University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Semandra and Arsaces.
Sem.
This is no Time, my Lord, for you to plead,
Or me to listen to a Tale of Love;
Now when my most unhappy Brother wastes
In the last Agonies of doubtful Life:
When all the Strength of Antioch shakes in him,
The Pride of Empire, and the Theme of Fame,
What can a Sister's Breast admit but Grief?
The Tyrant Malady has reach'd his Brain,
And plays its Ravage in the Seat of Reason;
Wildness of Looks, an incoherent Chain
Of Words resulting from some black Ideas,
Speak more and more the Danger of his Sickness:
In vain his mourning Friends request the Cause,
Regardless of a Cure, he slights their Tears,
And laughs at his Physician's baffled Skill.

Arsa.
Think not, my Fair, your Brother's threatned Fate
Alarms my anxious Bosom less than yours;
The noblest Tye of Friendship knits him here,
As dearly held my Brother as your own:
But Oh! since thus your generous Nature works
In Pity's tender Task, think, lovely Maid,
Your Lover claims a share; it is too much,
Too much to forfeit Love and Friendship too.
Heav'n in compassion to the Prince's Virtues,
To your good Father's, and the People's Prayers,
May yet relent, and give your Brother back
To Life, to Friendship, Empire, and Himself:
But where's the Remedy for slighted Love?

Sem.
Why will you triumph o'er a Woman's Weakness,
Use ill your Conquest, and insult my Blushes?
Already have I own'd how much I held
Your Merit in esteem; yet know, my Lord,
Till whiter Hours shall justify my Conduct,
In giving the Reward your Virtue claims,
You wrong me to upbraid me with a Debt
Fate wo'not let me pay.

Arsa.
Mean while, Semandra,
Whilst I am only flatter'd with the Pangs
Of distant Hope, and anxious Expectation,
My Rival riots in the real Joy,
By lawful Force usurps thy Virgin Bed.
Nicanor! curse the Statesman! could his Wiles
Shew the ambitious Fiend no other Mark
To work their subtle Ends, but Love must bleed,
And sever'd Hearts be Victims to his Pride?

Sem.
Ungenerous Treatment! Can you then suspect
Another claims a Share within the Heart
My artless Pity had bestow'd before?
Do you conclude me then so loose of Will,
From my too kind Attention to your own,
Each vain Man's Vows may with the same Success
Gain on my easy Faith? Nay more, the Wretch
Whose very Name is Poison to provoke
As dire Abhorrence, as his Love Disdain.

Arsa.
I doubt not thee, my Excellence! the Snows,
When just descending thro' the purging Air,
Are rival'd in their Whiteness by thy Worth:
Yet as I love, I must repeat my Fears;
Still do I dread how far he may improve
His Interest with thy Father, still I dread
Stratonice's Resentment may extend
To all whom Friendship to your Brother's Cause
Makes criminal to her.

Sem.
'Tis strange, the Queen,
Mild as a Southern Breeze to all besides,
Should treat the Prince alone with such a Storm
Of Anger and Aversion: but Arsaces,
Thro' every Turn and Hurricane of Fate,
May claim a Harbour here; Semandra's Heart
Is guarded still for You, and You alone.

Arsa.
Oh Extasy! low'r on ye Clouds of Danger!
This Musick breaks ye all, and bids my Soul
Exalted swell with nought but Love and Thee.

Sem.
But let me warn you yet, for all our Safeties,
For our own Loves, and for my Brother's Fame:
The King (tho' Father never lov'd a Son
With greater Fondness) by the dang'rous Wiles
Of this intriguing Statesman, is at last
Wrought to believe this Illness of his Son
The Guilt of Discontent; and tho' indeed
The bare Suggestion of a Thought so base
Turn'd the first Efforts of my Father's Rage
Against the Traytor's self: within an Hour,
So well the crafty Villain play'd his Part,
Not only to his former Height restor'd,
But to accumulated Grace; he stands
In double Credit with the cheated King.

Arsa.
Perdition sink him! I am lost again,
His Rise is my Destruction.

Sem.
See, he comes,
With the big Air of most assur'd Success:
Leave me, my Lord, to meet him with the Scorn
His sawcy Pride and Arrogance deserve.

[Exit Arsaces.
Enter Nicanor.
Nican.
Still, Madam, must my bleeding Griefs complain,
Those Eyes that spread their gentle Lustre round,
And yield, with modest Charms, Delight to all,
Are taught the cruel Task to frown on me?
If the petition'd Gods will deign to hear
The meanest that shall kneel with honest Vows,
As you resemble them in every Power
To save, or to destroy, permit me hope
That noblest saving Attribute inspires
Redress, and Pity to the suppliant Wretch,
Who begs you to accept the Vassal Heart
Your Eyes first taught to know the Rage of Love.

