University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Nicanor and Cleartes.
Nican.
Joy! didst thou say a Day of gen'ral Joy?
No, no, Cleartes, you and I, my Friend,
Are Strangers to the Triumph. True, the King
Is happy to his utmost Stretch of Hope;
This Day surrenders to his eager Arms
The dear Expence of many a thousand Sighs,
And all the Tortures of impatient Love:
And (as each Star was brib'd to do him pleasure)
Glory's his Vassal, and Success his Slave;
War's happy Laurels with the Myrtle twin'd,
In such abundance grace his ample Brow,
That e'en, if possible, his very Transports
A while are lost by crowding on too fast.

Clear.
But by whose Arm were those Atchievements wrought,
That add these Laurels to his Father's Pomp?
Antiochus—

Nican.
Yes, yes, ye Gods, I thank ye;
'Tis he, the Rival Boy whose stripling Fame
Will, in a senseless, partial, fawning Court,
Throw my as-well experienc'd Merit out
To worse than Envy, to accurs'd Oblivion.
Thou know'st I was the General—but no more,
I've other Wounds; past Injuries are lost
In th'Apprehension of far worse to come:
Thou say'st the Prince Arsaces, as in Friendship,
Brother in Arms, and Partner in the War,
Comes with Antiochus, to claim, O Hell!
For his vain Services no mean Reward,
The richest fairest Gem our Empire holds;
Semandra—there—

Clear.
Nay, now indeed I blame you:
Is that a Wound that's worthy a Complaint,
A Sigh, a Moment's Torture from my Friend?
Would Great Nicanor like Nicanor act,
Quick from his Thought the Trifle is eras'd,
And the inglorious Ruin charms no more.

Nican.
Reproach me, do; true, thou mayst make me blush,
With Shame confess, but not amend my Crime:
An Age of honest Service ill repaid,
My Fame o'erthrown, cashier'd from my Command;
Why dost thou think I stoop'd to this Disgrace,
And bent my stubborn Soul to be as mean
As Fortune was ungrateful? Why, for her;
Each Moment that her Beauties rose to Thought,
Each Moment more and more I was a Slave,
Disgrace was no Disgrace, her Father's Frowns
Esteem'd as Honours, so I liv'd but near her:
But what is all this wretched Pleasure now?
What has my double Servitude done for me?
I fawn'd, I won on the believing King
To keep me Partner in his Councils still;
Still I beheld the Royal Charmer's Eyes,
Still I work'd on against opposing Fate,
But still Destruction came: Behold th'Event!

Clear.
Then like yourself resolve upon the Cure.

Nican.
What Cure but Vengeance?

Clear.
Level'd against whom?

Nican.
All, all that are my Foes.

Clear.
Excepting her
That holds your Heart, has she receiv'd your Vows?

Nican.
Love, ever anxious, ever under awe,
Struggling to plead, yet fearful to offend,
Bad me conceal, what by Concealment burns
With heighten'd Fury. Fair Semandra knows not,
But thro the dumb Devotion of my Eyes,
The Heart that throbs with Love, and pants for her.

Clear.
If hitherto unsafe, it will be far
More dang'rous to divulge the Secret now.

Nican.
Thou know'st, Cleartes, with what open Faith
I lean upon thy Friendship; e'er an Hour,
Thou shalt partake each Counsel of my Soul,
And such, I may depend on't, thou'lt believe
Worthy myself to form, and thee to share.
But see our Monarch's new-espous'd Stratonice
Bends this way, but methinks with such a Mein,
So pensive, with such Looks of ill-tim'd Grief,
That one would swear, whilst Nature rather ought
In artless, Traytor Blushes to betray
How the Soul glow'd for unexperienc'd Joys,
Love's promis'd Scene, a Husband's first Embrace,
She mourn'd a Husband's Loss—But she is here:
My present Plan of Mischief calls us hence.

[Exit Nic. and Clear.
Enter Stratonice and Imene.
Strat.
How ill this flatt'ring Pageantry becomes
A Heart so long familiar with Despair!
Oh glorious Badges of severest Woe!
In Ruin rich, industriously cruel,
To feed my Frenzy with your glitt'ring Horrors,
And tell me I am wedded to a Crown:
Fatal Ascent! for ever lost Stratonice!

Ime.
Madam, restrain this Mutiny of Grief,
On such a Day, when Great Seleucus bids
One loud continu'd Iö-Pœan rise,
Waft to the Sky th'Abundance of his Bliss,
And sums the Centre of that Bliss in you;
Oh do not with this envious Burst of Tears
Delude the gen'ral Joy, delude a King
That loves to such Excess.

