University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Night SCENE of a thick Grove.
Enter Oxartes in a Priest's Habit.
If Error cheat me not in these blind Tracts,
'Tis here Lord Mirvan, by confirm'd Report,
Soon as the Night-Bell tolls the Hour of Twelve,
Passes alone, repairing to the Magi:
Black Fiends, that people this Infernal Grove;
And by dire Contract with the Stygian Gods,
From stalking Ghosts extort th'uncertain Knowledge
Of hid Futurity:—This Gown and Beard
Make a Disguise too nice for Night and Mirvan
To see me thro', unless my Speech betray me:
Which if it do, this Dagger knows his Part.
The Clock has struck; and yonder is a Light;
Now Fortune, be my Guide, 'tis thee I follow.

[Enters the Grove.
Enter Mirvan from the Grove.
Mirv.
The Sp'rits that see into the latent Seeds
Of Time, and know th'unripe Event of things,
Have giv'n me firm Assurance of Success.
These were their Words,—
“Fortune is ever lavish to the Brave,
“Strike home, and be assur'd Success to have;
“Nor fear Repulse, 'till Slaves their Fetters break:
“And their Demands in Arms and Terror speak.
—Impossible! But to prevent that Fear,
The Slaves shall die;—My Rival too shall die!
(For he's already safe, by my Command;)
Yes, Artaban, I will be yet reveng'd:
Nor shalt thou long expect what Fate attends thee.

Re-enter Oxartes to him.
Oxart.
At length I've track'd him out; Now, all kind Pow'rs
Help me, to work him to my honest Purpose.

Mirv.
Th'High-Priest ere this has giv'n the potent Draught,
And his offended Gods are now appeas'd;
If a King's Death attone for common Victims.—
'Tis time I leave these Groves; the King once dead,
Then, Mirvan, is thy Hour to grasp at Empire!

[Going.
Oxart.
What Words of horrid Meaning does he mutter?
Lord Mirvan,—

Mirv.
—Ha! what hollow Voice was that?
Or did my Fancy, penetrating Sense,
Create this Noise to start me from my Cares?
But something does approach:—What art thou, speak?—

Oxart.
I am as thou art; an Armenian born,
By Custom grown a Persian; forc'd by Wrongs,
(Whose bare Remembrance fires my thinking Soul;)
To quit my Native Soil: An Enemy
Profess'd to Artaban, and his Adherents;

Mirv.
Talk'st thou of Wrongs, which Mirvan can redress?
What would'st thou have with me, and wherefore sought me
At this dead Hour, this late unhallow'd Season?

Oxart.
Night answers well the Purpose of my Heart;
I would, Revenge; Revenge on Artaban:
Deep in my Breast, I wear the Characters
Of Injuries receiv'd; not worn and film'd
By length of Time, but fresh as bleeding Sores,
You too have known the smart of an Abuse;
Despis'd, and elbow'd out of Dignity
By him, by Artaban; yet can forgive
The small Disgrace, and think your self unhurt!

Mirv.
Plagues, Pestilences blast me, if I do;
My Hate to him, were both our Bodies burnt
On the same Pile, the Theban Story would
Renew; and separating Flames ascend
In distant Columns.—But a sure Revenge
Salutes us, with the Dawn of early Day;
Already has the Sentence reach'd his Ear,
Or quickly will;—

Oxart.
—Ha! must he die so soon?

[Aside.
Mirv.
You start, and stand aghast; as if the News
Had froze your Passion with a cold Repentance;
And struck you speechless.

Oxart.
—I shall lose my self,
And all the means to save him!— [Aside.]
No, you wrong me;
But I am griev'd to think, there is a Train
Will ruin yours, the King's, and my Revenge.
And therefore sought I you.

Mirv.
—Unfold this Wonder;
What mean you?—

Oxart.
—Not to cheat you with a Lye;
Or pawn my Truth to buy your easie Faith:
(You juster Pow'rs, forgive me, that I'm false!)
Here is a Dagger; take it, if you doubt me;
And whensoe'er you think my Story stain'd
With Falshood's Die; plunge it into my Throat,
And so prevent the growth of a Deceit.

Mirv.
No more of that; Distrust is incident
To Cowards and ignoble Minds alone:
Speak on, and I believe—

Oxart.
—Then mark me well.
Oxartes, having scap'd the Fate of Battel,
(A Youth, whom Artaban hath ever lov'd,
And next to Heav'n, above Mankind preferr'd;)
Hath brought six hundred Men; who round the City,
Mix'd in the Tumult of the gen'ral Triumph,
Walk unobserv'd: These, in Detested League,
Have bound themselves, yet ere the rising Day,
To fire the Prison; or with Sword in Hand,
When their lov'd Artaban's led out to Death,
To force the Guard, and bear him off in Triumph.

