 | The Distrest Mother |  |
SCENE IV.
Pyrrhus, Andromache and Cephisa.Pyr.
May I, Madam,
Flatter my Hopes so far, as to believe
You come to seek me here?
Andr.
This way, Sir, leads
To those Apartments, where you guard my Son.
Since you permit me, once a Day, to visit
All I have left of Hector, and of Troy;
I go to weep a few sad Moments with him.
I have not yet, to Day, embraced my Child;
I have not held him in my widow'd Arms.
10
Ah, Madam! should the Threats of Greece prevail,
You'll have Occasion for your Tears, indeed!
Andr.
Alas! what Threats? What can alarm the Greeks?
There are no Trojans left!
Pyr.
Their Hate to Hector
Can never die: The Terrour of his Name
Still shakes their Souls; and makes them dread his Son.
Andr.
A mighty Honour for victorious Greece
To fear an Infant; a poor, friendless Child!
Who smiles in Bondage; nor yet knows himself
The Son of Hector, and the Slave of Pyrrhus.
Pyr.
Weak as he is, the Greeks demand his Life;
And send no less than Agamemnon's Son,
To fetch him hence.
Andr.
And, Sir, do you comply
With such Demands!—This Blow is aim'd at me:
How should the Child avenge his slaughter'd Sire?
But, cruel Men! they will not have him live
To chear my heavy Heart, and ease my Bonds.
I promis'd to my self in him a Son,
In him a Friend, a Husband, and a Father.
But I must suffer Sorrow heap'd on Sorrow;
And still the fatal Stroke must come from you.
Pyr.
Dry up those Tears: I must not see you weep:
And know, I have rejected their Demands.
The Greeks already threaten me with War:
But, should they arm, as once they did for Helen,
And hide the Adriatick with their Fleets;
Should they prepare a second ten Years Siege,
And lay my Towers and Palaces in Dust:
I am determin'd to defend your Son;
And rather die my self, than give him up.
But, Madam, in the midst of all these Dangers,
Will you refuse me a propitious Smile?
Hated of Greece, and prest on every side,
Let me not, Madam, while I fight your Cause,
Let me not combat with your Cruelties;
And count Andromache amongst my Foes.
11
Consider, Sir, how this will sound in Greece!
How can so great a Soul betray such Weakness?
Let not Men say, so generous a Design
Was but the Transport of a Heart in Love.
Pyr.
Your Charms will justifie me to the World.
Andr.
How can Andromache, a Captive Queen,
O'er-whelm'd with Grief, a Burden to her self,
Harbour a Thought of Love? Alas! what Charms
Have these unhappy Eyes, by you condemn'd
To weep for ever?—Talk of it no more.—
To reverence the Misfortunes of a Foe;
To succour the Distrest; to give the Son
To an afflicted Mother; to repel
Confederate Nations, leagued against his Life;
Unbribed by Love, unterrify'd by Threats,
To pity, to protect him: These are Cares,
These are Exploits worthy Achilles' Son.
Pyr.
Will your Resentments, then, endure for ever?
Must Pyrrhus never be forgiven?—'Tis true,
My Sword has often reek'd in Phrygian Blood,
And carry'd Havock through your Royal Kindred:
But you, fair Princess, amply have avenged
Old Priam's vanquish'd House: And all the Woes,
I brought on them, fall short of what I suffer.
We both have suffer'd in our Turns: And now
Our common Foes should teach us to unite.
Andr.
Where does the Captive not behold a Foe?
Pyr.
Forget that Term of Hatred; and behold
A Friend in Pyrrhus! Give me but to hope,
I'll free your Son; I'll be a Father to him:
My self will teach him to avenge the Trojans.
I'll go in Person to chastise the Greeks,
Both for your Wrongs and mine. Inspired by you,
What would I not atchieve? Again shall Troy
Rise from its Ashes: This right Arm shall fix
Her Seat of Empire; and your Son shall reign.
12
Such Deams of Greatness suit not my Condition:
His Hopes of Empire perish'd with his Father.
No; thou imperial City, ancient Troy,
Thou Pride of Asia, founded by the Gods;
Never, oh never! must we hope to see
Those Bulwarks rise, which Hector could not guard!—
Sir, all I wish for, is some quiet Exile;
Where far from Greece remov'd, and far from you,
I may conceal my Son, and mourn my Husband.
Your Love creates me Envy. Oh, return!
Return to your betroth'd Hermione.
Pyr.
Why do you mock me thus? you know, I cannot.
You know my Heart is yours: My Soul hangs on you:
You take up every Wish: My waking Thoughts,
And nightly Dreams are all employ'd on you.
'Tis true, Hermione was sent to share
My Throne and Bed, and would with Transport hear
The Vows, which you neglect.
Andr.
She has no Troy,
No Hector to lament: She has not lost
A Husband by your Conquests: Such a Husband!
(Tormenting Thought!) whose Death alone has made
Your Sire immortal: Pyrrhus and Achilles
Are both grown great by my Calamities.
Pyr.
Madam, 'tis well! 'Tis very well! I find,
Your Will must be obey'd: Imperious Captive,
It shall. Henceforth I blot you from my Mind:
You teach me to forget your Charms; to hate you.
For, know, inhuman Beauty, I have loved
Too well to treat you with Indifference.
Think well upon it: My disorder'd Soul
Wavers between th'Extremes of Love and Rage.
I've been too tame! I will awake to Vengeance!
The Son shall answer for the Mother's Scorn.
The Greeks demand him: Nor will I endanger
My Realms, to pleasure an ungrateful Woman.
13
Then he must die! alas, my Son must die!
He has no Friend, no Succour left, besides
His Mother's Tears, and his own Innocence.
Pyr.
Go, Madam; visit this unhappy Son.
The Sight of him may bend your stubborn Heart,
And turn to Softness your unjust Disdain.
I shall once more expect your Answer. Go;
And think, while you embrace the Captive Boy,
Think, that his Life depends on your Resolves.
| The Distrest Mother | |