 | Eurydice |  |
SCENE II.
Eurydice, Melissa, Medon.Medon.
Hail, beauteous Queen! By me, the royal Procles
With lowly service bends him to your charms:
Bids smiling health, and gentle peace of mind
Light up your morn, and make your evening fair.
This, with the tenderest vows—
Eurydice.
Canst thou inform me
Of those unhappy men, whom I but now
Saw perish on this coast?
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Not who they are;
But what their fate, these eyes with dread beheld.
The King too, from the morning's chase return'd,
At this sad sight spur'd on with all his train
To save, if possible, whom the wild sea
Casts forth upon the land. But first his love,
That counts each moment's absence from your eyes
An age of lingring torment, bade me fly
With health and greeting to the matchless fair,
That holds his soul enslav'd.
Eurydice.
Then bear him back,
From her whom he has wrong'd, betray'd and ruin'd,
Horror and loathing, unrelenting scorn,
And all a woman's hate, in just return
For his detested love. The tyrant coward!
To crush the fallen and helpless! to embitter
The pangs, the miseries, himself has caus'd
With gall of mockery!
Medon.
Your pardon, Madam,
If I, the humblest of your slaves, presume
To place before your eyes in faithful prospect
That mournful period, full of dread and danger,
Which late you saw. Behold then your false subjects,
Wantonly mad and spurning every tye
Of sworn obedience, mix'd in one bold treason,
Threatning and universal: your lost husband
Absent, involv'd in unsuccessful war:
His troops averse and mutinous. From them
Bold faction with contagious swiftness spread
To Corinth too; where the wild herd arrous'd
Insulted you, and drove you to this Fortress.
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Join'd his devouring ravage; and your eyes
Saw daily, hourly perish those poor few
Whose faith had kept them yours?
Eurydice.
O would to heaven
I then had perish'd too!
Medon.
Such was your state,
Lost even to hope, when generous Procles flew
Impatient to your aid, dispers'd and quell'd
The general treason. May I dare to urge
These services? But what are these? His throne,
His heart is yours: he lays them at your feet:
He bids you reign in both.
Eurydice.
Thou base of heart!
To slaves like thee, who flatter and inflame
Their prince's crimes, are owing half the plagues
That curse mankind. Has not thy cruel Master,
Whose guilt this shameful praise of thine brings home
On thy own soul, say, has not he usurp'd,
With perfidy avow'd, the very crown
He swore to save? And I too—thy bold insult
Shews I indeed am wretched. But away.
'Tis base to parle with thee, the sycophant
Who leads him on from guilt to guilt, and swears
He grows a God by sinning.
| Eurydice | |