University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Timophanes's Palace.
Enter Lycander, and Pheron.
Lyc.
Pheron, 'tis well; the King shall thank thy Zeal;
Timophanes, who shews he merits Empire,
By his great Spirit, worthy Jove himself.

Phe.
But say, Lycander, why attends he thus
The Senate's dull Resolves before he's crown'd?

Lyc.
To please the People.

Phe.
Please them!

Lyc.
Pheron, yes.
Those Magistrates, who wou'd have dar'd to thwart him,
Slaughter has swept away: As for the rest,
Of Means, and Spirit impotent to hurt him,
They serve to authorize his Deeds.

Phe.
The King.

Enter Timophanes, attended.
Timop.
At length, Lycander, my Desire's compleat;
That Pow'r, which almost equals Men with Gods,
I now may call my own: Say, is't not great
To be the first distinguish'd of Mankind?
Admir'd, caress'd, gaz'd at by gaping Crouds,
Who, waiting, smile, or tremble at a Nod?

Lyc.
The Prytanes I've founded—they are right,
Their Fears have made 'em plyant to your Will.
To-morrow to the Senate they propose
To crown you King.

Timop.
'Tis well.—Then, my Lycander,
Luxuriant will we riot in each Bliss
Thy Wish can form. Each yet untasted Joy,
Each witty, wanton, gay, and revelling Beauty,
Shall be our own.

Lyc.
By Heav'n! 'twill be a Life
For Spirits such as ours. How does your Prisoner,
The fair Cleone, brook her seeming Wrong?

Timop.
Her Tears (Beauty's expressive Rhetoric)
Like drops of weeping Roses front the Still,
In silence trickle from her melting Eyes.
Yet now and then bursts forth a soft Complaint,
Soft as the Murmur of the bubbling Brook.

Lyc.
Her Father's Fate she knows not?

Timop.
No, nor shall.
But see! the Charmer this way bends her Steps,
Like a struck Deer; each Privacy she seeks,
Weeping as if the Springs of Life were open'd;
Let all retire strait, unperceiv'd—away!

[Exeunt.
Enter Cleone.
Cleo.
Where am I? ev'ry thing is strange about me.
Was I not with my Father? did I dream?
Or do I now? what Noise is that? my Father!
A thousand Thoughts, a thousand anxious Fears
Crowd in my Mind.
[Musick within.
Ha! Musick! let it play!
Here will I lye; here in Attention lost,
That it may work Imagination up,
'Till Melancholly cries, thou'rt mine—it wo'not.
In vain thy Melody! it cannot raise
My Sorrows higher, or sooth me to forget 'em.

Enter Timophanes.
Timop.
How beautiful she looks! ev'n Grief becomes her!
Grief reigns with silent Pleasure in her Face,
As if delighted to be drest in Beauty.
Lovely Cleone! wherefore weeps my Fair?
Joy shall again unveil those shadow'd Eyes,
Shall, like the Sun, drive hence those Clouds of Sorrow,
The pride of Nature opening to our View.

Cleo.
How can I hope for Joy? where can I find it?
Disgusted with its Mansion in my Breast,
The Fugitive, I fear, is gone for ever.

Timop.
Here shalt thou find it then within those Arms;
At sight of Thee, it plays about my Heart,
And longs to riot on that lovely Breast.

Cleo.
That Voice, with all the Rhetoric of Love,
Speaks nought but Horror and Distraction to me.

Timop.
Where is its Horror? when it sooths thee thus
To Pleasures, which shall teach thee to forget
What Sorrow is? Come then—I cannot sigh,
Nor whine my Love in amorous Softness to thee;
I'm all Desire to pant upon thy Bosom,
'Till we dissolve in Bliss, too great to utter.

Cleo.
My Soul's alarm'd as at the Call of Death,
And Honour sickens at each Word I hear.

Timop.
What is the Honour of your Sex, but Pride?
But fear of a Discovery? fear of Shame?
'Tis this restrains the Pleasure of the Fair,
When urg'd by Nature, when with Wishes warm'd,
She languishes to Dotage for Enjoyment.

Cleo.
It can do more; despise the Baits of Power,
And fly, tho' Grandeur court it to its Ruin.

[Exit.
Timop.
Ha! gone! but let her go! she cannot far.
The Bird just taken, beats about its Cage,
Flies round for Liberty, but finding none,
Sits down at last contented with its Prison.

Enter Lycander.
Lyc.
Well, does the Fair one, Sir, return your Passion?

Timop.
Yes, but it is with Scorn; she shuns my Presence.
No more I'll sue, but force her to be blest.
When tasted once, she'll thank me for the Pleasure,
And curse the Coyness that delay'd her Joy.
'Tis true, I love her—to Enjoy her only,
That's all my Aim—my Soul Ambition sways,
And leaves no room for such a Toy as Woman.
Women are but the Playthings of an Hour:
Too much of 'em unmans us into Trifles,
Like themselves.