Mirv.
Damnation! how the subtle Poison steals,
And wars within my Veins, and stings my Heart!
O! for some Politician's abler Brain
To change this Scene of Death, and turn the Scale
Of Mischief on the curst Contriver's Head!—

Oxart.
I thank you Gods, it takes as I could wish:
[Aside
To win your Friendship, and secure my Vengeance,
My self will run this bold, and desp'rate Hazard;
Blast their Designs, or perish in th'Attempt.

Mirv.
What Prospect of Success dawns on thy Hopes?
Can'st thou, with single Arm, pretend t'o'erturn
And marr the Purpose of concerting Numbers?
Let not thy thirst of Vengeance fool thy Reason.—

Oxart.
Attend, my Lord, to my Advice; you say
The Prince's Doom is fix'd, and Sentence giv'n:
Then give it out, That Death all Quarrels ends;
And as you wish his Soul should part in Peace,
Appoint some rev'rend Father to discourse him,
To preach Forgiveness of your mutual Wrongs,
And an Exchange of Pardon, ere he dies:
Be that my Province:—who, as I shall sooth
His gen'rous Mind, and press th'engaging Duty,
Will watch a time to drench my Poniard deep,
And suck his vital Blood!—That when Oxartes
Comes to enlarge his Body from the Prison,
He may, in horrid Disappointment, find
The Prince has from his Body freed his Soul:
So will the Dagger, left, with ease, persuade 'em.—

Mirv.
Thou Master-piece of exquisite Revenge,
Grow to my Heart!—But Time o'er-takes our Talk,
And will not brook Delays; this Signet take;
An undisputed Warrant for Admittance:
And when you have atchiev'd the great Exploit,
Expect me in the Castle-yard. Farewel;
And Fate succeed you.
[Exit Mirv.

Oxart.
—Rather bid farewel
To your fond Hopes!—Shine all auspicious Stars,
And shed assisting Influences down;
And you blest Pow'rs, that govern this our Earth,
Let me but save the best of your Creation;
Then if my Friendship, in the Means, have done
Ought that must stand for Criminal above;
Accept my Life, the Forfeit of my Falshood!—
[Exit Oxartes.

SCENE changes to a Prison.
Artaban discover'd, lying in Chains asleep; Amestris stands weeping by him.
Amest.
Good Heav'ns! Is this the great Reward of Virtue?
This gloomy Cell, recluse from Day, and Light,
But what one melancholy Taper yields,
That, aw'd with Damps, scarce holds its feeble Fires.
And yet He sleeps!—Sleeps, as his Breast were calm,
And could out-brave Ill Fortune with Content;
Henceforth despair not, Wretches, of Relief,
To soften Sorrows, and oppressing Anguish;
Since Injuries, like his, can find Repose!—

Art.
waking.]
What Sounds, more sweet than Musick, reach'd my Ear?
What means my Fate? Is it not my Amestris?
My Life! my Soul! O let me clasp thee, Love,
In these fond Arms, 'till I expire with Transports!—
[Going to embrace her, stops.
Pardon, this kind Excess of sudden Joy
Made me forget I was, the Wretch I am.
These rugged Chains with lightest Touch wou'd wound,
And harrow up thy Softness:—O Amestris!
Why are thy Virtues link'd to these Misfortunes?

Amest.
What says my Lord? Call not my Love in Question:
By the kind Gods that gave me to your Arms,
Might I but here have leave to dwell with thee,
I would prefer the dark and dismal Mansion
To Courts, to Pomp, to Gaiety, and Pleasure.

Art.
O thou art all Perfection, Truth, and Fondness.
Come to my Bosom, thou celestial Fair,
And breathe a Heav'n of Comfort to my Soul:
Their Irons have lost their Weight, whilst thou art here;
This Dungeon's Gloom but represents the Night,
The gentle Hours of Love, and chast Enjoyment.

Amest.
O talk not of Enjoyment, but the Grave;
My busie Thoughts, flutt'ring in search of Joy,
Do flag, o'er-charg'd with damp and dewy Sorrow;
And find themselves inclos'd with fast Despair.
Yet ere a while Death will perhaps o'er-take us,
(For I have sworn, I will not live behind you,)
And we shall be no more.—

Art.
—Be calm, my Love;
Nor wound my Soul with such affrighting Kindness:
For thou shalt live; forget thy hapless Lord;
Resume Content, and only die to Sorrow.
So, Sir, how wears the Night?

Enter Officer.
Officer.
—Too fast, my Lord.

