Eurydice A Tragedy |
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 | Eurydice |  |
7
SCENE III.
Eurydice, Melissa.Melissa.
Ah, my Queen,
My heart forebodes some fatal consequence
Will grow of this.
Eurydice.
Why let it come, Melissa.
I merit all that fortune can inflict,
For trusting this betrayer, this curst Procles.
Melissa.
Alas, what could you do?
Eurydice.
I should have dy'd.
He was the known and mortal foe of Corinth.
Melissa.
Yet his fair-seeming might have won belief
From doubting Age, or wary Policy.
By frequent, urgent message he conjur'd you
To save yourself. With open honour own'd
His antient enmity; but, by each Power
Celestial and infernal, swore 'twas past.
Nay more, that as a king and as a man,
Just indignation at your impious subjects,
And pity of your fate, had touch'd his heart.
Eurydice.
But Fame had spoke him faithless, bold, ambitious.
No; 'twas the coward woman in my soul,
Th'inglorious fear of dying, that betray'd
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For this my heart, each conscious hour upbraids me,
As faithless to my trust, weak, and unworthy
Even of the base precarious life I hold.
For this, O crown of misery! I'm doom'd
Daily to hear the Tyrant's impious passion,
His horrid vows and oaths.
Melissa.
That way indeed
I dread to turn my thoughts. A soul so brutal,
And flown with nightly insolence and wine,
What may he not attempt?
Eurydice.
O curse! to know
That I am in his power, and yet compell'd
To suffer hated life!—for can I die
Unheard, unjustify'd; while yet perhaps
Th'unhappy Periander thinks too hardly
Of my late error?—King of gods and men!
Whose universal eye beholds each thought
Most secret in the soul, give me to clear
My faith to him; I ask of heaven no more
For my past miseries.
Melissa.
What shouts are these?
[looking out.
Ah me! th'inhuman triumph of the croud,
The hard-soul'd many, who have watch'd the storm
For driving wrecks, the spoils of perish'd wretches.
Eurydice.
Unfeeling beasts of prey!—Methinks the storm
Is almost overblown. The waves subside,
And fall their fiercer roarings. But alas!
Of all the four, not one remaining sail
Is to be seen around.
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Either my eyes
Deceive me, or the good Leonidas
Moves towards us.
Eurydice.
'Tis he: and on his brow
Sits some afflicting thought. Ha! whence is this?
What mean these secret shiverings, this dark horror
Of some approaching ill?
| Eurydice | |