University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE the outer Part of the Temple of the Sun.
Enter Cyraxes and Adrasta.
Cyrax.
The Median Prince Adrasta, what Tygranes!
Was it Tygranes that my Sister freed?

Adras.
I as a Friend and fatal Confident,
Heard his firm Vows, and saw his wild despair,
When the sad Moment came that parted him
From what his Soul held dear.

Cyrax.
And wast thou a Spectator only?
Why didst thou not prevent so damn'd a Treason?

Adras.
'Twas your Command most positive and plain,
I nothing shou'd oppose, but carefully
Observe; if I too nicely have obey'd,
Forgive my Zeal.

Cyr.
Curse on thy Cautious Folly, it has ruin'd me;
The King and Kingdom are alike betray'd;
And here the charming Murdress comes, with Mien,
And Looks so languishing and sweet, as if
Her Soul ne're knew Design.
Enter Cytheria.
My Sister—

Cyth.
Ha! Cyraxes?

Cyr.
Why start'st thou, as if guilty, at my Sight?
Am I to Cytheria grown so terrible?
Is there such Horrour in my Looks, or hate in yours?

Cyth.
Alass, I know not where I am, nor who I see:
Well may I start, well may I be afraid,
When dear Cyraxes looks with Frowns upon me.

Cyr.
Stand firm my Heart, that I may charge her home;
Come Cytheria, you are much to blame.

Cyth.
Indeed, lov'd Brother, my most dear Cyraxes
Shou'd pity me, not chide his wretched Sister.

Cyr.
Oh Cytheria thou hast done a Deed,
A Deed, I fear, that will to After-Ages,
Draw Curses on thy Name and Memory.

Cyth.
The Gods forbid.

Cyr.
Oh I have such a Tale to tell thee,
That if thy Soul is Woman, or thy Heatt can melt,
Will drown thee in repentant Tears for ever;
Thy Inconsiderate Act has Persia ruin'd,
This cruel Act thy Brothers Joys has blasted,
And Ten, Ten Thousand weeping Matrons kill'd
And Babes that hung upon their Mothers Breasts.

Cyth.
Have I done this! Oh do not wrong me, Brother,
With such a dreadful Accusation.
From Sportive Childhoods blooming Infancy,
To these unhappy Years of Anxious Life,
My Thoughts are free from any Crime like this.

Cyr.
Art thou then innocent! Oh that thou wert.
Speak fair Destruction, whose Insinuations,
By whose curst Charms, and after whose Command,
Brok'st thou Tygranes Chains, and in that Freedom,
On Persia hast intail'd Consumptive War?
Thy Fathers Friend, Protector, best of Kings,
Agen must fight for what the Gods once gave him,
For his own Crowns, and for the Globe of Earth,
The Royal Martyr was ordain'd to rule;
By the same right as we enjoy our Vital Air.

Cyth.
Alas!

Cyr.
Whilst we Tygranes had, Peace hung upon his Chains,
With him we cou'd our own Conditions make:
In this vile Act thou'st ruin'd all thy Race,
Thy King, thy Country too thou hast destroy'd.
'Twas Love the Cause; 'twas Love, thou Disobedience!

Cyth.
Forgive me Brother, if thy Soul knows Pity,
'Twas Gratitude alone that urg'd this Rashness,
Nor did I dread the fatal Consequence.

Cyr.
False Cytheria, no, 'twas Love; forgive thee!
No, by my Country's, Fathers Woes, and mine,
Thou'st greatly wrong'd Cyraxes; say in Media
How have I strove to gain thy early Friendship,
Beyond indeed a Brother's Care. What Dangers
Shun'd I, to plant me in thy modest Bosom?
How often hast thou promis'd me, nay, swore
No Lover shou'd beguile me, not Tygranes;
He was thy Father's Bar, his Curse hung o're thee,
And whilst thy Hands unbound, and gave him Freedom,
Thy traytorous Arms strait lock'd him to thy Heart.

Cyth.
'Tis most unjust; that I did give him Freedom,
(May Heaven and you forgive me,) but no more.

Cyr.
No more! Think how the angry King will bear it,
When he shall hear thy Treasons numberless:
Think how his Rage will fall upon thee,
Perhaps condemn thy beauteous Limbs to Wracks,
Thy Life to horrid lingring Torments.

Cyth.
This Menace touches me the least, my Brother.
I have a Soul as large as thine, Cyraxes,
And can with Courage bear my own Distress.
If I have injur'd others, (which Heav'n forbid)
With endless Wailings I repent it!