Strat.
Peace! wherefore would'st thou tell
The Bankrupt Wretch his Miseries are more
Than yet he apprehends?—But I, alas!
Am sure acquainted with the Height of mine:
Thou say'st the King—nay more—Oh merciless Fate!
For he demands a nearer Title now,
My Husband loves me: Is there aught the Powers
In fuller Rigour could have doom'd their Slave,
Than what I suffer now? This guilty Hand
Has wrong'd the expecting King, undone myself:
I gave this Hand in Promise of such Joys
As he shall never, never reap from me;
The Compact's void, my Heart declares it void.

Ime.
If this Aversion was at first conceiv'd,
Why did you not long, long e'er this oppose
What now you mourn too late?

Strat.
I know not why,
But that it was decreed I should be wretched:
I was in league with Fate against myself,
I knew my Father sent me to this Court
To knit the Bands of their Alliance more
By such a Marriage; yet I knew withall,
Tho Duty urg'd the hard Injunction much,
And Disobedience aw'd me with a Curse,
Disinterested Love rejected all,
Look'd down on Empire with a pitying Scorn,
And shew'd me Crowns and Diadems were there,
Where Passions blended, and Souls met each other.
Then why, Imene, why am I indeed
This very Wretch I dreaded to be made,
This Royal Victim, voluntary Slave
To painful Greatness and detested Nuptials?
Oh I could tell thee, but the Gods forbid
A Thought so inconsistent with itself,
A Thought so fraught with Dread, and big with Guilt,
Should be unfolded now.

Ime.
It cannot be;
The chaste Stratonice can ne'er have Thoughts,
But may be trusted to Imene's Ear.

Strat.
What trust it to another! 'tis too much
That to myself 'tis known. Oh Virtue! why
Do I allow it known, when doing so
I authorize the Crime, and blindly give
More loose to the invading Ruin still?

Ime.
Now on my Knees I do request you tell me.

Strat.
Did'st thou not call me Chaste? And Heav'n desert me
When most I need its Aid, if e'er my Soul
Repines at Years of Tortures, be their Edge
Sharp as the furious Pangs that rend me now,
To keep inviolate that sacred Name.
Rage on, ye burning Devastations, rage;
'Tis just you point your venom'd Stings on her,
That gave your foster'd Mischiefs Harbour first.

Ime.
Madam, you rave.

Strat.
And it is fit I should:
Can Hurricanes descend, and Seas be calm?
Can pinching Hunger feed on Golden Dreams?
Can fierce Convulsions shake the fev'rish Frame,
And Reason keep its Empire o'er the Mind?
Can Misery cease to mourn, and Bondage smile?
Can Love—But what have I to do with Love?
Oh Horror! and yet Ætna's Fires are cold,
Its Terrors trifling to the Sulphur here:
Oh Gods the Pain! Oh full Extent of Madness!
Wild Contradiction! languish for a Curse,
And pine for what I wish not to enjoy.

Ime.
Alas you think not on the dire Event;
Think not, whilst thus you waste your gloomy Hours,
How much the King upbraids your tardy Love,
And wonders at your Absence; nay, when more
Than double Triumphs pierce the echoing Dome,
To hail the Fortune his returning Son
Brings on his Victor Sword: for now, ev'n now,
The News is brought of his Approach.

Strat.
Then all is o'er:
Fate has at last been kind, I and my Woes
Are ended now at once.

[Faints.
Ime.
Good Heaven, in pity
Disperse these Sorrows that o'erpow'r her Senses:
Yet there is Hope, returning Spirits swell
Her heaving Breast, and speak recover'd Life.
How fare you?

Strat.
Thou hast seen a supple Plant,
The poor insulted Mark of many a Storm,
That bends to ev'ry Blast, as thinking each
To be its last, yet still revives to more;
Thou see'st thy Mistress now, just so is she,
A sickly Being, form'd the Sport of Fate,
To shake with ev'ry Buffet of its Rage,
Unfit to live, and yet forbid to die.

Ime.
Madam, disguise your Griefs; the King is here.

Enter the King.
King.
Who have their Griefs? whose Tears are treasur'd up
To flow within our Court, upon a Day
Sacred to Joy, Stratonice, and Love?
While Dungeons revel, and partake my Triumphs,
Who talks of dying? What our Queen! away,
Vanish these Thoughts, live, and enjoy an Empire
That stretches wide as the victorious Arms
Of my Antiochus extend their Terrors:
Live, and enjoy those Laurels that a Son,
So rich in gallant Deeds, and strong in Fame,
Plucks from the Pride of Victory for you.