Sem.
Such tastless Flatt'ry, Sir, is lost on me:
If I am like the Gods, it shall be those,
Whose Power of Vengeance glows with ready Bolts,
To give due Chastisement to him that owns
An Arrogance like yours. Presumptuous Man!

Nican.
Presumptuous! Furies! But I will be calm.
The blest Arsaces, Madam—

Sem.
What of him?

Nican.
He is a valiant Prince, and well deserves
The Smiles his Hopes receive from her he loves:
But yet—

Sem.
Yet! what? In vain thy subtle Spleen
Would by traducing him exalt thy self
In competition with a Prince that shames,
By early Progress in unmatch'd Exploits,
Admiring trembling Worlds and Rival Kings.
I dare to boast it, e'en to Envy's Ear,
I love the Godlike Youth, I prize a Worth,
The proud Nicanor can as soon outvie,
As Weeds out-shoot the Oak.
[Exit Semandra.

Nican.
Now, but for sure and meditated Vengeance,
Could my great Spirit be reduc'd to all
The infamous Reliefs of Love-sick Fools;
To whine away my Hours in am'rous Plaints,
And sooth the Pride of a poor gaudy Idol,
Form'd as an only Punishment by Heaven
For Cowards and for Slaves: What, spite of me,
To hold my rugged Heart! I'll tear it out,
And throw it for the Food of Dogs and Vulturs,
E'er Woman, more insatiate Woman preys
A Moment longer on the noble Havock.
Enter Cleartes.
Cleartes, thou art come in wish'd-for Time,
To aid thy Friend, and bear me out a Man:
Assist me how to rail.

Clear.
Leave that to Women,
And the brib'd Scandal of a servile Priest;
Nicanor has a Soul—

Nican.
But 'tis a rotten one,
There's Woman's Poison in it: Wherefore could
Creating Nature find no other Scheme
To propagate Man's gen'rous Species here,
But it must stand indebted to a Sex
That's sure to damn as fast as it conceives?

Clear.
My Friend's Resentments speak the Cause Semandra.

Nican.
Tortures! Disgrace! Deep as in Lethe's Waves,
Die the abhor'd Remembrance of her Beauties!
Oh could a forc'd Enjoyment once secure me
A Triumph o'er her Scorn!

Clear.
You love her still,
And still you may enjoy your utmost Lust
Of Vengeance or of Love: The King, my Friend,
(So well your untrac'd Politicks succeed)
Holds you the dearest in his Favour's Eye;
What hinders, but your Interest may demand
As boldly as Arsaces?

Nican.
There's yet my Hope:
If not, like to the furious King of Winds,
I'll summon all my Mischiefs to a head,
And let 'em loose at once; the King, his Son,
Arsaces and Semandra, perish all,
And then my self in Royal Ruin glorious!

Clear.
Soften your Rage, see there th'afflicted Prince!
With what a dire Malignity of Fate
The Fever tears him up! the tortur'd Lines
Of his Majestick Visage shew his Frenzy
To all the last Extremity of Horror;
Tho' to the Spectre of a Man reduc'd,
Madness supplies the Strength that Nature wants,
By a false Vigour aiding to destroy
The few unwasted Spirits Life could boast,
And speed him to his End.

Nican.
Now by my Soul,
Were I not what I am, a Sight like this
Would work me to a Weakness my Designs
And nobler Plans of Glory now must scorn.

Clear.
He flies his Couch as 'twere from Beds of Fire,
Where all the Furies with their Iron Whips
Stood lashing off Repose; from Place to Place
He shifts for Aid, but like the restless Damn'd
He finds the last uneasy as the first,
And raves with all the Pains he fled in vain.

Enter Antiochus.
Ant.
Have then so many vulgar Sinners sunk
Beneath the Thunder of avenging Gods!
And am not I, dire Boasting! lifted up,
Or by my Birth, or rather by my Crime,
Of moment full sufficient to provoke
A Fate distinguish'd from th'ignoble Road
Of common Deaths, a Bolt of Thunder forg'd
To strike at me alone? Why must I drag
This Life a Nusance to th'infected World,
And its own Hell, till this too mean Disease
By slow Advances sweeps the Venom off?
[Seeing Nican. and Clear.
Whose Instruments are you? Who set you here
The Agents of inquisitive Destruction,
To pry into a Soul that would have room
To revel on its Tortures unobserv'd?

Nican.
We are the faithful Servants of your Will,
Who grieve to see our Royal Master's Heir
Lost to his Sire, his People, and Himself.

Ant.
You are a Statesman; was it your Advice,
My Father winter'd o'er with sixty Years,
Took a fair Lady in her Beauty's Spring,
And made affronted Hymen light his Torch,
When the faint Dial of expiring Life
Prolcaim'd the scanty Time it had to burn?
I've found your Office, Sir, a Pimp of State.

Nican.
My Lord, I know not how I have deserv'd
This Treatment.