Cyr.
Tortures and Death!
She can the Wrack indure to free Tygranes;
Injur'd! Hast thou not injur'd any? Is there
A Reperation to be made for Loss of Life!
Such are thy Injuries, most fatal Woman!

Cyth.
My Lord, my Brother!—

Cyr.
Methinks I see rang'd Battles, and the War
Renew'd, where every lifted Sword gives Death;
See the good King, his Helmet off, the Blood
In Crimson Streams pour down his aweful Cheeks.
Behold thy Father old Rheusares fighting,
Cleomedon, Cyraxes too, eternal Woe!
Wading in Blood. Hark how the dying Soldiers
Send their last Groans to Heav'n for dire Revenge;
Hark how their Ghosts with hollow Accents roar,
'Tis Cytheria gives these Wounds, this Gore,
And, but for Cytheria, War had been no more.

[Cyth. Swoons.
Adras.
Alass my Lord, she swoons.

Cyr.
Oh Gods, what have I done? Look up my Sister;
My Life, Cyraxes Soul! Adrasta help.
Curse on my foolish Rashness, that durst think
Her tender Nature cou'd such Shocks indure—
She breaths agen. Oh Cytheria, speak.

Cyth.
Who calls upon that hated Name?
That Monster whom a Brothers Breath condemns?
And such a Brother too whom I so lov'd?

Cyr.
O pity and forgive my headlong Passion—
See at thy Feet the fond Cyraxes kneels.

Cyth.
Will you be angry then no more? and do
You love me still?

Cyr.
I do, I do, beyond the Powers of Love;
Beyond the Charms of Glory, or of Fame,
And far beyond a Brothers lambent Flame;
'Tis such a Passion that I dare not name.
With such insatiate Raptures Mothers gaze
Upon their darling Infants, when they see
The smiling Babes from Pangs of Death releiv'd.
Oh 'tis above Compare, the Joy and Pain
That Cytheria gives her poor Cyraxes.

Cyth.
But am I guilty then,
Of all th'impending Mischiefs you have threatned?

Cyr.
No, thou art innocent and good, the Child
Of Love, and Favourite of Heaven.
Thy Words like morning Incense rise, and each
Propitious God bends down to hear thy Pray'rs;
But Oh, those Wishes must not be Tygranes,
Then they shut up their balmy Doors of Bliss,
And with their Thunder tear, and Lightning blast thee;
For 'tis a Sin too terrible to name.

Cyth.
Alass what Sin?

Cyr.
To wed the Son of her who ruin'd all thy Race,
To draw a Father's Curse of Disobedience,
And kill a Brother who so dearly loves thee.
Dost thou not love Cyraxes too?

Cyth.
Most tenderly.

Cyr.
And wil't thou never wed Tygranes? Swear it.

Cyth.
Never, O, never.

Cyr.
Remember when in Medea's Court we dwelt,
How dear we were from Childhood to each other;
How charming thou, how fond of thy Cyraxes!
And none by me so lov'd as Cytheria.

Cyth.
The Pleasure comes so fresh in my Remembrance.

Cyr.
And when with Childish Sports we pass'd the Hours,
Thou, midst the Royal Youths didst chuse thy Brother,
And still woudst have Cyraxes for thy Partner.
And is all this forgottan?

Cyth.
No,
Let me rush into thy Arms—
A Sister may without a Blush do this. [They embrace.


Cyr.
Oh Cytheria!

Cyth.
Fly, fly Cyraxes, Cytheria fly;
Am I not turn'd a Monster in thy Eye!
What change is this my trembling Heart allarms!
Starts ev'ry Pulse, and unknown Wishes warms,
Kindles my Blood, and with delightful Pains,
And killing Pleasure thrills thro' all my Veins—
Or quit my Vow, or give these Transports o'er;
To save thy Sister from Tygranes Power,
Strike, strike me dead, or never see me more.

[Exeunt severally. Cyth. meets Leamira.
Enter Leamira.
Lea.
Why Cytheria, why this Day in Tears?
Why, when I court thee, dost thou fly my Love,
And keep thy Bosom shut to Leamira?

Cyth.
Alass! I am too curst, too greatly wretched,
I seek for Shades to vent my Greifs alone,
Least my infectious Sorrow shou'd disturb
The happiest Princess in the World.

Lea.
Art thou no better read in Courts, dear Cytheria,
To measure Happiness by ontward Pomp?
Speak then thy Griefs, and seek the Gods with me,
For to that End this holy Place I visit,
In hopes to find Repose.