Artab.
Thou bear'st a Message in thy Eyes, my Friend,
Which thy too cautious Tongue fears to pronounce:
Speak on, I am prepar'd;—

Officer.
—Forgive me, Prince,
Who come th'unwilling Herald of your Doom:
The rising Day must see a setting Sun!—

Art.
Then is One Morn of Comfort still behind;
As welcome to my Soul, as a kind Spring
That treads upon a rig'rous Winter's Heels.
Weep not, Amestris, nor unman my Heart;
Death's dreadful only in an idle Fear
That startles Cowards: I have met him oft,
And chas'd the grisley Phantom in the Field;
Who now pursues, and with ignoble Force
Insults me, pinion'd:—

Amest.
Oh! Artaban! my Lord, we must not part.
The hideous Thought distracts my fright'ned Soul;
And mighty Sorrow, like a boist'rous Sea,
Breaks in upon my poor unguarded Breast:
Which strives in vain to stem the raging Tide.
My Spirits shrink, and all the Woman yields.
O, hold me up; and clasp me to your Bosom;
There hide me from the dire reflecting Image
Of all my Thoughts, and Fears of—O! to Morrow—

Art.
Why do'st thou press me with such eager Fondness,
And make me wish this Being were prolong'd?
But all in vain:—Retire we, charming Mourner;
If the black destin'd Hour of Death be come;
Nor Pray'rs, nor Sorrow can reverse its Doom:
And I have this one Comfort in my Fate,
I am not Guilty, but Unfortunate.

[Exeunt.
SCENE the Castle.
Enter two Officers.
1 Officer.
The King indeed has Fury in his Temper,
Yet never have I seen him thus outragious.
But now he snatch'd a Jav'lin from his Guard,
And stabb'd it in the Bosom of his Neighbour;
Crying, his Father's Death must be reveng'd!

2 Officer.
'Tis strange;—The Croud interpret it to Madness:
Others, with subtle Malice, are industrious
To spread it round, A Judgment from the Gods:
But much I fear, it has a Hellish Cause;
The Priest and his sly Draught of Reconcilement,
I doubt, contain'd a killing Kindness in it.

1 Officer.
Heav'n best can tell; and best revenge the Treason.
But see, the Prince has pass'd the Antichamber;
With our High-Priest; and bend their Steps this way:
They seem engag'd in some Discourse of Moment,
We must not break upon their private Walks.

[Exeunt.
Enter Mirvan, and High-Priest.
Mirv.
Fear not th'Event; but grant a short delay
To the firm Strength, and Vigour of his Youth;
That pushes to expel its abler Foe,
And guard a while the Citadel of Life;
But cannot long maintain th'unequal Combat.
You should have waited on his latest Pangs
With wishing Patience, and dissembled Sorrow.

H. Priest.
I durst not longer trust my feeble Soul
To see his Racks, Distortions, wringing Pains;
And hear his Groans, so exquisite and piercing,
They'd almost force a sympathetick Sorrow
From things Inanimate: A longer Stay
Had sure betray'd me to a guilty trembling;
And wrought a foul Confession from my Tongue.
When the dire Object of his Pains invades
My Thoughts, I wish the Business were undone.

Mirv.
By Heav'n, 'tis an Impeachment to your Wisdom,
To let the Wish of one relenting Moment
Fight with the Motions of your nobler Vengeance.
But if so dire an Object has impress'd
A firm, repenting Pity on your Mind;
Then I have done:—Go, expiate your Offence;
Confess, some cogent Demon push'd you on;
Or, that the Furies made you do that Deed,
At which your tame reflecting Spirits shrink,
And stung with Horror make your Life a Burthen.
This will dissolve the tender-hearted Croud;
And lull their Rage to soft and melting Sorrow.

H Priest.
Mistake not, Sir;—But see, the Presence opens;
Let us retire; I would not tempt my Courage
With a fresh View of what so strongly mov'd me.

Exeunt.
The SCENE opening discovers the King held by his Attendants.
King.
Where are my Friends?—Be quick;—Pour Rivers on me,
Quench my scorch'd Entrails; see, I'm all on fire;
A flaming Brand has sing'd my Vitals; ha!
I blaze, I blaze;—Jove thunder me to Hell,
Or I shall set your airy Poles on fire.

1 Officer.
See, now he shivers with Extreams of Cold.

King.
Begone, malicious Hags!—Speak to 'em, Memnon;
The cursed Strumpets here have brought their Sieve,
And dribble th'Icy Waters o'er my Bowels.
Ha! who's that grins?—What Mirvan! do'st thou laugh
To see me thus abus'd? Come hither, Sister;
Thou shalt not have the Traytor.

2 Officer.
His Words are wild, and starting as his Eyes;
He grasps me hard, and trembles as there were
An Earthquake in his Bosom.

King.
—What, my Father!
Let me go nearer; he would whisper to me:
What say'st, old Boy?—The Business shall be done:—
March out our Legions there; go, drain my Treasure;
We'll hire us forty thousand Parthian Archers.
No matter, let the Country lie untill'd;
I will have ev'ry Peasant press'd to th'War:
Oh!—I am wounded: Lead me to my Tent.
Nay, pluck not out the Shaft; for if you do
My Soul will follow—But the gushing Flood
Runs fast, and I grow weak with loss of Blood.

[They lead him out.