Ant.
Why, I'll tell thee, for thy Virtues;
Come, let me hug thee, by the Beard of Jove,
I prize a Courtier of a piercing Wit,
Who to as many diff'rent Faculties
Can skrew his tutor'd Conscience, and his Soul,
As a skill'd Wrestler in th'Olympic Games,
His pliant Limbs to Postures of Agility.
Enter the King.
Ha! who comes here? by all his Wrongs, my Father!
I know the venerable Face; I'll fly,
I'll rush into his Arms, and summon all
Th'accustom'd Fondness of his easy Heart
To plead in my behalf; my Crime, my Guilt,
Shall all be stifled in this kind Embrace,
[The King opens his Arms to embrace him; Antiochus throws himself upon the Ground.]
Or buried here; yawn thou relentless Earth,
And give a Villain shelter! Still he views me.
Are there no Seas will part, no Mountains rise,
As everlasting Barriers to oppose
A Meeting of such Horror?

King.
Why, my Son?
What has thy Father done, or what hast thou,
That we should meet on Terms so strange as these?
My Arms, in vain, are open to entwine
My Bosom's Darling, and my Age's Pride:
Rise, my Antiochus, and be thy Crimes,
Which yet are Strangers to thy Father's Ear,
Bold as the first Invaders of the Sky,
Forgiving Love accounts them Crimes no more.

Ant.
Ha! whose Prerogative do you usurp?
Forgiveness! 'tis not in the Power of Heaven
To grant, or Wretches like myself to hope it.
Oh! by the Sternness of thy honest Looks,
I know you now, the awful righteous Minos,
For thy fam'd Equity on Earth, prefer'd
To be the Judge of guilty Ghosts below.
No, thou art Pluto, the lascivious God,
That ravish'd Proserpine—my Proserpine;
But give her back again, or—Ha! ha! ha!
I laugh to see an old Man thus deceiv'd;
What feed with Flakes of Ice the Fire of Love?
But come not, let me charge thee, come not near her;
For if thou dost, she'll thaw thee: Fire and Furies!
Ha! is she not thy Mother! What of that!
She shall forgive thee, sway the easy King
To seal thy Pardon too, come follow me,
I'll bring thee to her. Oh my burning Brain!
[Exit Antiochus.

King.
Cleartes, follow, and observe him well,
Lest this Disorder of his Brain should urge
Some frantick Blow of Mischief on himself:
What can these inconsistent Words import?
He names his Mother! talks of Crimes and Pardon!

Nican.
Might I presume to speak without Offence,
Your Majesty should hear the baneful Cause.
From more than slight Suspicion I have trac'd
The impious Practice of the haughty—

King.
Who?

Nican.
Arsaces.

King.
How! Perdition! but go on.

Nican.
Him, I engage my Honour and my Faith
To prove a secret Traytor to our State,
And Correspondent with the Publick Foe:
Th'unhappy Prince came discontented home,
Your Nuptials, as my Fears surmise, the Cause;
Hence if Arsaces took the trait'rous Hint,
T'improve the Heats of the resenting Prince,
How can it then seem strange, that strong Remorse,
Or even Madness, should pursue a Thought,
That breeds such Conflicts in a generous Breast?
A Thought so loaded with the first great Crime
Of black Ingratitude, as sure it is,
To wrong th'Indulgence of so good a Father.

King.
By all the Tortures that thy Words impart,
I find but too much Reason for Belief;
But can it be? Too rashly and too soon
I'll not condemn him—Hell! but he is guilty:
For our own Safety, and our Realm's Repose,
Confine Arsaces strait, till Time is ripe
To make thy Proofs appear; mean while our Son,
If yet 'tis in the learn'd Physician's Art,
T'explore his Wound, and give him back to Sense,
Let him demand, and Empire's the Reward,
For his restoring Hand; and then, ye Gods,
Or clear the Worth of my suspected Darling,
Or in Seleucus' instant Death be all
His guilty Actions unexamin'd lost.
Grief will no more: Nicanor, to thy Care
We trust our Signet, and with that our Power,
To act as best our Grievances require.
[Exit King.

Enter Cleartes.
Nic.
Cleartes, hadst thou come a Moment sooner,
Thou hadst applauded with attesting Joy
The Master-piece of Policy; at last
The King has swallow'd with a greedy Jaw
The Bait of his Destruction: Mark but this,
Entrusted to me, with his Empire's Fate.
Arsaces is the first that feels my Power,
My dreaded Rival, and the Prince's Friend;
Him I remove, this Signet is his Passport
To quick Confinement: Say, what hinders now,
But every Wish of Vengeance, or of Love,
I may indulge with Riot?

Clear.
Need we doubt,
But you have Colour strong as Truth itself,
To authorize this Usage of Arsaces,
And have him prov'd the Traytor that you wish him?

Nican.