University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

King and Nicanor.
King.
Unsay thy false Report, thou wrong'st my Son.
To all a Father's Fondness this Return?
What shun us, beg permission to absent,
Retire unseen, nor taint the gen'ral Joy?
What! when he knew the very Source of Joy
Is dead by this Reply? that ev'n our Bride
With all the tempting Warmth of Youth and Love,
With all the Richness of untasted Charms,
Scarce keeps Desire alive?

Nican.
He feign'd indeed
Indisposition as from long Fatigues,
Heav'n grant the Cause no worse.

King.
Nicanor, peace!

Nican.
Your Majesty commands, and I have done:
Yet—

King.
Ay, by that thou would'st suggest 'tis hard,
This Sickness could not chuse another Day,
Times less suspicious: but thou say'st he pleads
A real Sickness; why, it may be so,
It must: I would not, to preserve my Crown,
Mistrust another Cause. I know him Loyal,
And wrong myself to doubt the Mind I form'd
The Copy of my own; I gave the Steps
That led to Glory, he pursu'd the Track,
And with as sure Success repaid my Care:
To crown the whole, survey his present Conquest;
Thrice has the stoutest Captain of our Age
Attack'd our Frontiers, thrice been beaten back,
And taught to curse a beardless Victor's Sword.

Nican.
[aside ...]
And I have equal cause to curse it too;
But I must stifle my resenting Choler,
And praise the Virtue I have sworn to ruin. [... aside]

Perish that canker'd Tongue that dares deny
The Merit of those Deeds th'attesting World
With Dread commends, as it foresaw in him
A second Alexander's Soul transfus'd,
Its second Conquest, and its future Lord;
You gave his Breast these Ardours of Ambition,
Ambition is a Soldier's Thirst for Power,
What then? too nobly has your gen'rous Son
Approv'd his Duty, to alarm Suspicion;
Or Signs of Disaffection strong as his,
In any other Prince, that stood like him
The Heir to tempting Sway and promis'd Crowns,
Less lov'd, or less deserving Father's Love,
Might intimate beware.

King.
Furies and Madness!
Where tend these racking, double-meaning Sounds?
Equivocating Torturer! I swear
Thou art a Traytor; Envy and Revenge
Thus prompt thy Rancour.

Nican.
Does Nicanor live
Thus to be branded? No, was I a Traytor,
I had not given you grounds to call me so;
I might have check'd this ill-requited Zeal,
Stifled these Fears of Loyalty, and let
The threatning Danger, undetected, sleep:
Yet, fearless of your Rage, I'll dare to serve you:
A Father's Fondness sees not through the Eye
Of searching Policy the Son's Disease;
If he is sick, he's sick of Discontent,
Perhaps his tow'ring Genius brooks but ill
Your second Marriage, as his jealous Pride,
From a new Line of rival Kindred, dreads
A future Bar to his ambitious Hopes:
He had the sole Inheritance in view,
So fair a Prospect may seem lessen'd now,
And they may claim a Dividend of Empire.

King.
Curse on thy subtle Mischief-searching Brain!
What sets thee on to play this Sorcery here?
Take this thy ill-feign'd Honesty's Reward,
When next thy saucy treasonable Zeal
Shall dare approach us with its poisonous Taint,
Thy forfeit Head shall feel its first Effects.
[Exit King.

Nican.
Quick-sighted as you are, you shall not thus
Escape my Snare; these Menaces but whet
Ingenious Malice to a sure Dispatch,
As Insults o'er a Coward give him Soul
To act the Vengeance they would seem to scorn.
Enter Cleartes.
Cleartes! so, whence came you?

Clear.
From a Sight,
That makes e'en Hatred mourn the Woes it wish'd;
They who have Wrongs, are fully now reveng'd,
Without their Guilt: your Pardon, if my Eyes
Betray a Weakness, whilst my Tongue relates
The Horrors they have witness'd, when instead
Of a triumphant Conqueror, they saw
Conquest in Tears, and Triumph in Despair,
The eager Love of an adoring Court
Paid to a gallant, young, victorious Prince,
In pensive Looks, and Hearts that strove to shew
The greatest Duty by the deepest Grief;
But then the Prince himself—

Nican.
I guess thy Tale.

Clear.
A Change so sudden, a Disease so fierce,
That works with such a dangerous Dispatch,
Yet baffles all the nicest Search of Art,
And keeps its Source unknown! but see, the Friendship
Of young Arsaces pleads with most Success;
For him alone, Antiochus allows
His Pangs an Ease he grudges while he grants,
As Death were all his Choice, and each lost Moment
He gives to Comfort's Voice, with sad Regret
He steals from Griefs he wish'd to cherish on,
And puts his courted Fate the longer off.
Observe them, here they come.

