University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Stratonice and Imene.
Ime.
Why will your Heart thus fight against itself?
Oh why is this Apartment of Despair
Your melancholy Choice? Shun, shun, this Place:
Seek you repose of Mind? you wander wrong;
Here most you lose the Comfort you explore:
Let not the Prince's Presence more enflame
The Wounds which you can only hope to cure
By seeing him no more; resolve on that,
Forget his Pains, and you may lose your own.

Strat.
My Cure, Imene, is already fix'd;
My Virtue has prescrib'd the great Receipt
To finish my Distress, but not the Power
To drive the Prince's Torments from my Mind,
Or combat with a Soul, that pants to see
The Cause of all its Ruin once again.
Yes, yes, I will indulge the horrid Joy
Of one last Agony, one parting Pang;
One Look of Anguish, and a deep Farewell,
And Innocence will sure acquit me there,
Since I'm resolv'd, since thus I fix my Doom,
To part from him, and my own Life together.

Ime.
The Gods forbid!

Strat.
Oh! no, the Gods that look
On virtuous Deeds with a delighted Eye,
Will own the Greatness of a Mind, that could
Resolve so justly, and so bravely dare,
And aid the glorious Purpose they approve.
I want their Aid, indeed: See, see, Imene,
The dreadful Tryal comes! I cannot bear it;
My Resolution dies at his Approach,
And every Nerve is in rebellious Strife.

Enter Antiochus:
[Who looks stedfastly some time upon the Queen; in the mean while the King and Nicanor enter on the other side of the Stage, at the upper End.]
Nican.
Ha!

[Starts.
King.
Wherefore dost thou start? what Griefs hast thou?
Thou hast no Son, Antiochus is mine,
My bitter Age's Punishment alone.

Nican.
What evil Dæmon this way led our Steps?
Let me entreat your Majesty, retire;
Behold your Queen! your Son! you must not stay
A Witness to an Interview like this.

King.
Is't possible! Is Hell then so industrious
To save its Agent's Credit by this Proof?
And is it not, ye Gods, Curse strong enough,
I know I have a Son, and know him false;
But I must feel the Punishment of knowing it,
Heighten'd by this mask'd Villain's boastful Service?
Black Hypocrite! foul Son! most wretched King!

Ant.
I have confess'd my Crime, yet still persist;
I have ask'd pardon of the Gods and you;
Yet every Moment of detested Life
Still I am fated to deserve it less.
I know I stab the very Heart of Nature,
I fix Damnation, when my venom'd Breath
Is loaded with the guilty Tale of Love;
Of Love! to whom, ye Powers? a Father's Wife!
Can you forgive me? No, you cannot, shall not,
I never can myself; I'll spare the Gods
Their feeble Justice, and inflict my own.

Strat.
I come not to upbraid you with a Guilt,
Your Bosom did not of its Choice incur;
I know your Virtues, and I grieve to see
Those Virtues thus abus'd, and I the Cause.
I come to bring you now the Wretch's Alms,
Condoling Tears, and sympathizing Woe;
I come to pity you, and curse myself.

Ant.
Surprize! pronounce th'amazing Sound again:
You say you come to pity! pity whom?
The impious Rival of your Husband's Bed?
No, Madam, I must prove ungrateful now,
And hold condemn'd your unaccepted Goodness;
That Med'cine feeds like Oil, expiring Flames,
And kindles Wretchedness to new Desires.
Would you do Justice to yourself, or me,
To your great Husband's, or your own Renown,
Look on me as an Outcast of the Earth,
Distinguish'd for the Rankness of my Guilt,
And hunted from the Herd of common Men,
My Species' Scandal, and my own Disgrace:
Think, too forgiving Innocence, Oh! think,
Accurst, forlorn, and desperate, as I am,
Was it e'en possible my Soul could know
Relief from such a Balm, by thy bright Self
I swear my Torments should for ever last,
E'er take a Respite that thou couldst not give,
But at the dear Expence of sully'd Fame.

Strat.
Oh Sir! Oh Prince! if you are thus accurst,
Then tell me what is she, what merits she,
From whose malignant Poison-spreading Charms
Your Miseries drew their Birth? Have I a Face
So fertile of Destruction, yet a Power
So small its mighty Mischiefs to atone?
You would not take my Pity, gen'rous Sir;
Be then more gen'rous still, and give me yours,
And judge, whilst thus I ask it, I have need,
Sufficient want indeed: I own I'm mad,
And mad on your account; your Pangs, your Griefs
Wring from me this Confession of my own.

Ant.
Let feeble Sufferers and dastard Griefs
Admit a servile Partnership in Woe;
I will extract this Merit from my Sorrows,
To take the dreadful Banquet to myself.
Whom do I hold this guilty Converse with?
All this sad Time I gaze upon your Eyes,
I swallow Sulphur, and I swim in Fire.
Have you no Husband, or no Father I?
Who could behold us thus, and think we had?

