University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE a Gallery in the Castle.
Enter High-Priest, follow'd by Mirvan.
[Thunder.
Mirv.
I tell you, Priest, you must, and ought, resent it;
The Sacriledge is plain; your Gods are robb'd;
And angry Heav'n, in Prodigies, declares
It self impatient of unfinish'd Vows.
Else, why this dreadful, and unnatural Wreck
Of the vex'd Elements to fright Mankind?
The Thunder rouls not with its wonted Terrors,
But seems to burst yon Azure Roof asunder;
And rends our Earth with its Convulsive Ecchoes.
As if the Gyants were again at War;
Or Jove had Sworn to cancel erring Nature
For being Disobedient. Horror reigns,
Joyn'd with Confusion, like the Dawn of Chaos!

H. Priest.
The People swarm, like Troops of Summer Bees,
Arm'd with Domestick Weapons; full of Outrage,
And wild Tumultuous Murmurs;—To the King—
Is all the Outcry of the Factious Herd;
Force him to yield us those Devoted Slaves
For instant Sacrifice, and so appease
The wrathful Pow'rs.—

Mirv.
If Mirvan's humble Judgment may be heard,
The King assumes too far; looks on made Vows,
As Words of haste; as he were Arbitrator;
And could from Destiny, at Will, resume 'em.
What can we better hope, but this Contempt
Of Mithra's Godhead in his Injur'd Priest,
Will soon unmask Religion to the Vulgar,
And make it despicable? Sacrifice
Will be no more; the Altar's Flames extinguish'd,
And Temples Solitary!

H. Priest.
By the bright God, the Patron of our Empire,
Your words have pierc'd my Soul with that unerring
Semblance of Reason, I already feel
What we most fear—The Sanctitude of Faith
Debas'd, and all its Venerable Honours
Familiar to the Croud! O mighty Pow'rs,
Assert your sinking Worship, and avenge
Your own Preheminence disown'd, insulted!

Mirv.
Back to the Temple, and intreat the King
The Slaves may dye to satisfie the People.
I must attend awhile to see the Princess;
That Visit o'er, I will my self return,
And second your Request:—Make not delays.—
[Exit H. Priest.
I know, the King is obstinately bent,
And will refuse him;—Well, as I could wish;—
The Priest, that smothers his Resentments now,
Again deny'd, no doubt will vent 'em to me:
And while his Rage is up, I cannot want
An Instrument to work with: But with Zeal
Will varnish o'er Ambition, and escape
The Odium that attends on open Mischief.
But see, she comes; Grief on her lovely Aspect
Hangs like a Cloud upon the Morning's Brow;
And shines with Lustre borrow'd from her Beauties.
I will retire; perhaps may learn the Cause.

[Mirv. retires.
Enter Amestris and Ardelia.
Amest.
Why do'st thou love infectious Misery,
And hug the Ruins of thy mournful Mistress?
Go, my Ardelia, to some sprightly Court;
Enjoy the Charms with which Heav'n crowns your Youth,
And waste not Beauty in destructive Anguish.
Thou hast no Cause for Sorrow;—I must mourn;
Each future Day must witness to my Tears,
And silent Night start at my waking Groans.
For ne'er will Slumbers close these streaming Eyes,
Till Death, in pity, seal 'em up for ever!—

Ard.
Have Comfort, Madam.

Amest.
—Can'st thou be so cruel
To mock my Tears, and make my Grief thy Sport?
What Comfort can I have, who have no Hope?
But, like some shipwreck'd Wretch, encompass'd round
With threat'ning Seas, stand shiv'ring on the Ridge
Of a bleak Rock, that peeps above the Flood:
And look, and wish in vain to be reliev'd:
But can behold no Rescue from my Fears.
While the curl'd Billows foam with horrid Discord,
Mount with hoarse Rage, and climb against the Rock,
As each tumultuous Wave were at a Strife
To dash me off, and plunge me in the Deep.

