University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Stratonice and Imene.
Strat.
No more, Imene, of thy false Accounts
Of Virtue, rescu'd by relenting Gods,
Propp'd by some Hand of Providence unseen,
And taught from deepest Anguish to extract
The greatest Glory, and the fullest Joy:
Deserted Virtue's Heaven's Regard no more,
And Pity quits at last its fair Abode;
Or where was else each unassisting Power,
Each faithless Star I call'd upon in vain,
When this poor Breast was doom'd to an Assault,
Hell rais'd to bear down all my Guard at once,
Back'd by the mightiest Powers of tempting Guilt,
And half assisted by my Rebel Self?
Oh Woes unmatch'd! Oh execrable Doom!
Why did I live to such an Hour of Horror?
Or wherefore do my Fears outlive it now?

Ime.
Perhaps it was the Frenzy of the Prince,
That wrought his erring Tongue to Sounds of Love,
His calmer Sense had shunn'd as much as yours.

Strat.
No, no, that Frenzy is the Guilt of Love,
The fatal Sallies of an impious Flame:
Have I not parted from an Interview,
As dire to Sight, and terrible to Thought,
As when the Ghosts of Wretches just expir'd,
At their Arrival in the Court of Darkness,
With all their Sins about them first, survey
The dooming Looks of Hell's enquiring Judge?
I saw the Prince; but Oh! in such Condition,
To call it Madness is a Name too poor:
I strove to fly him, but I strove in vain;
He seiz'd me, swore that he had much to say
Of Moment to us both: He gaz'd upon me
With such a Fierceness of unjust Desire,
His Eye-Balls blaz'd mixt Gleams of Love and Rage,
That shew'd his Self-Resentments for the Sin
Of wishing what he was condemn'd to wish,
Yet knew debarr'd for ever and for ever.

Ime.
Heavens! how could you support it?

Strat.
Then he talk'd
With so much Wildness; and yet even in that
Betray'd too fatally the guilty Secret,
That left a thousand thousand Daggers here:
Despair and Pardon were the dreadful Notes,
That trembled on his Tongue: with shiv'ring Looks,
And all the Gestures of tormenting Horror
I begg'd him to dismiss the shocking Scene;
Then, as from Dictates of returning Sense,
Strait he reply'd, I will, I will obey:
What love my Mother! As the fatal Words
Struggled their barr'd reluctant Passage forth;
Such dire unheard-of monstrous Exclamations
Pursu'd th'infectious Sounds, and rack'd his Soul
To that severe degree, to give them vent,
He seem'd to send it with them. Down he fell,
Oh Gods! all pale and speechless at my Feet:
With all the Strength of that poor Life was left me,
I took the gloomy Minute to retire.

Ime.
You left him without Aid, perhaps e'en now,
Oh! dreadful Consequence of lawless Love,
Worn out with Pain and Shame, he breaths his last.

Strat.
Then he is happy, then he raves no more
With impious Burnings, and incestuous Flames;
No more he dreads an injur'd Father's Sight,
Or drinks Destruction from a Mother's Eye:
But what am I? to what am I reserv'd?
To lengthen'd Misery, and continu'd Anguish?
This Hour has dash'd the meanest Glimpse of Hope
My Wretchedness had left; 'twas some Relief,
'Midst all this War of Guilt within my Heart,
To think I suffer'd in myself alone,
To think, (Oh! why so strangely have I err'd?)
His Hate might be my Cure, it shall, it must;
I will unknow the dire discover'd Truth,
And still be happy in a false Belief.

Ime.
Yet are you safe, and still may hope a Cure,
The Prince's Passion is a Secret yet
To all the Court beside; nor could his Frenzy
Impute the Pangs with which you heard his Love
To aught but just Resentment and Surprize.