Strat.
Why so, my Lord? Is mourning for our Sins
Then sinning on? Th'Unhappy may complain;
And we, I'm sure, have Privilege enough,
If that may be a Plea.

Ant.
Beware, beware,
I have no Plea, no Shadow of Excuse
To palliate the black Sense of having wrong'd
The best of Fathers, and involving you,
The whitest, as the fairest of your Sex,
In the unfathom'd Depth of my Destruction.
If you have Charity, I beg you, Madam,
Bestow it on yourself; in doing so,
The Obligation's half conferr'd on me:
Each Moment you stay here, we swell in Sin,
I may be still a Slave to wishing on;
Then fly Pollution's Commerce, save your Virtue,
The Sting, the Taint of guessing what I wish.

Strat.
I will do more, my Lord, than you advise:
These threat'ning fierce Assaults of hostile Guilt,
I could not, would not fly, but dare resist.
This is the Tryal that my Virtue chose,
And let it stand the glorious Combat out,
Till from surmounted Toils it rise refin'd,
And give its Mistress place among the Stars.

Ant.
There may you keep your everlasting round,
For ever worship'd by the Fair and Chaste;
While I in Darkness set a sullen Orb,
Invok'd by none but Villains like myself,
T'imbitter Rage, and heighten Desperati

Strat.
No, follow me, I'll teach you better Hopes,
And give you noble Proofs I am your Friend;
My own Example shall point out the Way,
You may be free and spotless as myself.
And since I have my Cure, with Pride I own
My Passions were as criminal as yours:
When first your Tongue disclos'd the dire Effect
Of your most impious Love, that very Moment
I found we had exchang'd our mutual Ruins;
I rav'd, I languish'd with the same Desires;
But I've resolv'd on ample Reparation,
A most prevailing Penitence indeed!
Now, Soul, thy Load is eas'd, no more repine;
Guilt ceases to be Guilt, when own'd like thine.
[Exit Strat.

Ant.
Where am I? dare I tell myself I live,
And not commit high Blasphemy 'gainst Heaven?
Who, e'er it form'd me, with a conscious Eye,
Foresaw its own Decree, foresaw this Lot
Of everlasting Woe, its cruel Gift
Of Life entail'd upon me: Where's the Queen?
Talk'd she of Guilt? Impossible! what Claim
Can she pretend? I'll not allow it, no,
My own black Bosom has so far engross'd
Hell's ransack'd Store, there can't be left enough
To damn one Wretch beside.

[King comes forward, Nicanor following.]
Nican.
Nicanor, now
Finish thy Work. By the King's Looks I find,
This Sight has wrought him into full Distraction;
His Agonies are all so many Trains
Of Death laid ready for my final Touch.
Now, Rhetoric, lend thy pois'nous Aid once more,
And I'll assure my Hopes compleat Success.

King.
What dost thou mutter?

Ant.
Ha! my Father here!

Nican.
What Nicanor ought,
What such a Scene of Horror may excuse,
Ten thousand Curses on an honest Fool,
Repentance for my Loyalty.

King.
'Tis well;
Repentance is the Clue that leads to Heaven:
Thou'st done me Service, and deserv'st Reward;
Then will I take thee in thy Hour of Grace,
And send thee to receive it from the Gods;
Take this thy Monarch's Present to thy Heart.

[Stabs him.
Ant.
Whence comes this Act of Violence and Blood?
Where points my Father's waken'd Fury next?

[Aside.
King.
There's thy curst Pacquet of Credentials back;
Thy Minister, Cleartes, has miscarry'd
In his important Trust: survey thy Scroll,
And find more heinous Matter for Repentance,
Than thy dissembled Loyalty.

Nican.
Confusion!
Curst Counterplot of evil-working Chance!
My Letters to Lysimachus! 'tis o'er,
Since I'm detected, 'tis no matter how,
The Labour of Reflection now is vain;
Ambitious Minds have yet this Comfort left,
E'en in the Instant of their Overthrow,
To think they durst aspire—

[Dies.
King.
So much for Vengeance there,
The Monarch's Part is o'er; the next is—whose?
Most dreadful, agonizing Thought! a Father's!
My Son, why speak thy Eyes such dire Alarm
At this my Act of Justice? Wherefore seems
Thy Breast to shudder, as it shar'd the Blow
I levell'd only at'a Traytor's Heart?
Need I to doubt, when thou shalt hear the Cause,
The black Offence, that doom'd his forfeit Life,
But that thy grateful Virtue will confess,
I acted as a King and Father ought?
Suppose thou hear'st he dy'd on thy account?
Foul as he was with many Crimes, the Crime
That edg'd my Vengeance most, was wronging thee.

Ant.
Horrid Amazement! fatal black Encounter!
What mean my Father's Words? what brings him here?
These conscious Tumults of my Rebel Blood
Inform me I'm betray'd; betray'd to all
Those Racks, those Scourges of severest Shame,
Tortures beyond Damnation, that attend
The sad Impeachment of my publish'd Crime.

