University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE A Prison.
Enter Dinarchus.
How curst is Man, thro' ev'ry Scene of Life!
Our Life is one continu'd Toil for Fame;
Like Ants, we toil, and raise a little Mole-hill,
That ev'ry Brute can level.—In old Age,
Hope—ev'n that too is deny'd us—Hope!
Youth's best Prerogative—its sweetest Blessing!
The poor Man's Feast—the sick Man's richest Cordial:
In Youth, the Winds may blow, the Rains may beat,
Still green, still gay, still lovely does it flourish;
But, nip'd in Age, it droops, it fades, and dies.
[Pauses.
A little yet, my Soul, and thou shalt leave
This World, for Joys immortal as thy self:
With that Reflection, bear a little longer.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
My Lord, I come commission'd from Lycander,
With Offers of your Life, your Liberty.

Din.
Lycander! Who's Lycander? What, a God!
That he can give us Life? Where is his Pow'r?

Mess.
Timophanes has granted him the Pow'r,
And he will do it; by the Gods he swears,
On one Condition.

Din.
What is this Condition?

Mess.
You have a Daughter—

Din.
Ha!

Mess.
A fair one.

Din.
Well!

Mess.
Lycander, Sir, compassionates your Weakness,
Your Age, your Grief, and hopes you think Eunesia
A slender Recompence for—

Din.
Death! and Furies!
What, am I fall'n so low, to be the Sport
Of Villains? Recompence! Torments and Plagues!
I tell thee, Ruffian—O ye Immortal Pow'rs!
Let your avenging Thunder speak its Rage,
And burst with hideous Ruin on his Head.

Mess.
Lycander, Sir, wou'd grieve to be oblig'd
To show that Pow'r, which—

Din.
Hence! away! begone!
Thou art below my Rage. [Exit Mess.]
O this Lycander!
Cou'd he not break my Heart, but he must tear
Its Fibres by the Roots?

Enter Eunesia.
Eun.
My dearest Father!

Din.
My Child!—Inhuman Wretch! he has no Children.
Had he a Child, he'd feel a Parent's Yernings,
Wou'd know the Pangs that struggle in my Heart.
How did'st thou gain Admittance?

Eun.
Æschylus
Has won the Jaylor, who was late his Servant,
To give free Entrance to each Friend of yours.

Din.
And thou art come to heal my Cares, and cheer
My Age!

Eun.
I am.

Din.
O thou Delightful Sweetness!
Thou can'st dispel the Horrors of this Place,
And brighten ev'n a Dungeon. Damn'd Lycander!

Eun.
What is't you start at?

Din.
I will tell thee, Child.
That Villain! that Lycander!

Eun.
Ha!

Din.
I cannot.
By Heav'n I cannot.

Eun.
What's the Cause of this?

Din.
Thou art!

Eun.
Am I? alas! am I the Cause?

Din.
Eunesia, yes, thou art the Innocent Cause;
Thou art the Victim that's requir'd to save me.

Eun.
Am I? With Pleasure then my Life I give;
Nor shall it cost a Sigh, since giv'n for you.
Or if it does, 'twill be a Sigh for you.

Din.
Almighty Pow'r! hear, and revenge my Wrongs;
Let your swift Light'ning dart its Fury on him,
And blast the Wretch. What, to insult our Woes!

Eun.
What is this Grief, that is too great for Utterance?

Din.
Why, thou shalt hear it, Child. This Dog, Lycander,
Has offer'd me—O Heav'n's! was such an Offer
Fit for a Father's Ears? he offer'd me
My Life, my Liberty, if I would sell
Thy Innocence, thy spotless Purity,
To Infamy, and his polluting Lust.

Eun.
O impious!

Din.
Nay, he dar'd; the Villain dar'd
To threaten Force.

Eun.
Force! Just Gods! but stay—Death!
That's still within our Pow'r. Death can prevent it.

Din.
'Tis true! Death can prevent it, as she says.
'Tis justly thought.—Within I have a Dagger,
I've kept it safe for my last worldly Refuge,
In secret kept it.

[Exit.
Eun.
Where is Timoleon now? Why is he absent?
Methinks, by Sympathy, his Heart should know
Its fond, fond Partner languishes in Grief.

Enter Timoleon.
Timol.
Where is Dinarchus, where?

Eun.
My dear Timoleon!

Timol.
My Love! where is thy Father?

Eun.
Here, within.
A Slave he is to a thousand warring Passions;
Sometimes they inward work, like lab'ring Earthquakes;
Then fierce, as Whirlwinds, rage and roar without.
His Age cannot sustain it.