Strat.
Confusion! Yes, I heard it with Surprize;
But he, as mad and frantick as he was,
Might find with ease, to my eternal Shame,
It was not the Surprize of virtuous Horror,
The honest Tumult of a guiltless Mind:
I shook, I trembled, but 'twas his Disease,
Each Look betray'd that I was mad as he;
And whilst he sigh'd the Story of his Woes,
My Tears inform'd him they were like my own.
Fair Preparation for my Bridal Night!
Now I shall carry to my Husband's Arms
A spotless Wife indeed, a modest Heart,
That in the Circle of a loath'd Embrace,
Pollutes the Raptures that it feigns to share.

Ime.
Why will you urge yourself to these Extremes?

Strat.
Why will Fate drive me? Oh! Imene, where
Shall I explore a Shelter for my Name,
From the upbraiding King, and censuring World?
What Wastes lie uninhabited, to give
My Infamy Retreat, and hide my Guilt?
It wo' not be, nay tho' new Worlds arise,
To bid me live a quiet Exile there,
Myself the sole Inhabitant to reign,
Whilst I myself am there, I fly in vain.

[Exeunt.
Enter Nicanor.
Nican.
At length the sage Physician's happier Eye
Has aided the mistaken Statesman's Search,
And probe'd the fatal Truth of this Disease;
Momentous black Discovery! in love!
'Tis plain he is; my recollecting Thoughts
Call up a thousand Symptoms to my View,
That strengthen the Assertion of his Guilt;
Which, thro' the Foulness of its Name alone,
Escap'd the Danger of my tracing Skill:
But now I have it, and I'll work it well,
Nor leave it in the power of Chance or Fate
To wrest the mighty Mischief from my hand;
Erasistratus is engag'd to keep
His Art's Success a Secret, till myself
Have first extracted the Materials fit
To make my Vengeance perfect at a Blow.
Ha! here's Arsaces! his unwelcome Presence
Seems to upbraid my dilatory Orders
For his Confinement.

Enter Arsaces.
Ars.
Ha! Nicanor here!
There's something in my Nature startles at him,
With fell Antipathy and mortal Hate.

Nican.
It may be needless to inquire the Cause,
Why on Arsaces' Brow some mighty Grief
Low'rs with malignant Gloom, at such a time,
When the brave Friend, and Partner of his Fame,
Sinks to his Grave with Maladies unknown,
And leaves the Promise of a glorious Life,
So well begun, i'th'Midway-Course expir'd.

Ars.
I have my Griefs, and my Resentments too,
To see triumphant Mischief in thy Dress,
To see the Courtier Crocodile's Disguise,
See thy false Pity, and dissembling Tears,
Insult the murther'd Object of thy Hate.

Nican.
Since thus thy Insolence provokes the Doom,
That only waited for my Nod before,
I wo' not play the Crocodile to thee,
But with th'exerted Privilege of Power,
Shew thee the Error of thy blust'ring Tongue,
To spend its Folly on a Man that's born
To teach Submission to thy Rashness thus:
Secure him, Guards, this Signet here declares
You act in Duty to the King's Command.

[Guards seize Arsaces.
Ars.
Confusion! Villain, thou bely'st the King;
Is this the Treatment that your Realm affords
To those that are ally'd to its Defence?
Dishonour! Infamy! Semandra here!
Shall she be witness to her Lover's Bonds?
Would'st thou act nobly with the Man thou hate'st,
Would'st thou atone thy Baseness, view my Breast,
Sheath here thy Sword, and bury my Disgrace.

Nican.
Lucky! she comes, as I could wish, to give
My Soul an earnest Taste of sweet Revenge.

Enter Semandra.
Sem.
Death to my Sight, and Daggers to my Heart!
Arsaces in the dreaded Vultur's Claw!
Be silent, Eyes, or inward turn your Streams,
Nor with your Weakness aid the Traytor's Joy.

Nican.
Bear, as the Pleasure of the King directs,
Your Pris'ner to the Castle; 'tis not fit
The Court be tainted longer with his Crimes.

