
Chal.
Have but an hour's patience, Reverend, Chryses,
[stops him.
Nestor is gone, and with him wise Ulysses,
Achilles too: A Council is conven'd
Where your Demands will fully be made known;
You shall have Justice.

Chr.
I will have Justice, Chalcas, and look to't,
For once I give your humour way—But know
And mark it well—Chryses must have Justice,
Or Agamemnon perish.

Chal.
Doubt it not Chryses, all will be amended.
But Oh! how much I fear
[Aside.
So much I know he loves!

Exeunt Chryses and Chalcas.
Enter Agamemnon and Chruseis.
Ag.
O my Chruseis, why these alter'd Looks?
Why weeps my Love, whose Smiles are all my Joy?
Those Eyes that wont to dance at my approach,
And sparkle on me with redoubled light
Why veil they now, in Clouds when I draw near?
That charming Voice, that with its chearful sound
So chear'd my Heart, why is its Language sad,
Why broken thus with Sighs? Thy gentle hand
Not to be felt without transporting Joy,
That when I press'd it, answer'd to my touch,
Why feels it now so cold? O tell thy griefs!
If ought there be in Agamemnon's reach
Tho' with the Price of Kingdoms to be bought,
Tho' with the Lives of Millions to be conquer'd,
Let but Chruseis speak, and think it sure.

Chru.
My dearest Lord, you wrong my tender Love,
Possessing you, what is there left to wish?
But ah! who fear to lose what they have got,
May grieve as much, as those who weep for more.

Ag.
Both to your self and me, 'tis much unjust
To fear my Change, or doubt your pow'r to fix.
Arriv'd at Heaven, there's no returning back:
Thy Image, my Chruseis, on my Heart
Lies like a Shield, where every dart that strikes
From any other Eye, bounds swiftly back,
Nor leaves a Dint behind.

Chru.
O happy Hellen!
Who when the Trumpets call, and the loud Voice
Of War, provokes the Soldier from his rest,
Holds fast her Paris, safe embrac'd he lies,
Nor call of Honour, takes him from her Arms;
But I unhappy I—

Ag.
Dismiss that Grief.
The conquering Year's arriv'd, that Troy must fall,
Nine years of fruitless pain, so Fates ordain'd
We should endure; the Tenth rewards our toil.
'Tis come, my Fair, nor shall our slumbers more
Be broke by rude Alarms; But yet a little longer
And all our task is Love: Close cleaving to thy side
No cry, To Arms, shall interrupt, again
Our balmy Joys.

Chru.
Still, still I fear.

Ag.
Vain are thy fears Chruseis; but they'r kind.
The Gods are weary of this doubtful strife,
And now will finish it: The Sun nine years
Has rose and set in slaughter, and now turns
His face from Death, and scarce will look abroad,
But Pale and Sad, winks with a feeble Light
Upon our Camp, as sick with Humane blood.

Chru.
Would that were all: But my fore-boding Mind
Says otherwise. Ill omens haunt my steps,
Unquiet thoughts disturb my Nights and Days,
I know not why: And when I meet my Lord,
Some hand unseen, still thrusts me back again,
And chides my haste: If I but lift my Eyes
On yours, some Voice unknown still whispers me,
Take heed Chruseis, those are guilty Looks:
Even in the midst of our transporting bliss,
Where all's devoted to Immortal Love,
In those dear Arms, where none can lie unblest,
The Holy Place where Grief should never enter,
Sacred to Joy, Even there my Tears pursue me,
Flowing uncall'd.

Ag.
Well have I mark'd those Tears,
And chid thy Eyes, which Rapture could not dry.
The Gods are Envious sure of our delights,
Mankind is never happy, but by halves;
For, from that hour since first I saw my Love
The publick Woes are dated: Then began
Feavours to rage, and Plagues that thin our Ranks;
The Lusty Greeks, that wont to march to Battel
With chearful Pace, now drag their sloathful feet.
And but in Flight are nimble.
Heartless our Victims are, and every Bird
Sinister flies—

Chru.
Alas! am I the Cause?