King.
Yes, yes, Antiochus, thy Crime is known,
Thy Father both its Witness, and its Judge;
And thus pronounces—

Ant.
If my Sentence, Oh!
One Moment stop the dooming Breath of Justice,
Not that my Soul can have a Hope so poor,
To strive to sooth you to a Thought of Pardon,
Or slacken by Delay the baffled Force
Of your intended Vengeance; no, Sir, no,
This Weed, this Scandal to your sully'd House,
This Child, the Curse of your first Marriage-bed,
And Rival of your last, will join your Fury;
Join to assert an injur'd Father's Cause,
And point out such Severity of Justice
On myself-punish'd Head, that you shall own,
Thro' all the Frenzy of your Wrongs, your poor,
Discarded, suff'ring Son, in Death retrieves
The Glory of that Name his Life had cancell'd.

King.
Now, by my vanquish'd Passions, all the Joys
That Empire can afford, or Beauty yield,
Were endless Curses, and large Draughts of Woe,
If put in balance, for the Loss of thee.
Oh my Antiochus! in this Embrace,
Judge all the utmost Rigour of thy Doom.
I here command thee live, the Name of Son
Still wear with Worth, and unimpeach'd Honour,
At once acquitted by the Gods and me:
I've witness'd to the fierce unhappy Flame,
That tore thy honest Breast; and in Reward
For all the thousand Pangs thy Virtue stood,
I here declare Seleucus' Nuptials void,
The unenjoy'd Stratonice be thine;
Fill with more equal Years the Marriage-bed,
Whilst I am happy in the glorious Pride
Of conquering thus myself, and blessing you.

Ant.
Oh! great, miraculous Reverse of Fate!
Reproaching Goodness! Rapture too severe!
Can I, my Lord, embrace the proferr'd Heaven,
And not confounded, sink beneath the Shock,
The gnawing Plague of telling to myself
How little I deserve it? Gracious Sire,
Your Generosity I fear will prove
As fatal to me, as Despair before.
I'm pardon'd, 'tis too much! Secure of this,
This one vast Blessing, 'tis resolv'd I take
This noblest Opportunity of dying,
Convinc'd the num'rous Hours of lengthen'd Life
Have not one guiltless Sweet to give me more.

King.
These pious Conflicts of thy gen'rous Mind,
The more they bid thee shun thy Suff'ring's Cure,
The more demand it, as thy Merit's due;
Since thy reluctant Honour is thy Foe,
Let me remind you there is yet a Sweet
In Beauty's Arms worth living to possess;
Take from thy Father's Hand, without a Stain,
Life and Stratonice.

Enter Stratonice.
Strat.
Stratonice! what Voice
Of black Portent, what croaking Note of Fate
Is busy with that hapless Name of Woe?
Ha! Drugs work sure, and Ruin mend thy Speed.
My Husband—I've renounc'd th'unequal Tie,
And triumph in the kind Divorce of Death:
Antiochus, thou Loiterer, away,
I'm onwards in my Journey to the Stars,
And hop'd a Fellow-Traveller in thee.

King.
What dreadful Act of Terror lies disguis'd
In the ill-boding Frenzy of your Words?

Strat.
A glorious Act, that cannot be recall'd,
An Act that e'en thy Justice shall applaud,
And After-Ages envy when they hear.

Ant.
Thou hast not (twenty thousand thousand Deaths!
The dire Imagination!) acted aught
To wound thy precious Life?

Strat.
To wound it? no,
I've snatch'd it from an Age of certain Infamy,
To shine in happier Lights, and purer Worlds.
The pois'nous Draught that wastes Life's brittle Frame,
Is a rich Cordial to my living Fame;
I chose this noblest Method to be free,
Since Death alone could shut out Guilt and Thee.

[Dies.
Ant.
Ha! by my Torments, she fulfils her Words,
And sinks in Death indeed: Death! Madness! no,
Whilst Gods themselves exist, she could not die.
Answer me, Father, has our Earth a Bribe,
Is it in all your Empire's lavish'd Wealth,
To buy the Ransom of this single Life?
But Boys are taught to weep, and Cowards rail;
The injur'd Brave make head against their Wrongs,
Rob Heaven of its anticipated Blow,
Strike for themselves, and make their Doom their Choice.

[Offering to stab himself.]
Enter Arsaces.
King.
Avert thy bloody Purpose:

Ars.
Oh my Friend!
For ever blasted be the Eyes that see
That Dagger level'd at the richest Heart
That ever Friendship warm'd, or Honour fed.

Ant.
For ever blasted be the Eyes that saw
The boasted Wealth of the whole Female World
In her last Groan expire—Ay, there, Arsaces,
Survey the beauteous Ruin, judge the Loss
Of our impoverish'd Earth, a Lover's Loss,
And in a Lover's, mine; then, then confess
My Frenzy's Patience. Everlasting Darkness!
Where shall I find thy sable Shelter? Oh!

[Swoons into Arsaces' Arms, and is carried off.]
Ars.
Let us support him from this fatal Sight!
Unhappy Nuptial Pomp! rich Scene of Woe!

King.