Sem.
Insulting Instrument of ill-plac'd Power!
Would my misguided Father cease to view
Thro' Traytors Eyes his Fame and Empire's Fate,
This Doom had been revers'd, these Bonds that hold,
To the dishonour'd King's eternal Stain,
This Prince the first of his Confederate Friends,
With Justice had enclos'd another's Limbs;
I had beheld the proud Nicanor's self,
Cursing the Sentence that he now directs.

Nican.
Madam, this Virtue of a Lady's Love,
May mitigate the Crime of Disrespect
To your great Father's wise Decree; no doubt,
The King, my Master, will applaud your Choice:
But I must beg you will excuse the Slave,
That now obeys his Orders, and divides
Such spotless Passions, and deserving Flames.

Ironically.
Ars.
Oh Hypocrite! Oh Coward! well thou know'st,
In thy successful Guilt thou stand'st secure,
Or these vile Sounds of thy blaspheming Tongue
Had been thy last. Semandra, gen'rous Maid,
Scorn not this poor deserted Arm, that lags
To scourge his Treason, and avenge thy Wrongs.
Spiritless Dastard, thank the winking Gods,
When such a flagrant Hour demands their Eye,
They keep their Bolts asleep. Come bear me hence;
Enjoy thy Crimes, since Heaven permits thee leave:
Life is not worth the Care of honest Minds,
When Devils, like Nicanor, have the Power
To manage at their Will the shackled Curse.
Semandra!
[Exit Ars. guarded,

Sem.
Arsaces, Yes, yes, I come,
To snatch thee from thy Chains, or share thy Doom;
Thy Virtue, Truth, and Innocence I know;
And if I trespass, joy to trespass so:
Tho' busy Tongues my Conduct may reprove,
I own with Pride the glorious Crime of Love.
[Exit Sem.

Nican.
Well, mischief is on foot; my Master-Part
Be now to keep it warm: the blinded King,
To heighten the Distrusts my busy Wiles
Have sown already in his tortur'd Mind,
Must be acquainted with the Son's Disease,
But with such shocking aggravating Terms
Will I take care to dress the horrid Tale,
That boiling Nature shall not have the least
Relenting Bent to soften it to Mercy,
Or struggle for the mitigated Fault.
And see, he comes! but with a Brow, methinks,
Would bode but blackly to another Cause,
Contriv'd with thinner Artifice than mine;
But be it what it may, I stand prepar'd.

Enter the King.
King.
Why, what a Bubble is this Flash of Life!
Alike in every Sort, and all Degrees:
The servile Hind, that earns with constant Sweat
His homely Diet, is esteem'd a Wretch,
And as the Drudge of the Creation scorn'd:
Monarchs shine forth a while in fairer Light,
But to their Cost are taught the fatal Cheat;
The more their Cloud of Sorrow seems remote,
The more its Fury crushes when it falls;
Their Mis'ries come proportion'd to their Height,
And if a Diff'rence is in human Lots,
The Value lies upon the Peasant's side,
Who having least to prize, has least to grieve.
But now, each Prospect that I took seem'd fair,
And all this Sea of Life one Calm of Joy;
And now a Worm is gnawing on my Breast,
That tells me, Peace of Mind dwells here no more.
[Seeing Nicanor.]
Ha! here's the Fiend of Prey that makes my Liver
A new Promethean Banquet for his Gorge:
Thou Villain, give me, give me back my Son,
But lovely as my Fondness saw him first,
Thro' all the Whiteness of unsully'd Faith.

Nican.
I like this Tempest of his hurry'd Mind,
It shews the Seeds I've sown have taken Root:
If now the Curse of Jealousy is on him,
How will he writh with Pangs unutterable,
When he shall know the Sickness of his Son
Transcends the worst of his suspicious Fears?