Cyth.
That I do fondly cover such a Friendship
Is plain, when I unlock my Breast to you.
I who have long a Stranger been to Royal Favours.
My Mother I ne'er saw, or not remember,
Snatch'd from my Father in my Infancy;
The Ward, or rather Prisoner of a jealous Queen,
Whose Fury still survey'd me with unchang'd
And harsh Severity to childish Errors,
Unmov'd with all my dutious Service.

Lea.
Poor Cytheria! cruel Orna!

Cyth.
Sure under this hard Usage I had dy'd,
Unknowing future Ills, but for Cyraxes,
He prov'd a tender loving Brother to me,
Fondled my Youth, and chear'd my daily Sorrows;
And when I wept, wou'd kiss away the Tears,
Watch'd like a Lover's Care, still striving
With most unwearied Diligence to please.

Lea.
'Twas nobly done, he was the best of Brothers.
Proceed, dear Cytheria, let us now
With mutual Confidence our Loves cement.

Cyth.
I wou'd not hide, since you'l vouchsafe to hear
The inmost Secrets of my troubled Breast.
In my unthinking Bloom, Tygranes most
Unhappy Fate led him to love this Wretch,
And my Repulses more increas'd his Flame,
Yet he persu'd me still, with all the Marks
Of an unfeign'd and virtuous Passion.
This added to my Persecution most,
And th'Indignation of the furious Queen,
Knew no Bounds, Oh Gods! what did I suffer
From her continu'd Wrath, and Womans Spleen!
'Twere strange to tell you,
And with Approbious Terms rank'd with the vilest.

Lea.
Ambitious Woman! what Princess of the East
But thee cou'd so adorn the Medean Throne?
Fair Sufferer! Cyraxes still was your Support.

Cyth.
He was, but still against Tygranes pleaded;
He begg'd, conjur'd, and rag'd when e'er he heard
Me name his Love, and bid me curse the Sound.

Lea.
From whence proceeded that? there's something in it,
Or sure, it look'd like Jealousy!

Cyth.
It did; but oh the Gods protect Cyraxes
From such a Crime, and me from lawless Love.
But still remains the horrour of my Fate,
For nothing I'll disguise, tho' the Remembrance
My Sences racks, and shocks my trembling Frame.

Lea.
Ha, from thy Cheeks the blushing Roses fly,
And charming Red thy lovely Lips forsake.

Cyth.
On Medea's Verge there lives a holy Hermit,
A hundred Years his Eyes have watch'd the Sun,
Seen what their ruling Stars on Mortals bring,
Seen their Effects, and whence their Causes spring.
His Cave cut deep beneath a bending Rock,
Proof against Winds and ev'ry Thunders shock:
Close by his Cell a Christal Fountain breaks,
His heav'nly Thoughts with trilling Murmurs wakes,
And Nature's Thirst with rich Contentment slakes.
Skins were his Cloathing, Dates his ouly Food,
Such as he gather'd from the neighbouring Wood.
His Mind, his Garb, and little Store were One,
His Pillow Turf, his Bed a Mossey-Stone;
The rest he had, were like his Wishes, small,
Such was his Wealth, and such his humble All;
His Looks and Mein an aweful Reverence show,
And his white Beard outvyes the Mountain Snow.

Lea.
Oh Gods! Methinks I now behold him.

Cyth.
Thither Adrasta and my self repair'd,
Rack'd with tormenting Pains, the worst is Doubt.
We met him at the Entrance of his Cave;
The good old Man with steadfast Eyes beheld me,
And starting on a suddain, Daughter, cry'd,
The Gods preserve thee: Frighted at the Sound,
I kneeling ask'd the reverent Bard, from what?
From Incest, Child, his Voice elated,
Shun a too charming Brother; and said,
He had Commission then to speak no more,
Nor cou'd we with Intreaties urge him on.

Lea.
'Tis strange, 'tis wondrous strange my Friend,
And needs must make ye dread Cyraxes.

Cyth.
Rather, ye Gods, let me Tygranes meet,
Tygranes! rather wed me to my Grave;
Drag me to wants, to misery, despair,
Kill me this Moment, blast this vital Air,
E'er I forget Cyraxes to beware.

Lea.
And poor Cyraxes knows not ought of this?

Cyth.
No,
I wou'd not give his Thoughts so black a Scene,
He has too good Idea's; this great Princess,
Is the sad Summ of all my fatal Fears,
This the Anxiety that barr'd me from
The Bliss which in your Bosom Reigns.

