 | Mustapha |  |
SCENE III.
Solyman, Roxolana, Rustan.Solyman.
Presumptuous slaves!—
These accidents in such a state as this is,
By laws unfix'd, are ever to be fear'd,
Are often fatal—This alarming storm
Is past, my love: and tho' the rage of tumults
Has from old time shook sore our empire's frame,
Nay buried monarchs in the general wreck,
This last I can forgive. It shew'd me plain
The soul of Mustapha. With care I watch'd
Th' emotions springing from his inmost breast,
There where no art has power: and found them true
To virtue and to me. I know this news,
To her whose dearest happiness is mine,
Will be most welcome.
Roxolana.
You are just, my Lord;
Just to us both. I triumph in your joy,
And wish it all sincere.
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Long peace, I find,
But nurses dangerous humours up to strength,
Licence and wanton rage; which war alone
Can purge away. I will resume my arms.
The Persian, whom I deadly hate, must down.
Some slight advantage by his troops obtain'd—
I fought not there—has swell'd his inborn pride
Above all equal bounds. But ere the sun
Lights up another morn, my powers shall hence
To scourge that pride. A rougher season now,
My Roxolana, must divide the hearts,
It shall not change.
Roxolana.
Mine is not in the power
Of time or accident. This faithful breast
Will know no hour of joy, till favouring heaven
Restore you, bright with conquest, to these arms.
But—is all well, my Lord?
Solyman.
All well!
Roxolana.
Alas!
Solyman.
Ha! what alarms thee?
Roxolana.
Does my Lord believe,
His lowly handmaid loves him?
Solyman.
Most unkind!
Why dost thou kneel, and hang upon my robe?
Roxolana.
O Solyman—But wilt thou then forgive
The woman's softness? those presaging thoughts
That wish, yet doubt thy safety?
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Safety! what,
What wouldst thou say?
Roxolana.
O may my fears be vain!
But when my thought recalls this horrid tumult;
Recalls th' unbounded insolence that spread
So fast, and rag'd so high; when I revolve
The cause that spirited those factious men
To such bold outrage—can I chuse but weep,
And tremble for thy life?
Solyman.
My life!
Rustan,
aside.
Well said,
Exquisite woman!
Roxolana.
Have they not presum'd
On idle rumors—rumors too that fix
The name of murderer on you—here to judge
Betwixt you and your son? to give you laws?
As if the sovereign power was in their hands!
And you their slave!
Solyman.
Ha!—Roxolana—Rustan!
Rustan.
She speaks a dreadful truth! Power is no more;
Authority is lost, when rebel subjects dare,
With curious boldness, scan their master's right,
Control his royal pleasure, and rejudge
His highest acts. Contempt unkings a sovereign.
Solyman.
Contempt!—perdition!—Am I vilely fallen
To that dishonor?
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You are still yourself,
Great, valiant, glorious: but ungrateful subjects,
Wanton with wealth and ease, may wish to change
The happy present for th' uncertain future—
Alas, I go too far; you droop, my Lord.
Solyman.
Away—What should I fear? My son's known virtue
Forbids a doubt of him.
Roxolana.
How I have lov'd,
How oft with rapture dwelt upon his name,
You, Solyman, best know. But duty now
Shall triumph o'er that fondness—This wild storm
He with a breath appeas'd.
Solyman.
He did.
Roxolana.
Grant heaven
I be mistaken!—That same breath can raise
A second, wilder far; and bid it burst
On me—would that were all!—alas on you!
Even on your sacred head—for who will then
Bid the rous'd ocean peace? or drive its surge
With govern'd fury?
Solyman.
Hold I then a crown
Precarious and dependent on the nod,
The caprice of another?—Roxolana!
Thou dost not think so.
Roxolana.
Would I could not think it.
O who can sound the secret heart of man?—
Pardon my anxious love—His thoughts are hid,
His real aims unseen: his power is known,
Is evident and felt.
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Woman! by heaven!
Thy words dart light into my darken'd soul—
There must be treachery. Who told those rebels
I sought his life? What friend of mine would say,
That danger threaten'd him?
Rustan.
O justly thought.
Did Roxolana, did your slave, whose head
They loudly call'd for, bid the traitors rise,
To plunge their daggers in our breasts?
Solyman.
'Tis plain.—
Who, who would be a father?—Friends, you weep
In pity of my fate!—I too could pour
A breaking heart in tears.
Roxolana.
O may the news,
This paper holds, be false as Calumny,
As Malice can devise.
Solyman.
What news? what paper?
Whence comes it?
Rustan.
From Amasia. Sir: a slave
Deliver'd it but now.
Solyman.
I dread to look
Upon this fatal paper—Ha! it speaks
“Of peace at hand; of terms the Persian offers.”—
“That monarch courts with ardent love and service
“My favourite son”—Why trembles thus my frame?
What dire suggestions, conjur'd up at once
In fiend-like shapes, spread horror thro' my breast?
Where am I?—What?—depos'd? plung'd in a dungeon,
To drag out weary life to its last verge,
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Are heaven's impressive hand.—But how resolve?
How satisfy my vengeance and my fame?
My stormy soul yet knows not, dares not yet
Acknowledge to itself.
Roxolana
looking after him.
The Mufti soon
Shall clear that doubt.
| Mustapha | |