Ag.
Nor You, nor I; Else should we perish too;
In midst of Sickness, we preserve our Health,
In midst of Death we Live: The Guiltless scape.
No, my Chruseis, some kind Pow'r that saw
These Wounds would break my heart, gave thee to heal 'em;
That when returning, driven by those Foes
Whom I was us'd to drive, Embracing thus
I might forget my Griefs: That what I lose abroad
Might be repaid at home.—Should Troy escape,
Should Argos too be lost, My Kingdoms all
Laid waste, and Scepters wrested from my hand,
Whilst I can hold Chruseis, I'm a Gainer,
Within these Arms, I am a Conquerer still.
Why does my Love not meet my fierce Embrace
With wonted warmth? Why drop thy Snowy Arms
That us'd to clasp me round?—Now by the Gods she Weeps—
What Griefs are yet untold? Thy gentle Heart
Beats at thy Breast, like an imprison'd Bird,
And thy swol'n Eyes, like Clouds that paus'd a while,
Flow faster than before.

Chru.
Ah Prince!

Ag.
Out with it then, give me thy Griefs, Chruseis.

Cru.
My Father—

Ag.
What of him?

Chru.
Is in your Camp arriv'd—

Ag.
He's welcome then.
Fain would I see the Man who gave thee life,
The Parent of my Joy—By Juno and by Pallas
Those Guardians of my Arms, were Phæbus self
Arriv'd, whose Minister he is
That Glorious God, he were not half so welcom,
Nor should receive more Honours from the King.

Chru.
Alas, he seeks not Honours: All his thoughts
Are bent on Heaven, devoted to the Gods,
Thô in his Hand he bears a Golden Scepter,
Thô on his Reverend Head, a Crown he wears
The marks of his high Office, thô to Kings
Equal in Dignity, his humble Mind
Shuns Worldly Pomp—

Ag.
So humble, and a Priest, my Love! That's strange.

Chru.
He comes not here, I know it by my fears,
For Honours, nor for Wealth: for me he comes,
To take me from your Arms, and from your Bosom,
And bear me where I ne'er shall see you more.
Will Agamemnon let him?

Ag.
What Armies brings he with him in his Train,
That he should think, here, in my very Camp,
To force my Treasure from me?

Chru.
Legions of Gods attend his Pious call,
That shoot with Shafts unseen; And O, perhaps
These Deaths that have already strew'd the Plain
Are owing to his Prayers.

Ag.
—Thy Fears are needless,
What is there to offend him in our Loves?
That from a Captive, you become a Queen,
That Agamemnon, King of mightiest Kings
Is Slave to his Chruseis; That the Man
Whom Princes serve, serve thee.

Chru.
Such Honours might perhaps move other Men,
But Oh! His rigid Virtue, nice, severe,
Allows to Nature nothing.

Ag.
If Honours he contemns, we'll give him Gold,
Wealth he shall have enough to Ransom Kings,
I'll empty all my Treasures at his Feet:
Priests will take Gold: Well may they sell their Daughters,
Who sell their Gods.

Enter Talthybius.
Tal.
The Great Achilles
With Nestor, and the Prince of Ithaca,
Approach your Royal Tent.

Ag.
They sent us word, that somewhat of import
They would reveal, that does concern us much,
Our Honour and our Peace, and would restore
Health to our Soldiers, to our Arms Success.
Retire my Fair, nor vex thy gentle Mind
With needless doubts—Thô Men and Gods conspire
I'll hold thee fast—My Life, my Soul, Farewel.

He leads her to the Door.
Exit Chruseis.
Enter Achilles, Nestor, and Ulysses.
Uly.
Health to the King; nor can we wish him better
In Camps where foul Infections seize on all,
And mix without distinction, Base and Noble.

Ach.
Atrides heeds not that; Secure of Love
What tho' the Soldiers die; the Princes murmur;
What tho' Troy stand, so but Chruseis smile;
The publick Griefs are general to all
But Thee; Oh happy Agamemnon!

Ag.
The King of Myrmidons, of all Mankind
Might have spar'd that reproach; for 'tis well known,
Brave as he is, oft when the Trumpet sounds,
He'l loyter—
For a parting Kiss from his Briseis.

Nest.
What cruel woes have Women brought to Greece!
For Empire and for Honour once we fought,
But the New Mode is Women—Cursed Sex!
Of all our Plagues, the Worst! Nor will our Camp
Be free, whilst there's one Woman left.