Ard.
Cease to indulge this Canker to your Ease,
And, striving, overcome it: Care and Sorrow
Give Ground apace at sight of Pomp and Pleasure;
But, fed with Solitary Resignation,
Get to fantastick Heights: and dress'd in Horrors,
In seeming Horrors, turn the Soul to Madness,

Amest.
O! for a Cure like that of all my Pains;
Madness were decent Pomp my Birth might claim,
To mark my Sorrows from ignobler Grief.
But stubborn Reason will not be depos'd;
Like Conscience, setting all my Plagues to view:
Yet, oh! Ardelia, if thou would'st be kind,
Go to the Prison Grates; and from the Slaves
Learn, if it may be, by whose cursed Hand
Prince Artaban was slain, and how he fell.

Ard.
I will inform my self with utmost Care,
And hasten to attend you.
[Exit Ardelia

Amest.
—What a weight
Of unacquainted Sorrow loads my Breast!
Captivity was kind; and gave me Joy,
Then when it wounded deepest; Liberty,
Dire Change of State! has robb'd me of all Comfort.

[Mirvan comes forward.
Mirv.
In Tears! Ye Gods, what ill presumptuous Cause
Makes Sorrow thus intrude on Princely Beauty?
Waste not, bright Excellence, those precious Drops;
More worth, than the Distilling fragrant Gums
That make our India rich!—When Princes weep
The Heav'ns are shook as when the Thund'rer nods;
And tott'ring Earth seems sliding off its Props.
Each Element, in fatal League combin'd,
Put Nature to th'Expence of Prodigies;
And all comply with you to be disorder'd.

Amest.
This Flattery, my Lord, as ill becomes you
As your Intrusion on my private Hours;
If your Deserts have bought my Brother's Favour,
Is my Disquiet to repay your Service?

Mirv.
Do I offend, thus kneeling at your Feet?
Is it Intrusion thus to breathe my Vows,
Or Insolence to say, how well I love?

Amest.
What! Love from thee? O do not name it, Mirvan;
Revenge, Ambition, Treason, Death, and Slaughter,
Would better grace thy Speech;—There was a Man,
(Heav'n pardon, that I live to say, there was!)
Braver in War, than Stories best of Heroes:
True to his Friend, his Country, and his Gods;
In Mercy gentle as the falling Snow
That wets unfelt; most strict in Honour's Laws;
But when he lov'd,—Ye Gods, how he ador'd!
And as the Penitent with awful Fear
Bows at the Shrine, and sighs, and melts in Tears;
So Artaban—

Mirv.
—Damnation seize the Fiend!
And when he dies,—

Amest.
—Thou know'st that he is Dead:
Curst be the Tongue, that triumphs o'er his Fate;
But doubly curst the Cause that sever'd him
And me!—Thou mighty Goddess, that presid'st
O'er Nuptial Vows, stoop from thy Seat of Bliss;
And in th'Unalterable Scroll of Fate,
Let this my Wish be registred against me.
Show'r all thy fiercest Indignation down
On this devoted Head; devouring Earth
Gape and intomb me quick, if I consent
On any Terms to yield this Wedded Hand
To any second Lord.

Mirv.
—Ha! Wedded!—When?
How, and to whom!—

Amest.
—To Godlike Artaban.

Mirv.
Furies!—In time recant,
And to the list'ning Winds pronounce it false,
Or by this Hand, th'unerring Instrument
Of my Revenge, he dies—

Amest.
—Sooth not my Breast
With a false Joy; O could'st thou vouch it true,
That Artaban's alive; I would adore
Thy Virtue; think thee Fair, as new-born Light;
Stile thy Ambition an aspiring Heat
Of Matter in thy Soul allied to Heav'n;
Bleach all thy Crimes, and think 'em Virtues all.
But tell me, does he live? Is't possible?
Yet do not, for my boding Heart has answer'd,
And says, it cannot be:—Th'unhallow'd Furies
Borrow'd the Loom of Fate, and fond of Slaughter,
With heedless Havock have undone the World.
Had I too dy'd, then I had been most happy;
'Tis Liberty to dye, when Life's uneasie;
'Tis a Retreat from Pain, and those dire Thoughts
That drag the working Soul thro' Realms of Torture.