Lea.
Oh no; Love here has fix'd his aweful Throne,
Can I be well when such a Foe's within!
To pay the Trust which you so frankly gave,
Know to Cleomedon this Breast's a Slave.
Some other time the Story shall be thine.
Now lets ascend the Temple's sacred Steps,
And from the Tripos know our future Dooms.
See Cytheria, all appears divine—
See from the Roof—
A thousand gilded Suns their Rayes decline,
And brazen Doors on golden Hinges shine;
The Floor with Adamants so richly lay'd,
None but the God himself did ever tread.
Behold the Altar smoaks, the Priestess comes,
And Clouds the shining Dome with richest Gums;
Load the pure Altars with rich Spices freight,
Till the Shrine bends beneath the precious wait.

The Scene opens, shows the Temple of the Sun, several Piramids of Light. Priests attending the high Priest.
High Pr.
Hail beauteous Princess! hail most Royal pair!
Speak your Demands, for this great solemn Day,
Princes and People, all are free to ask.

Lea.
Most holy Father!
Inquiring to the righteous Gods we come,
And bend to know our Loves eternal Doom.

Cyth.
Bound to their Wills, we ever wish to tread
In virtues Paths, and be by Virtue lead.

High Pr.
Place your selves here;
In aweful Silence wait their just Decree;
Joyn your assistance in th'imploring Hymn
To great Apollo and his Oracle;
But, till his Will is known, all quit the Temple,
Save these alone, who at the Altar wait;
Here from the Trypos read the Book of Fate.

Hymn to Apollo. Solemn Musick. Antick Dances. After which the High Priest speaks.
High Pr.
Away, away whom I commanded, All;
The rest upon the outward Pavement fall,
And humbly listen to the Word of Power.
The mighty Influence begins its dawn;
Your Destiny's are seal'd, your Lots are drawn,
As fierce as when he drives the Night from Day,
And chases Darkness from his rising Ray.
Help me to Mount now, now alass, I see
The angry Gods immutable Decree.
He ascends the Tripos. The Oracle.
“Thy Brother Cytheria seek to shun,
“Yeilding to him, you both must be undone.

Cyth.
Agen that Caution!
See Madam, see, my lost Estate.

Lea.
'Tis well, you'r warn'd.

High Pr.
Hear Leamira, Persia's Princess, hear.
The Oracle.
“The Man whom you to death adore,
“Cleomedon, must be no more;
“The Medean Prince your Charms possess,
“And in that union, Wars shall cease.

Lea.
'Tis false, nor Gods nor Men shall thus ordain.
Come near, unhappy Augur of all Ills,
And listen to my Vows. Durst thou, thou Priest!
Pronounce my Lover's Fate, and live to hope,
By vain Predicts, to alter my Resolves?
I'll prove it false, falshood and foul Deceit.
Eternal War shall Reign, e'er that shall be,
Thy Oracle shall cease and be no more,
That dust proclaim my Heroes Death.
The Medean Prince! Scorpions and Serpents rather.
Hear; louder then your Oracles I'll read,
And with dire Curses blast what you've decreed.

The Temple darken'd. Thunder.
High Pr.
Hold Princess, hold, do not the God prophane;
Till now you were accounted mild and good;
Do not so rashly forfeit all those Blessings.
The angry Gods drown your rebellious Voice
In Peals of Thunder.

[Thunder.
Cyth.
The Skies with Horrour warn us to forbear;
Darkness and Terrour spread the Temple round,
The mourning Spheres with heavy Motions rowl,
And Groans of Thunder fly from Pole to Pole.
Heark, how those Clouds like Globes in peices tore,
Big with their Birth of Vengeance, how they roar,
And scatter all the Prodiges they bore.
[Trumpts.
Heark how again the warlike Trumpets sound,
Hear their loud Voice by louder Thunder's down'd!

Lea.
What mean the warring Elements? Alass!
Why is all this Commotion?

High Pr.
My Royal Daughter—

Lea.
Forgive me, Sir, I will no more presume
To fathom what is fathomless,
Nor fix my Eyes too steadfastly on Fate,
Lest I for ever lose my daring Sight.
I nothing will resolve, nor seek to know,
But what is cheifly in my Power,
That is to die.

High Pr.
See all agen is bright, and all serene;
There's nothing Cloudy but your noble Mind.
Be patient and submit.

[Temple closes.
Drums and Trumpets.
Cyth.
Alas! the Drums and daring Trumpets sound,
Still louder, still they fresh Alarms give—
Oh Leamira! what are now my Fears?