Lyc.
O that I cou'd love like you!
I am a fond, an amorous Fool: By Heav'n!
To gain the smallest Bliss from fair Eunesia,
With Pride, with Pleasure I wou'd run thro' all
The servile Duties of a Woman's Slave;
An Age cou'd doat, and think an Age well spent.

Timop.
Strange! that she shou'd refuse you! I am rough,
Unbred, unlesson'd in their Wiles—but you
Know each unguarded Passage to the Heart,
Can steal thro' ev'ry Passion to the Soul,
And melt it into Fondness and Desire.

Lyc.
Fixt in her Breast Timoleon's Image lies,
Nor can my flattering Arts efface it there.
The Curst Timoleon! Bane of all my Peace!
As he will be of yours.

Timop.
Of mine? he dares not.

Lyc.
He dares do all his wild romantick Thoughts
Of Honour can suggest; you know he dares.

Timop.
So great my Pow'r, 'twill awe him to Compliance.

Lyc.
'Twill rather urge him to some desperate Course.

Timop.
What, that can hurt my Safety, or my Crown?

Lyc.
You know how much he is the People's Idol,
How zealous an Assertor of their Freedom;
He wou'd not brook an Arbitrary Power,
Tho' in a Father's Hands—nay, he wou'd scorn it,
If offer'd to himself—think then, O think,
What gathering Tempests from that Quarter threaten.

Timop.
Advise me strait—what Method shall I take?

Lyc.
Prevent his coming; if he once returns,
There will be Danger in his Death.

Timop.
'Tis true.
O had I but pursu'd thy just Advice,
He now had lain with those who are forgotten.

Lyc.
What cou'd that prudent Resolution change?

Timop.
I'll tell thee—thou shalt see my inmost Soul.
Some Nights ago, as on my Bed I lay,
Revolving in my Mind Timoleon's Fate,
And just had conquer'd the remaining Scruples
Of Love and Gratitude, that last possest me;
My weary Eyelids clos'd, and courted Rest;
They clos'd in vain—Rest would not harbour there.
Thus musing as I lay—a Form appear'd,
Which cast a Gleam of horrid Light around.
It seem'd my Father, as he dy'd in Battel,
Each Heart-vein pouring forth a Crimson Flood;
Dreadfully pale he star'd, and sternly frown'd.

Lyc.
No more.

Timop.
'Tis true!

Lyc.
Indeed!

Timop.
Be still, and hear me.
Perdition blast me, but I saw it!

Lyc.
What?

Timop.
By Heav'n the very Image of my Father.

Lyc.
Believe me, 'twas the Image of your Fear.
The self-created Curse of wavering Minds.

Timop.
'Till then I knew not what it was to fear.
But at that Sight a Terror seiz'd my Heart,
Each Nerve relax'd, and stagnated my Blood.
Thrice too it call'd—'tis true, I heard the Voice,
Hollow and low, as sounds the distant Thunder.
The dreadful Murmur still is in my Ears.
“Touch not, it cry'd, touch not Timoleon's Life;
“To Corinth strait her Liberty restore,
“Repent, or soon thou'lt be as I am now.”
At this the Phantom disappear'd, and left me.
I try'd to speak; my Tongue forgot its Office,
For ev'ry Faculty was lost in Horror.

Lyc.
Irresolution frames a thousand Horrors,
Embodying each—but shall it be believ'd
That Shadows e'er cou'd shake Timophanes,
And change the settl'd Purpose of his Will?
Have you seen Death in almost ev'ry Shape,
Undaunted, unamaz'd? and hunted Dangers,
As prodigal of Life? yet, start at Nothing?

Timop.
Upbraid me not; once more my Soul is fixt.
Hence with the Memory of these sick'ning Thoughts!
Once more I'm yours, direct me as you will.

Lyc.
Timoleon's coming back must be prevented.

Timop.
And that must be by Death: it is determin'd.

Lyc.
Once done, the People soon will cease to grieve.
Their Passions are but Bubbles rais'd by Rain,
No sooner rising, but they disappear.
Then seize Dinarchus, but confine him only;
Your Servant's Murder is a just Excuse.
Those two remov'd, you have no more to fear.

Timop.
I will.
Tho' old, Dinarchus yet is active,
And may prove dangerous.—Then too, Lycander,
Then you may urge your Suit to fair Eunesia.
Then, when her Soul hangs quiv'ring like the Needle,
Uncertain where to point, on thee may fix.
To save her Father, she may yield to thee,
And bless thy Passion with a kind Return.
While I, my Throne confirm'd, will rise superior,
And riot in each Bliss that Power can give.
The Eagle thus, prepar'd to mount the Sky,
To the Sun's Orb undazzled darts his Eye,
And spurns the Ground with awful Dignity.
Exulting in his Pride, is pleas'd to view
The feather'd Tribe, admiring where he flew.
With failing Strength they tempt the wond'rous height,
They faint beneath the radiant load of Light.
While he alone enjoys the sovereign Sway,
Alone supports the Sun's encreasing Ray,
And joyous revels in the blaze of Day.