Timol.
O Eunesia!
Do not weep thus—yet can I blame your Grief?
My Soul!—But let me kiss this falling Tear.
O! it is sweeter than the Jessamin's Dew!
For ev'ry Pain, each Sorrow thou hast felt,
If possible—my Fondness shall repay thee;
And ev'ry Thought shall be to find thee Pleasure.

Enter Dinarchus.
Din.
I have it in reserve.

Timol.
My Lord!

Din.
Timoleon!
Thou honour'd Youth! by Glory's sacred Name,
Welcome! I joy to see thee.

Timol.
O Dinarchus!
I blush to see thee thus! I blush to think
I have a Brother, such a Foe to Virtue.

Din.
Why, true, Timoleon—is this proper, think'st thou?
Is this the Setting of a Life of Glory?
This loathsome Dungeon a Retreat for Age,
Worn down in Corinth's Service?

Timol.
No, Dinarchus.
Yet Corinth suffers too; like thine, her Wrongs.

Din.
But say, Timoleon; this Timophanes,
Is he not subject unto Pain as I am?

Timol.
Ay, sure, Dinarchus.

Din.
Must he not perish too?
And rot into Corruption?

Timol.
Certainly.

Din.
What will they then avail him in the Grave?
His various Policies, refin'd Devices,
His subtle Wit, his quick capacious Thought?
Will they go with him to the Grave? No, no!
Why then shou'd he be proud? Unthinking Wretch!
Proud! what! of a momentary Power
T'oppress Mankind! O trifling Vanity!
The Worm, he treads on, turns, as if to tell him
It soon will have its Fill of Vengeance on him.

Timol.
Compose your Mind, Dinarchus. Rest assur'd,
Your Wrongs shall be redrest, and ev'ry Sorrow
Shall be—but hush—we are observ'd—retire,
Where I may safely pour into thy Mind
Balm, that will heal the Wounds thy Grief has made.

Din.
Come, let us seek a Corner of the Dungeon
To sooth our Sorrows, 'twill befit our Thoughts.
Let proud Prosperity encircled go
With Crowds of Folly, watching ev'ry Motion;
Unseen, unheard, we will retire to Death;
For no one counts the Steps of Misery.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Palace Garden.
Enter Timophanes and Lycander.
Timop.
Lycander, true! Blood only can secure
What Blood has gain'd; and I will wade thro' Seas,
Thro' Seas of Blood, but I will keep my Crown.
What is our Pow'r, if on precarious Terms
'Tis poorly held?—While we must fear its Loss,
Is there Enjoyment? No: Distrust and Dangers
Crowd in, and shuffle out our Peace of Mind.

Lyc.
Timoleon's coming puts the Whole to hazard;
Sorrow and Joy their seats of Empire change;
Our Friends begin to droop, while his revive,
And those who whisper'd, speak their Grief aloud.

Timop.
Ha! dare they?

Lyc.
Yes. Where-e'er he goes along,
They hang upon his Sight; nay, ev'n old Age
Presses amid the Throng, and like a Child,
Leaps in an Ecstacy at seeing him.

Timop.
Ha! this Sedition grows; but I will crush it,
Ev'n in its Infancy. Say, dost thou know
Why in Disguise he enter'd into Corinth?

Lyc.
I know not; but 'tis said, it was to shun
The Praises of the People; therefore they cry,
He merits them the more.

Timop.
By Heav'n! a Crown
Can give no Lustre when Timoleon's by:
He casts a Shade o'er ev'ry Act of mine.

Lyc.
Already has he drawn the Senate from you.
The Prytanes, unable to resist
The Torrent of his Eloquence, gave way,
And basely lost their Duty in their Fears.

Timop.
This was thy Counsel, to depend on them.
I wou'd have burnt the Senate, and have chose
That Fire to light me to my Throne. The Cowards!
But they shall feel my Wrath.—This Way, Lycander.

[Exeunt.
Enter Olinthus and Æschylus, with Swords drawn.
Olin.
Where is this Homicide?

Æsc.
He cannot 'scape us.

Olin.
He's in the Grove.—Thou venerable Shade!
Hover around me, till I offer up
This Victim to thy Wrongs; then to Elisium,
And Bliss eternal, fly.

Æsc.
Will not Timoleon
Condemn this Haste, as a Distrust of him?

Olin.
My Fury will destroy me, if delay'd.
I have a Tempest raging in my Mind,
The Tyrant's Blood must lay—O poor Atonement!
Yet it is all—Where is this Murderer?

Enter Timoleon.
Timol.
Wherefore thus arm'd, my Friends! What Danger's near?
Your Looks, your Hands thus menacing Destruction?
Who is't you search for?

Olin.
Tyranny! Oppression!

Timol.
Here?

Olin.
In the Person of Timophanes.
Is he not a Tyrant?

Timol.
Yes.

Olin.
A Murderer?

Timol.
Ay!

Olin.
A treacherous Usurper?

