SCENE VIII.
Eurydice, Periander, Ariston.
Eurydice kneels to Periander, who after looking
on her some time with emotion, flings away without
speaking.
Eurydice
alone.
Not hear me! not vouchsafe me one poor word!
'Tis hard indeed.—The Wretch of many crimes,
[rising.
Whom Mercy dares not save, is gentler us'd.
His rigid judge is less severe than mine.
Ye Powers! have I deserv'd this? Did my heart
E'er harbour one loose wish? Your selves can tell,
The morning's orient beam is not more pure,
More stainless than my truth. Was ever fate,
Were ever woes, like mine? Even in the hour
Of general joy to all, while pleasing hope
Sprung fast within my heart, I find my self
Undone for ever! sunk to rise no more!
Not hear me—then I know my doom is fix'd.
And shall I stay to hear the foul surmizes,
The scurril taunts, the false upbraiding pity,
The keen revilings, that must usher in
My public sentence? Can there be in death
Such pangs? such piercing agonies? Impossible.
Death is repose and calm, is soft elizium
To thoughts like these. I will prevent their triumph,
And save myself this shame. 'Tis but to lose
A few unhappy moments; 'tis to rest
The sooner from my cares; to feel no more
The bitterness of misery and insult
That bait my weary soul. Then it is fix'd.
Spite of the woman, no fond tear shall flow,
No sigh arise, the coward-sex to shew.
When life is shame, and glorious freedom nigh,
A Grecian and a Queen must dare to die.