Mirv.
Why weeps my Fair? Be kind, and cease your Tears:
Enter Artaban behind.
O let that Sigh dispel the sullen Storm;
Chase each rude Care, and bring you back to Gladness.

Artab.
See, see, ye Gods, how frail are Women's Hearts!
The Sex is all Delusion:—

Mirv.
—Do not strive
To pluck away your Hand; it must, it shall
Be mine; and I to Death will prize the Treasure.

[Thunder.
Amest.
Hark! let me go; Barbarian, let me go;
And talk no more of Love; least Earth should gape;
And, thinking I consented to the Theme,
Th'assisting Thunder call to plunge me deep
Grov'ling and guilty to th'Infernal Shades:
No more to view my Lord, my Artaban—
[He comes forward.
Shield me, ye Pow'rs, and guard my frighted Soul;
What art thou, that assum'st that pleasing Form,
And, stealing on the Night, invad'st my Eyes
With Sights too exquisite for humane Sense:
My Brain grows sick, and Objects dance before me.

[Swoons, he catches her.
Artab.
Ha! Heav'n, she falls!—

Mirv.
—Confusion! Where's the Guard?
How got he Entrance here? Deceitful Traitors!

Artab.
O! Lift again those Lids, that rob the World
Of its best Light thus clos'd in seeming Death:
The frighted Roses from your Cheeks are fled,
That seated there, and intermix'd with Lillies,
Are wont t'illuminate the lovely Plain
With Tinctures, bright as those of rising Morn!
Still art thou cold? I'll force thy fleeting Soul
Back to its Seat, and warm thee to new Life.
She comes—and Beauty reassumes its Throne,
The sprightly Charms mount up into her Face;
And play, like Cupids, round their Mother Goddess.

Amest.
Am I awake? or only dream of Joys?
Do I indeed possess thee once again?
Oh! we must never be divided more?

Mirv.
Tortures, and Hell! I will not bear all this;
The King's betray'd; his treach'rous Guards are brib'd;
But I shall stop the Growth of further Treasons.
[Draws his Sword.
Unhand me, Madam;—

Amest.
—Not while these weak Hands
Have pow'r to hold; these Eyes and Tongue to beg;
But I will clasp your Knees, and draw you back,
Till you on Me have turn'd your Anger first;
On Me, the Cause of this your Enmity.

Mirv.
Then thus, I'll force my way; and end at once
The great Dispute:—This, to thy Heart.

[Pushes at Artab. he draws a Dagger from his Bosom, after a short Dispute wounds Mirv. in the Hand: his Sword drops.
Amest.
O, for some help:—

Artab.
—Come on;—I am prepar'd,
And thus return th'Assault.

Mirv.
—Curst Accident!
Perdition rot this weak unsinew'd Arm.
But rest assur'd, there soon will come a time,
Shall finish this imperfect Quarrel.—
[Exit Mirv.

Amest.
Are you not hurt, my Lord? Alas! you bleed.

Art.
'Tis but a Scratch; the Villain meant it home;
And put his utmost Strength upon the Thrust:
But in this Cause, for my Amestris fought,
(O think me not a vain and idle Boaster;)
Had Hercules himself attack'd my Life;
I could with Ease have warded all his Strokes,
As I did Mirvan's.—See, to whom we stand
Indebted, that we once again have met.

Re-enters Ardelia.
Amest.
Ardelia's ever kind; and, if I live,
Such Recompence as poor Amestris can
Bestow, she may command.

Ard.
—You over-rate
My little Services, and make me blush;
Whate'er I can, my Duty will injoin.
And pardon, Sir, your Servant's tender Fears;
In my Return, (what Terror seiz'd my Heart!)
I met Lord Mirvan, fierce and fiery red,
Who passing cry'd aloud, Double the Guards,—
Treason will spread apace, unless surpris'd,
The King's not safe while Artaban's alive.—

Amest.
Save me, my Lord, and hide me from my Fears;
A thousand Fancies croud into my Breast,
Most hideous all, all ominous to thee!
Mirvan has Pow'r; commands my Brother's Ear,
And bends his Will; we must expect a Storm,
When so much Malice, like a thick'ning Cloud,
Threatens to pour a Deluge on our Heads.