Timol.
True! I grant it; but—

Olin.
But what? Gods! Shall we stoop beneath it thus?
Tame, and unactive—O, inglorious Sloth!
Each Moment that we longer live in Bondage,
Brands us for Cowards—Slaves—for willing Slaves—
Widows and Orphans owe to us their Tears,
Matrons their Infamy, while thus we linger.
If we are Men, why let us act like Men.

Æsc.
Olinthus, right! If we are Men! We are not,
But Beasts and Drudges tam'd by Injuries,
Or we shou'd never bear it.

Olin.
Bear it! No!
We will not. Have we lost our Sense of Freedom?
Are we so impotent of Pow'r to right us?
Have we not Bosoms swelling with our Wrongs?
Are not our Wrongs sufficient to excite
A Mutiny, ev'n in the Minds of Infants,
And urge our timorous Virgins to redress 'em?

Timol.
My Heart, like yours, akes for my Country's Woes,
And yerns to give her Ease—but think a Moment,
Be not too rash—let us not cast away
Those Lives, that are the only Hopes of Corinth.
Our Passions—

Olin.
Let 'em centre in Revenge.
The Sun's expanded Beams are weak and faint,
But burn, and blaze, collected in a Point;
And to this Point I all my Actions turn,
My Vengeance—

Timol.
Thou shalt have it.

Olin.
Nay, I will.
Not all his Friends shall save him from my Rage;
If unassisted—Be it so—Alone
I'll cut my way out to Revenge.

Timol.
Thro' me?

Olin.
Thro' all that check my Passage to the Tyrant.

Æsc.
Olinthus, Patience.

Olin.
Patience! Do you think
The mangled Wrech, fixt to the torturing Rack,
Amidst convulsive Throes and Agonies,
Can think of Patience? Ha! How then can I?
'Tis Mockery to a bleeding Heart like mine.

Timol.
Olinthus, stay!

Olin.
And wherefore shou'd we stay?
A Mind at Ease, like yours, may talk of Patience
Displaying the Philosopher and Hero.
What do you suffer 'midst the general Wrongs?
'Tis not your Cause—Your Family and you
Gain by our Loss, and rise by Corinth's Fall.

Timol.
Olinthus, from my Soul I pity thee;
Pity thy racking, agonizing Pains.
For oh! so well I know thy honest Heart,
Nothing but Sorrow workt up to Distraction
Cou'd make thee wrong me thus. What do I gain?
What Pow'r, what Titles! No, my Friend; I tell thee,
That all the Honours which this World can give,
If built on the Destruction of one Man,
Timoleon would reject.

Olin.
What have I said?
Rage, Duty, Grief, Revenge, and Pity meeting,
Raise up a Hurricane within my Soul,
That puts out ev'ry Light of Reason in me.
Can you forgive me?

Timol.
Yes, and pity thee.

Olin.
My Father!

Timol.
'Tis a World to suffer in:
But be assur'd, my Friend, I suffer with thee.
Thy Grief is here, it festers in my Bosom;
I feel it all.

Æsc.
Timoleon! Noble Lord!
Thy Country begs her Liberty of thee.
From thee she seeks Redress of all her Wrongs;
Of thee she asks her Peace, her Laws, her Altars.

Olin.
From thee she hopes, of thee demands Revenge,
Revenge, for all her slaughter'd Sons and Heroes.

Timol.
O Æschylus! Olinthus! Friends! Believe me,
And witness Jove! be witness ev'ry God!
If in Timoleon's Pow'r our Freedom lies,
Let Death in its most ghastly Forms surround me,
I will not take one Moment's Pause to think.

Æsc.
Thro' this embower'd Vista view the Tyrant;
Sullen and pensive issuing from yon Gloom.
This Way he bends his Steps.

Timol.
Retire, my Friends,
Unseen retire—Trust all your Cares with me,
They are my own.

Olin.
I trust thee with my Vengeance.

[Exeunt.
Timol.
Retire with speed; he comes—Be firm, my Temper,
Firm as a Rock, that I may meet unruffl'd
This bold, bad Man.—O Heav'n! that I shou'd live
To call a Brother so!

Enter Timophanes.
Timop.
Timoleon!

Timol.
Yes, thou may'st start, Timophanes; a Mind
So plung'd in Guilt, is never free from Fear.

Timop.
From Fear? Of thee?

Timol.
Of ev'ry one thou'st wrong'd.
And thou hast wrong'd thy Brother.

Timop.
Wrong'd thee! Ha!

Timol.
Me thou hast wrong'd, ungrateful as thou art,
Ungrateful to thy Brother, and thy Friend!
And oh! ungrateful to thy Country too!