Enter Antiochus and Arsaces.
Ant.
My gallant Friend,
What will this cruel Kindness never cease?
Still will thy lavish Heart upbraid a Wretch,
With Shame-reflecting Views of what he owes,
By giving on to swell the vast Account?
I do thy Virtues wrong, to keep thee leagu'd
To one whose Soul is from this Moment dead
To every future Call of Fame, or Thee.
Let War's rough Musick animate the Brave,
With Notes of Glory charm the Martial Ear,
Antiochus is deaf; let Tyrant's Arms
Enslave the plunder'd Globe; it groans in vain:
My Sword is drawn no more to set it free.

Arsa.
Now, by a Soldier's Pride, I will not hear
This unbecoming Lethargy of Thought:
Let Coward Agues, and Dismay attend
The Standards of the Beaten; let Lysimachus,
Pressing his pensive Couch in shiv'ring Fits,
Survey the Scandal of his late Defeat;
Shall you make up his Loss? against himself
The Victor lend an Arm? Alas! my Friend,
This Malady infects not you alone,
'Tis not a single Life you throw away;
The Rivers stagnate when their Fountains die,
Your mould'ring Troops admit the same Disease,
And sicken with their Leader.

Ant.
Oh Arsaces!
Give me another Heart, I'll hear thee on,
Make me but what I was, when yester Sun
Play'd on my burnish'd Helm, and by the Gods,
Warm'd for a second Field of bloody Laurels,
Glory again usurps my swelling Thoughts;
Again the proud Lysimachus shall shake,
And curse the gen'rous Tye that leagues against him
Confederate Souls like ours: This might have been,
Had Heaven revers'd the Order of the Year,
And from its Round expung'd this fatal Day,
This Day, that led my erring Zeal to Court,
First taught me what was Woe, by heaping on me
All its severe Variety at once.

Nican.
[aside ...]
Cleartes, 'tis as my Suspicions thought,
His Looks, his Words all shew he is Pride-sick;
The Father's Marriage is the Son's Disease. [... aside]

My Lord the Queen approaches.

Ant.
Lightning blast me!
Wanted there this, ye Powers, to damn me more?
Arsaces, come, I must, I will avoid her.

Enter Stratonice.
Strat.
The Prince! Destruction surely guides my Steps.
I am betray'd, Oh charming! dangerous Guilt!
Abandon'd Woman! whither stray thy Thoughts?
See, see, the Prince avoids thee, loaths thy Sight,
Return the Insult, and repay his Hate;
Secure thy Fame, and fly thy Virtue's Bane.

Ant.
Enchantment roots me here! by all the Hell
Her Eyes strike through and through my burning Soul,
I have no power to move, my Coward Limbs
Desert me with my Heart; as when in Dreams,
Tho Dangers in their utmost Horrors glare,
And shew the tortur'd Sleeper no Release,
But Flight; nor Flight avails, in vain he plyes
His Feet to wing him off, his Feet stand still,
Or measure back their Steps, till in the Jaws
Of Fate the Wretch is lost. Distraction! Devils!

Strat.
You seem disorder'd, Sir: I fear, alas!
My Presence gives you Pain.

Ant.
It does, it does:
Yet stay, your Absence now would give me more.
Methinks I feign would tell you—but no matter,
Why should I feast you with a Tale of Woe,
Furnish with new Delights your greedy Hatred,
And make the Knowledge of my Pains assist
The barb'rous Pleasures of this Nuptial Day?

Strat.
Ay, there's the secret Source of your Disease;
You cannot brook the Happiness I boast,
When I declare myself your Father's Bride.

Ant.
Do you then think the Happiness so great?

Strat.
It seems you doubt it, judge the Task too hard
For the warm Wishes of a youthful Queen
To be resign'd to Duty, meet content
The cold Caresses of a hoary Lord:
But know you do me wrong; Seleucus, spite
Of all the Disadvantages of Age,
Wears every Charm to bless my utmost Wish,
And would have nothing wanting to preserve
An everlasting Harmony of Joys,
Wanted he yet a Son.

Ant.
And am I then
So very hateful to you?

Strat.
'Tis my Pride
To tell you that you are, as 'tis my Care
To force you to believe it.

Ant.
Triumph, do,
Barb'rous Insulter! Oh that half the Pride
That nurses this Aversion in your Soul,
Would lend Revenge to me! and teach my Heart
To meet regardless this avow'd Contempt!
To do its Wrongs full Justice on your Scorn,
And brave your Hatred!