Enter Cleomedon.
Lea.
Behold the noble Warriour comes, Oh Gods!
Have ye decreed I shall no more behold him?
Can I indure that thought without Relapse!

Cleo.
The routed Medes down to our very Towers
New Squadrons bring, fresh Troops begirt our Walls,
Tygranes like a Fury leads 'em on,
And proud Defiance at our Gates proclaims,
Threatens to race the City to the Ground,
Unless we send him—O, too precious Ransome!
This Captive Maid, a Victim to his Bed.

Cyth.
Oh blasting News! Am I the Cause of War?
From the bless'd sight of Day, let me be born,
By Lightning blasted, and by Thunder torn,
Or sacrific'd in both the Army's view,
E'er they for me their bloody Fights renew.
Beneath Darius Feet this Wretch shall fall,
By Death or Ruine, to attone for all.
[Exit Cyth.

Lea.
Poor Cytheria, more unhappy I!
How are we every way pursu'd by Fate!

Cleo.
What means my Princess?
Bliss of my Soul, and Darling of my Wishes!
Why is that ominous Sorrow in thy Eyes?
Thy alter'd Voice now flaggs its warbling Note,
That late, more gladly then the Trumpet, call'd
Cleomedon to fight, thy Hand hung on this Sword a Gemm
Rich as Andromache had given to Hector,
And Venus when she sent her God to Battel.

Lea.
I dare not tell what happen'd in these Walls,
No tho' to Death, the sounding Trumpet calls.
Why must I fear? There's yet a Chance in War;
Some pittying God the cast of Fate may bar;
For Priests and Oracles, let come what will,
To cheat us, have a double Meaning still.
Like Mars, my Hero is for Conquest warm,
Awful, yet lovly, thus your Foes you charm.

Cleo.
Am I then dear to thee? Ye Pow'rs above!
Have I the Heav'n of Leamira's Love?
For me, for me do you this Passion own;
Plung'd in vast Floods of flowing Joys, I drown,
My ravish'd Thoughts in heights of transports rowl,
The swelling Tides run o'er my working Soul.

Lea.
Why ith' rude Camp must ye in Armour shine?
The Trumpets Voice delights you more than mine.

Cleo.
Oh say not so, thou Charmer of my Eyes
In thee alone my wish'd for Blessing lies,
Beyond all Freedom still your Chains I prize.
I go to fight, you know my Fair, I do,
I go to Conquer, and 'tis all for you.
'Tis for your Sake I suffer martial Toyls,
And 'tis to you I'll offer all my Spoils.
You shall alone be Goddess of the War,
They needs must vanquish, on whose side you are.

Lea.
Fly to the Battle, then to Conquest fly,
Cleomedon shan't stay, nor shall he dye.
May all the Stars sheild ye from Fortune's Harms,
And grant the wish'd for Conquest to your Arms.
May they protect ye from each lifted Sword,
And may the God of War by you ador'd,
May he himself be Guardian to my Lord.
May you triumphant with your Trophies ride,
With fetter'd Princes at your Chariots side;
Like the young Mars may you victorious be,
Nor be subdu'd—

Cleo.
But by that Venus, Thee.

Lea.
Great as that chief in the Phlegræan Fields,
When with his nodding Plumes his Sword he wields.
Now, now methinks I see the Forces meet,
And bloody Chiefs their cruel Anger whet.
They strike; hark, hark, the Strokes, their Sounds renew:
Now, now they fly; and now again pursue.
Oh Heavens! my Love, my Life, they follow you.
Now my Heart fails me, and you must not go;
Against whole Armies what can single Valour do?

Cleo.
Ha! Am I then by those dear Lips decreed,
To fall ignobly, and on Racks to bleed?

Lea.
Lost in my Thoughts, I knew not what I said,
My Love was present, but my Reason fled;
I like some Usurer must trust my Store,
Big with the Hopes to have it quickly more;
Now, Oh ye Medeans, this strict Charge I give,
Save him, Oh Gods, by whose sole Life I breath;
From his lov'd Breast turn every threatning Death.

Cleo.
Glory, the Darling Mistress of our Souls,
All-conquering Love with stubborn Power controuls.
Farewell, alass! 'tis with excessive Pain
I speak it o're, and bid farewell again.

Lea.
Remember this, (if I have Power to charm)
To be secur'd against the smallest Harm;
If the least Wound shou'd be receiv'd by you,
Your Leamira will be wounded too.
Adieu, my Lord, my Love!

Cleo.
My life adieu.

[Exeunt severally.