[Aside.
King.
What art thou mute? confounded at the Work
Of thy own dev'lish Brain? Infernal, speak,
Make thy Assertion out, prove, prove him false;
Or if 'tis in the power of human Search
To furnish Justice with a new Supply
Of unexperienc'd Instruments of Vengeance,
Equal, if possible, to all the Racks
That heave an agonizing Parent's Breast,
Dooming and pleading, with alternate Passions,
The Crimes and Merits of an only Son;
Think, think, and tremble at thy certain Fate.

Nican.
Thus charg'd, excuse the Slave that dares affirm,
If he has cause to tremble, 'tis for you;
If he is dead in Thought, 'tis your Distress
Imposes on his Mind the honest Weight:
The Instruments of Infamy and Death
In vain are threatned to the Man, whose Life
Is only worn and valu'd for the Power
It gives him to discharge his Duty here.

King.
Trifle not, tell me he is guiltless; save
Thy Soul more Sins, and own that thou hast wrong'd him.

Nican.
You wish him guiltless, and Heaven knows how much
I wish, without incurring Guilt myself,
I stood a happy Witness that he was.
Oh! Sacred Sir, I know th'ungrateful Light
In which my forward Zeal presents me to you;
I know the Danger to unfold a Truth
Too dire, too flagrant for a Father's Ear:
I see by all your Actions, Looks, and Words,
That you repent the Knowledge of the little
I have already, with too honest Rashness,
Let wander from my Tongue; then let me die,
Stretch'd on the Wheel, or steep'd in liquid Fire,
A willing Victim to my Master's Peace,
E'er he extort a Secret from my Breast,
Which known, will wring him like ten thousand Scorpions;
Make ev'ry sev'ral Pang a separate Hell,
And never let him taste Repose again.

King.
O exquisite Tormentor! Hell indeed,
Too hot to be endur'd with patient Woe!
If thou art honest, quit these Riddle Sounds,
Out with this Secret of so black Concern,
Out with it; thou hast set me on a Blaze,
And thou must quench the Flame, or blow its Rage,
To end with speedier Force the Pain it gives.

Nican.
Shall the soft Fibres of indulgent Nature
Be broke, as such must be the dire Event,
And I the busy vile upbraided Cause?
Shall you have reason to detest the Hour
That gave you such a Son? Shall this sad Tale,
That labours for Discovery, drive your Horror
To curse your Being, and blaspheme your Gods,
To throw your wretched Body on the Ground,
And tear your venerable Locks in Madness?

King.
Madness! that Torture is a State of Bliss
To the Extravagance of Anguish here.

Nican.
And yet, hard Conflicts of my honest Mind!
This Moment prompts me to unfold the Scene,
And this to throw an everlasting Veil
Of Secrecy before it. Oh my Heart!
Yet may this Son repent, and you forgive.
Oh! that there shone the least auspicious Gleam
Of such a Hope! but 'tis impossible.
Did he aspire to Empire e'er his Call,
Ambition, pardonable Fault! in time
Might lose its Lust, or Empire lose its Charms.
But when from Beauty he derives his Crimes,
And lifts his impious Heart to such a Choice,
Who dares prescribe the Cure? I can no more.

King.
Why dost thou sport upon my Torments thus?
What Choice, what Love? Is Beauty his Disease?
Where shines the high-priz'd Idol of his Heart?
Can all our Empire bribe her to his Wish,
We give it for his Cure.

Nican.
Since then my Zeal
Will force that from me which your sharpest Engines
Should be employ'd an Age to do in vain,
The Cause of all his guilty Passion shines
Within the Circle of Seleucus' Arms,
Stratonice—And now the fatal Secret
Is burst, with all its Horrors, now requite
Which way you please the strict Integrity
That drove me to a Task severe as this.
I fear, alas! your Sense of such a Wound
Will evidence too many flagrant Proofs,
To doubt my Faith; or need th'unhappy Tale
Should farther be explain'd.

King.