Strat.
Oh Misery! Misery! what can I reply!
Blindly his Ignorance inflames the Wound
His Fondness strives to cure: Great Gods, my Agonies!
He thinks to charm me with the Godlike Worth
Of his Illustrious Son, unknowing yet,
To all our Ruins, I am charm'd too much.

[Aside.
King.
Nay, I must charge thee with Unkindness now;
Are these the Transports of a Bridal Day?
This the vast Harvest of luxuriant Raptures,
Love flatter'd me to hope without Alloy?
Was there a Wish, since first thy Beauties drew me,
Since first my willing Soul put on your Chains,
My Fancy ever form'd, but thou wast there
A Part, or rather all? Ungenerous Mourner!
Like Men that follow Glory in a Dream,
And lose their Idol whilst they stretch to grasp it,
Am I at last, by having all I wish'd
So near within my power, the more deceiv'd,
And further from the sweet Possession still?

Strat.
I own, my Lord, with Justice you condemn
A Wretch that stands already self-condemn'd:
Whence, think you, flow these Tears? they flow for you:
What are these Griefs but your Avengers all?

King.
Confusion! fall these Tears on my account?
What hast thou done to urge Revenge from me?
Mysterious Frenzy! from a Heart that beats
With eager Longings, and o'erflows with Fondness?
But wherefore do I listen to Destruction?
Why do I give these mimick Terrors way?
There's not a Sound malevolent to Love
My Coward Fears shall henceforth dare admit:
Nay, should it come from thee, Suspicion hence,
And haunt the black caballing Traytor's Breast,
Or be the Murth'rer's Curse, my Bride and I
Be Strangers to thy Poison. Come, my Stratonice,
Enough thy Virgin Doubts have paid the Debt
That Modesty demands, Love summons now.

Strat.
Must I dissemble? Oh ye Gods forgive
The Fraud your matchless Tyrannies require.
[Aside.
Excuse these Struggles of my Maiden Pride;
You say that Duty claims me, take me hence,
Bear me away, and hide me from myself,
For I confess I love, to Madness love.

King.
Oh great Amends for Ages of Despair!
Musick to lift the Soul beyond a Power
Of bearing the Delight! Thus, thus, my Queen,
I take the Earnest of my future Joys;
Look down, ye Gods, and envy happier Man
Your own fair Gifts, whilst thus Seleucus thanks ye.

Strat.
To what am I arriv'd? Most monstrous Practice!
Blind in his Hopes, he credits what he wishes,
Nor sees the lurking-Ill; whilst pleasing Guile
Flatters the Father I adore the Son.
Antiochus—Hell! lash my tortur'd Senses
With any Thought but that, and I'll be happy yet.

[Aside.
King.
Oh charming Proof of Innocence and Love!
I find thy anxious Bosom labours yet
With the becoming Strife.
Enter Cleartes.
Welcome, Cleartes,
Thy Looks seem flush'd with some important News,
And such as may command our Welcome too:
I guess thy Message; of our Son?

Clear.
Of Him,
Who comes in Person to confirm the Fortune
Fame gave imperfect to our Hopes before;
A short Hour's March will give him to your Arms.

King.
This is indeed to feel the Smiles of Fortune,
When all her lavish Good pours in so fast,
As if industrious to prevent the Crime
Of wishing half her unexpected Bounty.
Heav'ns such a Day! that ev'n my Minutes teem
With Joys too mighty for another's Year;
Where-e'er I turn my Eyes, they feast on Raptures,
Stratonice attracts their gladden'd Rays;
Where-e'er my Thoughts soar boundless, Raptures still
Form the luxurious Scene, and draw them in.

Strat.
Why feel not I such guiltless Raptures too?
No, no, my Heart's my Enemy, myself
My own severest Curse; I am all one Cloud
Of Darkness and Despair.

[Aside.
King.
Cleartes, go,
Let Triumph swell its Note yet louder still;
We tax our whole Dominions to discharge
Our Gratitude to Heav'n: search every Look,
Who dare to shew a gloomy Face rebel,
Whose Brows contemptuous frown, they frown their last,
Since I'm their Monarch, and my Debt is theirs.
But whilst we loiter, we ourselves are guilty,
And lose th'Enjoyment of those Gifts we praise:
Come, my Stratonice, the publick Joys
Will not allow a Moment's Absence more,
This Day the Pride and Luxury of Empire
Is all prepar'd to charm thee from thy Fears,
Sooth thee to Bliss, and fashion thee to Love.

Strat.
Such vain precarious Pomp let others prove,
Bliss of a different kind my Miseries crave,
For Purple Robes a Shrowd, and for my Throne a Grave.

[Exeunt.