Timop.
Timoleon!—

Timol.
Treacherous to thy Vows and Trust!
To insult o'er ev'ry Law divine and human,
Usurp a Power, which neither Heav'n approves,
Nor Earth can bear.

Timop.
Hold! for thou know'st my Temper,
And therefore thou shoud'st fear to urge it thus.
Tho' Heav'n, tho' Earth Combine, I will maintain
The Crown I wear, and shew that I deserve it.

Timol.
What is this Pow'r, whose Lust enflames you so?
Is it to be a King? To range unquestion'd
Thro' each dark Maze of Guilt, of Death, and Rapine?
Is't to dissolve in Softness, and in Riots?
Is it to reign o'er Ignorance and Vice?
For Wisdom droops where Tyranny prevails.
Oppression ever is the Grave of Virtue.
If there is one, who's form'd to be a King,
He must be wise, be merciful, and brave;
Of Virtue, Learning, and of Arts the Patron;
Studious his Country's Interest to know,
And active to pursue it—Just to his Word,
Courteous, familiar to his People's View,
Hope of th'Opprest, and Dread of the Oppressor.
This is a King; he is a Father too,
The publick Father; for where Kings shou'd reign,
He seeks his Empire in the People's Hearts.

Timop.
Be it thy Province to amuse thy self
With vain Distinctions! mine, to enjoy my Pow'r!
Pow'r! 'tis the fav'rite Attribute of Gods,
Who look with Smiles on Men, who can aspire
To Copy them—If there are Gods, they Smile.

Timol.
If there are Gods!—The Wretch who dares to doubt,
Who Moral Good and Ill thinks empty Names,
Can see no Crimes, and therefore acts 'em all.

Timop.
Timoleon, hear me! for thy own sake, hear me!
And weigh a Brother's Love by what I offer.
With me thou shalt enjoy the Regal Pow'r;
With me!—

Timol.
Hold! no more! I must not hear thee.
The Man, who pauses on his Honesty,
Wants little of the Villain. Coud'st thou think
Timoleon wou'd not startle at Corruption?
The impious Man, who sells his Country's Freedom,
Makes all the Guilt of Tyranny his own.
His are her Slaughters, her Oppressions his.
Just Heav'n! reserve your choicest Plagues for him,
And blast the Venal Wretch!

Timop.
Stupid and vain!
Is this thy Way to Glory, and to Fame?

Timol.
Heav'n judge me, if I'm covetous of Glory!
Of any, but restoring to Mankind
Their Laws, their Freedom!—What is Fame, or Grandeur?
If Honour must be the Ignoble Barter?
Know, that Timoleon thinks it nobler far
To raise declining Virtue, and support
A sinking State, than hold a World in Chains.

Timop.
No more—If Safety be thy Choice, no more.

Timol.
Safety! I scorn the mean, inglorious Thought.
No, in the Name of Liberty I stand,
A Foe to Tyrants.

Timop.
And a Foe to me?

Timol.
To thee! O, no! Timophanes! I'd save thee,
If possible, wou'd save thee.

Timop.
No, 'tis false.
Thou Traytor!

Timol.
Rash! abusive Man!
Vain is thy Anger, for it stirs not me;
Unconscious of thy Charge, unmov'd I hear it.

Timop.
Because thou hast not Spirit to resent it,
Coward as thou art.

Timol.
This cannot move Timoleon.
These are not Injuries, while Corinth suffers.
Coward! remember—But I'll not reproach thee.
Thou art—

Timop.
What?

Timol.
My Brother.

Timop.
'Tis false, I am not.
The Kindred I disown, with Scorn disown;
Henceforth I will esteem thee as a Slave.

Timol.
Yet hear me, for by Heav'n I yet wou'd save thee.

Timop.
Away!

Timol.
Ruin hangs nodding o'er thy Head.
Thy Fate's suspended but at my Request.

Timop.
At thy Request?

Timol.
At mine—Revenge pursues thee,
Here it pursu'd thee.

Timop.
Ha! who were the Russians?

Timol.
What Action of my Life has been so base,
That thou shoud'st think I wou'd betray my Friends?

Timop.
Thy Friends?

Timol.
Yes, mine; Mine and my Country's Friends.

Timop.
Dissembler!—This thy Friendship!—hence, thou Trifler!

Timol.
Timophanes, I leave thee to thy Choice;
And think, O think! thou hast not long to chuse,
Thy Death, or Life, thy Infamy, or Honour.

[Exit.
Timop.
Ha! what! am I a King, and menac'd thus?
Who are these lurking Traytors?—But no matter.
Let 'em Conspire; I'll meet 'em like my self.
Since they dare murmur; like an Angry God,
Dreadful I'll rise, and bow 'em to my Nod.
Singly will stand the Atlas of the State,
With Mind intrepid, scornful of their Hate,
Assert my Throne, and dare opposing Fate.