Ag.
Old Age may make us all thus Cynical,
But Nestor once was Young, and then a Woman
After the tug of a hard Foughten-Field
Past for a Blessing—But to our Business now.
At your request, Achilles we are met,
First let us sit—
They sit. Agamemnon and Achilles in two Chairs of State at the Upper end of the Table: Nestor and Ulysses on each side.
—If you have ought to urge
Of publick Good; Ought that can heal our wounds,
And stay the Vengeance of offended Jove,
Speak freely, Princes,—Agamemnon's heart
Bleeds for his People: If the Gods require
His Life, a Sacrifice to save the rest,
And to atone their Wrath—The King shall die.

Nest.
Well have you vow'd, O King, and I rejoyce
[Rises.
To find such Piety—O Jove confirm it.
Kings above other Mortals are requir'd
To be observant to the Pow'rs divine,
Since on their Actions, Good or Ill, depends
The Publick Peace—O Gods! what crimes are these!
Whose Crimes?
No private Man's, since a whole Nation suffers,
No little fault, the Vengeance is too great;
And much I fear, whoe're th'offender be,
This Criminal is obstinate in Guilt:
For mark it well; these Judgments by degrees
Grew more, and greater daily: The Disease
First on our Cattle seiz'd: The generous Horse
That bore his Rider, safe thrô armed Ranks
Snapping in sunder Darts and Spears, then fell
Unhurt, Untoucht—From Beasts it spread to Men;
The merry Greeks, as at their Cups they sit,
Drop in the midst of Laughter—As some huge Tow'r
At which Men gaze, astonish'd at its strength,
If Waters undermine, and Springs unseen
Sap its foundation, Unawares comes down
And covers with its ruins all the Place,
So look our strong Battalions, and so fall
VVhole Ranks at once, and the Dead lie on heaps.
O Phœbus! Stay thy hand that shoots unseen,
All Pestilence, all Feavours are from thee,
These shafts are thine, restrain thy murdering wrath,
For pious Agamemnon, King of Kings,
Has vow'd to do thee justice.

He sits. Ulysses rises.
Uly.
Great are our Ills: Too grievous to be born
Had we a King less Pious—Kings there are
Who, slaves to their own Wills, regard not Fame,
What, thô their People weep, their Eyes are dry;
What thô they starve, Their Coffers still are full;
Thô Heaven by surest tokens of its wrath
Give warning to repent, They mind not Heaven,
But still go on, and own no Gods but Lust.
Such Kings, are hated here, despis'd hereafter;
Their memory's are curst, the Widows tears
And Orphans wrongs, reveng'd upon their Issue.
What Glories then, O mighty Agamemnon!
What Honours here, what Praise in after-times;
What Love of Men, what Favour of the Gods.
Will crown thy pious deeds, who looking down
With aking heart on thy griev'd Peoples suff'ring,
Hast vow'd to give whate're the Gods exact,
Thô dear as Life, to stay their Miseries.

Ag.
[Rises, all rise.
[Sits, all sits.

Ach.
Then hear Atrides, what the Gods declare,
What they require, and who's the Guilty Man,
'Tis Thou art this Offender—

Ag.
Ha!

Ach.
Nay, Frown not, Son of Atreus, for 'tis true:
Frowns do not fright Achilles, but provoke.
Apollo is th'offended God, and thou
The Criminal—But not for Vows forgot,
Or Hecatombs omitted, come these Plagues,
But for his Priest, who's Daughter's here detain'd
Against his Will—Chryses himself is come
With his Demands, as Legate from high Heaven,
And holy Chalcas, who reads every Page
Of secret Fate, and knows the Hearts of Gods,
More Plagues denounces, till she be restor'd.

Ag.
Chryses and Chalcas are two Lying Priests:
Thou the Fomenter of Eternal Broils;
And this a Plot to vex me.

Nest.
What you have heard, Atrides, is most true,
Such is the Will of Heaven: But grieve not, King,
He comes not empty handed to demand
His Daughter back—The Priest a Ransom brings
As might content—

Ag.
The Avarice of a Priest.
Were I old Nestor, past the Age of Love,
I might sell mine—I scorn this proffer'd Treasure;
My Honour's now concern'd to keep my Love,
Lest the Malicious World, that censures Kings
Like common Men, should say of Agamemnon
That like a sordid Slave, he chang'd for Gold
All that his Soul held dear.

Ach.
But like a sordid Slave to Lusts as vile;
You matter not to sacrifice your Fame,
To brave the Gods with violated Oaths,
To sell your Faith, your Glory, and the Lives
Of Millions, for a Woman.

Ag.
Proud Myrmidon, provoke me not too far,
Upon thy Life no more—

Ach.
My Life! Who dares attempt it?

