University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Procles, Medon, Leonidas.
Procles.
Hold thy self
Prepar'd, Leonidas: I must employ thee
In an affair of weight.
[Leonidas withdraws.
Methinks I droop
With more than wonted heaviness of heart.
But I will shake it off, and to the winds
Give every thought of care. 'Tis only fondness,
And fancy sick with hope. Eurydice
Bends to my wishes: and, in her, I hope
That heaven imagin'd, that sole bliss, which yet
My search could never meet.

Medon.
It moves my wonder
To see your love thus wedded to one bosom:
While all around bright crouds of rival beauties
Practise each art of charming, look, and talk,
And live for you alone.

Procles.
Alas, my friend,
Poor is the triumph over hearts like these:
This hour they pleases us, and the next they pall.
But to subdue the pride that scorns to yield;
To fill th'unwilling breast with sighs and longings,
With all the soft distraction of fond love,
Even while it strives against th'invading victor,
And wonders at the change; that, that is conquest!
The plume of pleasure! and from her alone
A glory to be won.

Medon.
Well, may you find
In this proud fair one that enchants you thus,
Whate'er Imagination's fondest eye
Beholds in rapturous vision; or young Love
In all his wantonness of power can give.
But yet, forgive your servant's forward zeal,
Mean you to keep the promise you have made her?

Procles.
I do.

Medon.
How Sir! what set her husband free?

Procles.
I mean no less.

Medon.
Your pardon, Sir: 'tis well.
But have you calmly weigh'd in reason's scale
The certain consequence? Set free your rival!
A soul made furious with his mighty wrongs;
Boiling with hate, rage, jealousy, revenge;
With the full-gather'd storm of deadly passions!
The Gods forbid it, Sir—And all to dry
A froward woman's tears!

Procles.
No, no, my friend;
Nor liberty nor life shall long be his:
I never meant him either; but my faith
Is pass'd to set him free. By that alone
The haughty Queen was overcome: and I
Will keep th'illusive promise to her ear,
But break it to her hope.

Medon.
As how, my Lord?

Procles.
Such inbred enmity my soul bears his
As Nature does to ruine; to the grave,
Where the whole man descends to rise no more.
Hear then what I intend. Thou know'st the fortress,
That guards our frontier on the Theban side.
That way our foe must pass; but thou shalt first
Post thither on the spur with wary speed:
And with a chosen band, drawn from the fort,
Way-lay him on the farther hill, close couch'd
In the deep covert of those pendant woods,
That shade the path below.

Medon.
Conclude it done.
Sleep shall not know my eyes, till his are clos'd
In everlasting night. As to his prison
I waited him, he call'd me minion, slave,
A traitor's parasite, the base-soul'd minister
Of his loose pleasures: and I will repay him,
For each opprobrious name, a mortal stab.
Yes, he shall feel his fate. Insult and taunt,
Embittering every blow, shall mock his pangs,
And give him sevenfold death.

Procles.
So, now to try
This Periander thoroughly. Go, Medon,
Command him hither.