Strat.
No, you need it not;
Of Hatred you already have enough;
Go on, it shews the Hero I approve,
T'encounter my Disdain, and match my Pride:
Farewell, brave Prince, enhance my Pleasure still,
Believe me still thy Foe, believe the worst
That can provoke your Hate; then bless Stratonice
With a Return as haughty as you please.
Nicanor, wait me to the King.

[Exeunt Strat. and Nic.
Arsa.
She's gone—

Ant.
Say'st thou she's gone? Oh! no, she still is here;
Her last harsh Accents still breathe Fate before me,
Absent she haunts me more: this Tyrant Mother
In every Object, and in every Thought,
Preys on my poison'd Heart; and yet methinks
I do her Justice wrong: She bids me hate,
Yes, my Arsaces, thou didst hear her give
The cruel kind Command—but Oh the Power!
Not multiply'd Affronts, not all the Pangs,
Not the worst Tortures of the worst Disease,
The Curse of hopeless Love, can in the least
Give to thy ruin'd Friend.

Arsa.
Why name you Love?

Ant.
Why does the shipwreck'd Sailor blame the Skies,
The high-swoln Sea, and inauspicious Wind,
But that a watry Grave each moment gapes
To take the Dastard in? Alas, Arsaces,
Like him I'm shipwreck'd, bulge against the Rocks,
And sink with all the Billows of Despair:
But Oh my Storm is Love.

Arsa.
Amazement! Sure
You curse yourself with voluntary Pains;
Love and Despair afflict Plebeian Souls,
Enjoyment ought to meet each Wish you form:
Is there a Beauty in your Father's Court,
That with a matchless Excellence provokes
The Women's Envy and the Men's Desire,
Seleucus' Heir can languish for in vain?

Ant.
Yes, yes, there is: the Furies never nurs'd
A Flame so fierce as acts its Ravage here.
What have I said? I have laid open all
This Mystery of Darkness and Despair;
Gods! let me still despair, 'tis all my Comfort!
Could I be once so wretched as to hope
For the Fruition of my impious Love,
Damnation were a Punishment too light.

Arsa.
Heav'ns! can I think he intimates the Queen?

Ant.
Who's he that dares believe me so abandon'd,
To think the Queen, my Father's Wife, has Charms
For any but my Father, least of all
His Son? And yet, Oh ye infernal Judges!
The proud Ixion woo'd the Wife of Jove:
Unfix the daring Mortal from the Wheel,
I have dar'd equal Crimes, let me relieve
The tortur'd Criminal, and take my Round,
My sentenc'd Age of equal Vengeance too.

Arsa.
Tortures and Vengeance! by the God of War,
I do adjure you, force not my big Soul
Thus to disgrace its Friendship in a Flood
Of female Softness and enervate Pity.
Have you Desires that unaccomplish'd raise
This Hurricane of Rage and Height of Frenzy,
Name them, Arsaces lends a willing Arm
To give you wish'd Enjoyment: Think, Oh think,
My Bosom feels the Taint, to see in this
Degenerate Plight of impotent Complainings,
The Friend, the Soldier, and the Captain lost.

Ant.
Ay, as thou say'st, 'tis impotent indeed:
So lost, so poor of Spirit, so accurs'd,
Is he that was Antiochus, that was
The Hope of Empire, and what most my Soul
Confess'd its Pride, the brave Arsaces' Friend;
That, Woman-like, he sinks his Heart in Griefs
He dares not hope to end, but with himself.

Arsa.
My Friend, I would not for the Bribe of Empires
There liv'd another Witness—

Ant.
Fruitless Caution!
Be it my Crime's full Punishment to glare
In open Day, and give the babbling World
Materials for their darling Theme of Scandal:
Let them assault me with the rankest Gall
Of just Abhorrence, and deserv'd Reproach;
Let the recording Annals hand me down
(Should future Ages need the dire Example)
The blackest Pattern of the blackest Guilt.
But wherefore do I use this Stoick Aid,
Preach o'er the Wounds, which Honour bids me chafe
To fiercer Smarts and aggravated Frenzy?
And now, methinks, the Fates obey my Wishes,
The Fever grows upon me, let it grow:
For Oh each Moment of retarded Life
Is added Weight of unrepented Crimes:
Welcome this swift Decay of sick'ning Nature;
My Limbs sink under the prodigious Load
Of Horror that I carry in my Breast.
Arsaces, aid me hence; I hope, my Friend,
'Tis the last Trouble I shall live to give you.

Arsa.
Better the Flower of all your Army mourn'd,
In Streams of Blood, the Shame of a Defeat.
A short Repose may give you happier Thoughts.

Ant.