Ag.
Ha! Who dares—

[They rise, and laying their Hands on their Swords stand in a posture of Drawing. Nestor and Ulysses interpose.
Uly.
Take heed Achilles, and respect the King,
Who strike at Kings, repeat the Giants crime,
And strike at Jove.

Nest.
to Ag.
You know his temper, Cholerick and Fierce,
Provoke him not, Atrides, 'tis not well:
You that should shew th'Example of good Order,
Whom all the Princes and the Kings of Greece
Have chosen their Leader—For shame, command your self.

Ag.
Unconscionable Men! Must I of all the Greeks,
Must I be robb'd, of what the Chance of War
Has made my Prize? I, only I, debarr'd
Of what to every Centinel's allow'd?
What petty Leader is there in the Camp
Whom I disturb? When, when did I invade
Another's Pleasures?—Nestor, Ulysses, speak,
And Thou, Achilles, Did I ever wrong
You of your Rights? Or with Lascivious rage
Force from your Tents, your Captives? Princes speak,
Why then these wrongs to Me?

Uly.
Not we, Atrides, but th'Immortal Gods—

Nest.
Can Agamemnon, that Religious King,
Who not deny'd his Daughter to the Gods,
Refuse a Stranger and a Captive?

Ach.
Leave, leave him to his Fate, and let Troy stand,
Whom Heaven abandons, Men in vain support.
What harm has Troy done us? Nor came we here
But for his sake, Ungrateful as he is.
My Troops I'll lead from this Infectious Air,
And let him moulder here in Plagues alone.

Ag.
Go when thou wilt; in an unlucky hour
Thou cam'st—And may ill Fate go with thee.
Lead hence thy Myrmidons, to Pthia back,
And plague some other Country with thy Pride:
Or back to Lycomede's Daughters—whence
Ulysses forc'd thee hither, to fulfill
The musty Prophecies of Doating Priests,
That Troy, without thy aid, could not be conquer'd;
There hide thee in thy Woman's Dress again,
And with inhospitable Lust debauch
Some new Deidamia.

Ach.
Had Mars himself said this— [Lays his hand on his Sword.


Ag.
Keep in thy Rage: We know that thou can'st fight,
I am thy Witness, who have seen thee pierce
The Dardan Ranks—So would Thersites fight
Had he been dipt in Stix: Or had Lame Mulciber
Wrought him a Coat of Arms not to be pierc'd.
What Slave with an invulnerable Skin,
And with impenetrable Armour on,
Would be a Coward?

Ach.
Thus I reply—This Injury's thy last.

[Draws; Nestor and Ulysses hold him.
Ag.
Not so, Achilles, there remains behind
A greater yet—Where are our Guards,
Talthybius and Eurybates—

Nest.
Sheath, sheath your Sword—
The King shall make amends.

Enter Talthybius, Eurybates, and Guard.
Uly.
You were too fierce; and so would you be mov'd
Were your belov'd Briseis threatned.

Ach.
Not all his Guards shall save him—

[They hold him, he struggles
Ag.
Hurt not, but keep that roaring Lion in.
And thou Talthybius, with our choicest Troops
Haste to Achilles Tent, and fetch Briseis;
Kill all that dare resist, 'tis my Command.
Exit Talthybius.
I'll let thee know, by what thy self shalt feel,
What 'tis to part two Lovers.

Ach.
struggling.
Thou dar'st not do it—
By the Gods thou dar'st not.

Ag.
Thou turbulent Invader of my Love
Be this thy Punishment, and learn from hence
How to respect Superior Majesty.
Now let him loose, to save
[To the Guard.
His Mistress if he can.

Ach.
Love calls me hence e'er I can take thy Life;
But my next Labour my Revenge shall be,
Tremble, Atrides, that my Hands are free.
Exit Achilles.

Uly.
Oh Gods! What Joy to Priam will this bring,
What Grief to the Achæans!

Nest.
O Agamemnon! this double Violence—

Ag.
I guess your meaning, Nestor, but intend
Nor Love, nor Violence, to fair Briseis;
Untouch'd with all respect she shall remain
Till I have humbled this Proud Myrmidon.
But O Chruseis!
Love, Piety, and Honour pull at once
All several ways—Nor know I which to follow.
O Jove assist me in this doubtful strife,
And if thou doom'st my Love, Condemn my Life.

Exeunt.