 | The Distrest Mother |  |
SCENE V.
Orestes, Pylades, attended by Greeks.Pyl.
Haste, Prince; let us be gone: 'Tis Death to stay.
Andromache Reigns Queen: She gives the Alarm,
And vows Revenge upon the Foes of Pyrrhus.
The People arm and muster in the Streets:
Our Greeks will not be able long to guard
The Palace Gates, and to secure our Flight.
We must be speedy, Sir.
Orest.
You may depart,
My Friends:—Hermione and I remain.—
Her Cruelty has quite undone me!—Go,
And leave me to my self.—I'll find her out.
Pyl.
Alass, unhappy Princess!—She is no more:
Forget her, Sir, and save your self with us.
Orest.
Hermione no more!—O all ye Powers!
Pyl.
Full of Disorder, Wildness in her Looks,
With Hands expanded, and dishevelled Hair,
Breathless and pale, with Shrieks she saught the Temple,
In the mid-way she met the Corpse of Pyrrhus:
She startled at the Sight: Then, stiff with Horrour,
Gazed frightful! Wakened from the dire Amaze,
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As spoke her Sorrows, and reproach'd the Gods:
Then plunged a Poignard deep within her Breast,
And fell on Pyrrhus, grasping him in Death.
Orest.
I thank you, Gods!—I never could expect
To be so Wretched!—You have been industrious
To finish your Decrees; to make Orestes
A dreadful Instance of your Power to Punish.
I am singled out to bear the Wrath of Heaven.
Pyl.
You hazzard your Retreat by these Delays.
The Guards will soon beset us. Your Complaints
Are vain, and may be Fatal.
Orest.
True, my Friend:
And therefore 'twas I thank'd the bounteous Gods.
My Fate's accomplish'd!—I shall dye Content.
Oh bear me hence!—Blow, Winds!—
Pyl.
Let us be gone.
Orest.
The murdered Lovers wait me.—Hark! They call!
Nay, if your Blood still reeks, I'll mingle mine.
One Tomb will hold us all.
Pyl.
Alass! I fear
His Ravings will return with his Misfortunes.
Orest.
I am dizzy!—Clouds!—Quite lost in utter Darkness!
Guide me, some friendly Pilot, through the Storm.
I shiver!—Oh, I freeze!—So:—Light returns:
'Tis the grey Dawn.—See, Pylades! Behold!—
I am encompast with a Sea of Blood!—
The crimson Billows!—Oh! My Brain's on Fire!
Pyl.
How is it, Sir?—Repose your self on me.
Orest.
Pyrrhus, stand off!—What would'st thou?—
How he glares!
What envious Hand has closed thy Wounds?—Have at thee.
It is Hermione that strikes.—Confusion!
She catches Pyrrhus in her Arms.—Oh, save me!
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She frowns me Dead: She frights me into Madness!
Where am I?—Who are you?—
Pyl.
Alass, poor Prince!
Help to support him.—How he pants for Breath!
Orest.
This is most kind, my Pylades.—Oh, why,
Why was I born to give thee endless Trouble?
Pyl.
All will go well: He settles into Reason.
Orest.
Who talks of Reason?—Better to have none,
Than not enough.—Run, some one, tell my Greeks,
I will not have them touch the King.—Now!—Now!
I blaze again!—See there!—Look where they come!
A shoal of Furies!—How they swarm about me!
My Terrour!—Hide me!—Oh their snaky Locks!
Hark! How they hiss!—See! See their flaming Brands!
Now they let drive full at me!—How they grin,
And shake their iron Whips!—My Ears! What yelling!
And see Hermione!—She sets them on!—
Thrust not your Scorpions thus into my Bosom!
Oh!—I am stung to Death!—Dispatch me soon!
There:—Take my Heart, Hermione!—Tear it out!
Disjoynt me!—Kill me!—Oh, my tortured Soul!—
Pyl.
Kind Heaven restore him to his wonted Calm!
Oft have I seen him Rave: But never thus:
Quite spent!—Assist me Friends, to bear him off.
Our Time is short: should his strong Rage return,
'Twould be beyond our Power to force him hence.
Away, my Friends!—I hear the Portal open.
| The Distrest Mother | |