 | The Distrest Mother |  |
SCENE I.
Hermione and Cleone.Her.
Well, I'll be rul'd, Cleone: I will see him;
I have told Pylades, that he may bring him.
But, trust me, were I left to my own Thoughts,
I should forbid him yet.
Cle.
And why forbid him?
Is he not, Madam, still the same Orestes?
Orestes, whose Return you oft have wish'd?
The Man, whose Sufferings you so oft lamented,
And often prais'd his Constancy and Love?
Her.
That Love, that Constancy, so ill requited,
Upbraids me to my self: I blush to think,
How I have us'd him; and would shun his Presence.
What will be my Confusion, when he sees me
Neglected, and forsaken, like himself?
Will he not say, Is this the scornful Maid;
The proud Hermione, that tyranniz'd
In Sparta's Court? And triumph'd in her Charms?
Her Insolence at last is well repaid.
I cannot bear the Thought.
Cle.
You wrong your self
With unbecoming Fears. He knows too well
Your Beauty and your Worth. Your Lover comes not
To offer Insults; but repeat his Vows,
And breath his ardent Passion at your Feet.
But, Madam, what's your Royal Father's Will?
What Orders do your Letters bring from Sparta?
Her.
His Orders are, if Pyrrhus still delay
The Nuptials, and refuse to Sacrifice
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And with their Embassy return to Greece.
Cle.
What would you more? Orestes comes in time
To save your Honour. Pyrrhus cools apace:
Prevent his Falshood; and forsake him first.
I know you hate him: You have told me so.
Her.
Hate him? My injur'd Honour bids me hate him:
The ungrateful Man! to whom I fondly gave
My Virgin Heart; the Man I loved so dearly;
The Man, I doated on! Oh, my Cleone!
How is it possible I should not hate him?
Cle.
Then give him over, Madam. Quit his Court;
And with Orestes—
Her.
No! I must have time
To work up all my Rage! To meditate
A Parting, full of Horrour! My Revenge
Will be but too much quicken'd by the Traitour.
Cle.
Do you then wait new Insults? New Affronts?
To draw you from your Father! Then to leave you!
In his own Court to leave you,—for a Captive!
If Pyrrhus can provoke you, he has done it.
Her.
Why dost thou heighten my Distress? I fear
To search out my own Thoughts, and sound my Heart.
Be blind to what thou seest: Believe me cured:
Flatter my Weakness; tell me I have conquer'd:
Think, that my injur'd Soul is set against him
And do thy best to make me think so too.
Cleo.
Why would you loiter here, then?
Her.
Let us fly!
Let us be gone! I leave him to his Captive
Let him go kneel and supplicate his Slave.
Let us be gone!—But, what if he repent?
What, if the perjur'd Prince again submit,
And sue for Pardon? What, if he renew
His former Vows?—But, oh the faithless Man!
He slights me! drives me to Extreams!—However,
I'll stay, Cleone, to perplex their Loves:
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I make him hateful to the Greeks. Already
Their Vengeance have I drawn upon the Son:
Their second Embassy shall claim the Mother:
I will redouble all my Griefs upon her!
Cle.
Ah, Madam, whither does your Rage transport you?
Andromache, alas, is Innocent!
A Woman plung'd in Sorrow; dead to Love:
And, when she thinks of Pyrrhus, 'tis with Horrour.
Her.
Would I had done so too!—He had not, then,
Betray'd my easie Faith.—But I, alas!
Discover'd all the Fondness of my Soul;
I made no Secret of my Passion to him:
Nor thought it dangerous to be sincere.
My Eyes, my Tongue, my Actions spoke my Heart.
Cle.
Well might you speak, without Reserve, to one
Engag'd to you by solemn Oaths and Treaties.
Her.
His Ardour too was an Excuse to mine:
With other Eyes he saw me then!—Cleone,
Thou may'st remember, everything conspired
To favour him: My Father's Wrongs avenged;
The Greeks triumphant; Fleets of Trojan Spoils;
His mighty Sire's, his own Immortal Fame;
His eager Love;—All, all conspired against me!
—But I have done:—I'll think no more of Pyrrhus.
Orestes wants not Merit: And he loves me.
My Gratitude, my Honour, both plead for him:
And, if I've Power o'er my own Heart, 'tis his.
Cle.
Madam, he comes—
Her.
Alas! I did not think
He was so near!—I wish I might not see him!
| The Distrest Mother | |