Art.
Dangers are only so, to guilty Fear:
But Fate, or Fortune cannot work to move
Th'undaunted Soul, with Innocence secur'd!

Amest.
O fly, my Lord, yet while 'tis in your Pow'r;
Security betrays us to the Snare,
And, like a Thief, first trains us from the Road,
Then spoils us of our Wealth. O think, my Lord,
How the strong Leopard shoots at once with Rage,
And seizes its unwary simple Prey.
So easie does Oppression gain its Ends
On open and unguarded Innocence.

Art.
O drive me not to Shame with strong Perswasion;
For Resolution melts in Beauty's Fires:
You drive my Reason from its strongest Holds,
And make it fly before insulting Love.
The busie Sp'rits that cluster round my Heart,
To Reason's Laws their Fealty disavow;
And all submit themselves to Love and you.

[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to the Temple of the Sun.
The King seated under a Canopy, Memnon, High Priest, and Officers.
Memn.
Urge it no more; you see the King's disturb'd;
Please, holy Sir, to give his Passion way.

King.
Talk not to Me of Prodigies and Omens;
By the bright Chariot of yon Sun we worship,
Tho' the fierce Bolts should crush this pond'rous Roof
Upon my Head, I would in Death persist;
And tell the Gods, the Victims shall not die:—
I'm not to learn the Artifice of Priest-hood;
That Heav'n's a Plea; and when you want the Spoils
Of offer'd Slaves, and find your Gains with-held,
Then Heav'n's incens'd at Sacrifice delay'd.

H. Priest.
Yet, Sir;—

King.
—No more.

H. Priest.
—Your Pardon; I must speak:—
This will not quell the Croud.

King.
—Ha! what? the Croud!
Perdition seize those Engines of thy Will,
Who gaze with Admiration of thy Virtue,
And specious Piety; and thus amus'd,
See not the muffled Vices of thy Soul.
I will go face these busie blust'ring Slaves;
And let 'em know that I am King in Persia;
And not a Priest, the Idol of their Worship!
Follow me, Sirs.

[Exeunt King, Memn. and Officers.
Manet High Priest solus.
H. Priest.
Great Mithra! If thou be'st a God of Pow'r,
If those magnifick Attributes we give thee,
Are not intirely Titular and Vain,
Let not thy violated Servant kneel,
And beg Revenge unheard:—

Enter Mirvan.
Mirv.
—'Tis as I guess'd.
[Aside.
Who nam'd Revenge?—Up, venerable Sir,
Trust not the Gods; Revenge must be our own;
And when they have inspir'd a gen'rous Rage
Into our Breasts, they Will that we should act
As Passion dictates.

H. Priest.
—See, my Lord, alas!
You bleed. What hardy Villain durst attempt
Your Princely Person?

Mirv.
—How the Coward shakes!
What can we less expect than Wounds and Insults,
When Slaves are licens'd to commit all Outrage,
And spurn at their Superiors?—

H. Priest.
—How, my Lord?
The Slaves are all secur'd, if Chains and Dungeons
Can keep 'em fast.

Mirv.
—I grant you, Sir, they are
In gross; but Artaban, the Master-Slave;
Walks unconfin'd, unshackled, should I say
Unarm'd, this Blood would witness to the Falsehood.

H. Priest.
O! why was I bred up to musty Books,
From early Childhood, to digest the Rules
Which contradict my Sense. When I am wrong'd,
In vain's the Cure of Patience, preach'd Indurance,
And dull Content: Resentment fires my Soul;
And I could wish I knew to wield a Sword,
To purchase Vengeance for my Friend and self.—

Mirv.
Peace, Sir; and let us whisper our Consults,
In Place of more assured Secrecy;
Nor talk of Swords; for Violence is vain:
An open Vengeance loses all its Merit:
And, like a Mole, industrious to be seen,
Works up its Folly outward to the World.
Force too's Obnoxious to unsteady Fortune;
But close Designs unguarded leave the Foe,
If there we fail, th'opprobrious Overthrow
To awkard and imperfect Arts we owe.

[Exeunt.