Merope A Tragedy |
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| 5. | SCENE V. |
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SCENE V.
MEROPE. ISMENE. EROX.EROX.
[aside.
Now, aid me, wily Powers of winning Art!
MEROPE.
How now! What bold Intrusion plac'd thee here?
EROX.
Queen, of the Kingdom's Lord! his Heart's high Empress!
Suffer a Voice unequal to the Task,
To wrong th' intrusted Sense of his told Grief
Who sends me to condole you.—Poliphontes,
Had you but smooth'd that Brow's Majestic Bend,
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The Fate, most pitied, of the Prince, your Son
Heard, and takes equal Part, in all your Wrongs.
MEROPE.
More, than his Part, he takes, in what is Mine.
Else, had he never dar'd aspire, to seize
His Master's Throne; nor Name my murder'd Son.
EROX.
Wishing, he waits but Leave. Respect is delicate,
And wou'd not, un-admitted, now, approach.
Fain wou'd he talk of Comfort, to your Sorrows,
Who, weeping, wants the Power to curb his own.
MEROPE.
What wou'd your artful Sender come, to say?
EROX.
To beg, that to his Hand you wou'd commit
This hateful Murd'rer's Punishment.—He glows
For Vengeance in your Cause. Shou'd think his Claim
Unworthy a Crown's Trust; less worthy yours,
Cou'd he forget, that Justice props a Throne.
MEROPE.
No. Tell him no. My Hand revenges, here.
Too short of Reach, Heaven knows! but, what it can
It shall: and neither asks, nor bears, his Aid.
EROX.
The King too tenderly regards your Will,
To cross it, ev'n in Anger—less, in Reason.
—I humbly take my Leave.
MEROPE.
I grant it, gladly.
[Exit Erox.
Hunted on every Side, why waits Distress,
Till still new Growths of Anguish, more, oppress?
How poor a Thing is Life, drag'd on to Age,
To stand, the pitied Mark, of Fortune's Rage!
Death shuts out Mis'ry: and can, best, restrain
The Bite of Insult, and the Goad of Pain.
| Merope | |