The Distrest Mother A Tragedy |
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| 5. | SCENE V. |
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 | The Distrest Mother |  |
SCENE V.
Pyrrhus and Phœnix.Pyr.
Well, Phœnix! Am I still a Slave to Love?
What thinkest thou now? Am I my self again?
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Sir, This is something; this discovers Pyrrhus;
Shews all the Hero: Now you are your self!
The Son! the Rival of the great Achilles!
Greece will applaud you; and the World confess,
Pyrrhus has conquer'd Troy a second Time!
Pyr.
Nay, Phœnix, now I but begin to triumph:
I never was a Conquerour 'till now!
Believe me, a whole Host, a War of Foes
May sooner be subdued, than Love. O, Phœnix!
What Ruin have I shunn'd? The Greeks, enraged,
Hung o'er me, like a gathering Storm; and soon
Had burst in Thunder on my Head; while I
Abandon'd Duty, Empire, Honour, All,
To please a thankless Woman!—One kind Look
Had quite undone me!
Phœn.
O, my Royal Master!
The Gods, in Favour to you, made her cruel.
Pyr.
Thou sawest with how much Scorn she treated me!
When I permitted her to see her Son,
I hoped it might have work'd her to my Wishes.
I went to see the mournful Interview,
And found her bathed in Tears, and lost in Passion.
Wild with Distress, a Thousand Times she call'd
On Hector's Name: And when I spoke in Comfort,
And promis'd my Protection to her Son;
She kiss'd the Boy; and call'd again on Hector:
Then strain'd him in her Arms; and cry'd, 'Tis he!
'Tis he himself! his Eyes, his every Feature!
His very Frown, and his stern Look already!
'Tis he! 'Tis my loved Lord, whom I embrace!—
Does she then think, that I preserve the Boy,
To sooth and keep alive her Flame for Hector?
Phœn.
No doubt, she does; and thinks you favour'd in it.
But let her go, for an ungrateful Woman!
Pyr.
I know the Thoughts of her proud, stubborn Heart:
Vain of her Charms, and insolent in Beauty,
She mocks my Rage; and, when it threatens loudest,
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But we shall change our Parts: And she shall find,
I can be deaf, like her; and steel my Heart!
She is Hector's Widow; I Achilles' Son:
Pyrrhus is born to hate Andromache!
Phœn.
My Royal Master, talk of her no more:
I do not like this Anger. Your Hermione
Should now engross your Thoughts. 'Tis time to see her:
'Tis time, you should prepare the Nuptial Rites;
And not relye upon a Rival's Care:
It may be dangerous.
Pyr.
But tell me, Phœnix;
Doest thou not think, the proud Andromache
Will be enraged, when I shall wed the Princess?
Phœn.
Why does Andromache still haunt your Thoughts?
What is't to you, be she enraged or pleas'd?
Let her Name perish: Think of her no more!
Pyr.
No, Phœnix!—I have been too gentle with her:
I have check'd my Wrath, and stifled my Resentments:
She knows not yet to what degree I hate her.
Let us return:—I'll brave her to her Face:
I'll give my Anger it's free Course against her.
Thou shalt see, Phœnix, how I'll break her Pride!
Phœn.
Oh, go not, Sir!—There's Ruin in her Eyes!
You do not know your Strength: You'll fall before her,
Adore her Beauty, and revive her Scorn.
Pyr.
That were indeed a most unmanly Weakness!
Thou dost not know me, Phœnix!
Phœn.
Ah, my Prince!
You still are strugling in the Toils of Love.
Pyr.
Can'st thou then think, I love this Woman still?
One who repays my Passion with Disdain!
A Stranger, Captive, friendless and forlorn;
She and her darling Son within my Power;
His Life a Forfeit to the Greeks: Yet I
Preserve her Son; would take her to my Throne;
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And all this while she treats me as her Foe!
Phœn.
You have it in your Power to be revenged.
Pyr.
Yes;—and I'll shew my Power!—I'll give her Cause
To hate me! her Astyanax shall die!—
What Tears will then be shed! How will she then
In bitterness of Heart reproach my Name!
Then, to compleat her Woes, will I espouse
Hermione:—'Twill stab her to the Heart!
Phœn.
Alas, you threaten, like a Lover, still!
Pyr.
Phœnix, excuse this Struggle of my Soul:
'Tis the last Effort of expiring Love.
Phœn.
Then hasten, Sir, to see the Spartan Princess;
And turn the Bent of your Desires on her.
Pyr.
Oh, 'tis a heavy Task to conquer Love!
And wean the Soul from her accustom'd Fondness.
But, come:—A long Farewel to Hector's Widow.
'Tis with a secret Pleasure I look back,
And see the many Dangers I have pass'd.
The Merchant thus, in dreadful Tempests tost,
Thrown by the Waves on some unlook'd-for Coast;
Oft turns, and sees, with a delighted Eye,
'Midst Rocks and Shelves the broken Billows fly:
And, while the outragious Winds the Deep deform,
Smiles on the Tumult, and enjoys the Storm.
| The Distrest Mother | |