University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE, Antichamber in the Palace.
Enter Memnon, Mirvan, and High-Priest of the Sun.
MEMNON.
By Heav'n! it fires my frozen Blood with Rage,
And makes it scald this aged Trunk, to think
Our Persia, that for Discipline and Rule
Stood Candidate with Sparta, rough in War,
Patient of Labour, and disdaining Ease,
Should now, debas'd into licentious Riots,
Make Appetite her God:—and scorn to bow
Before the Rising Sun, whilst Midnight Lamps
Attend her Sports beyond the setting Stars.

Mirv.
Auspicious Vice, that lords it o'er the World,
Still grows in Strength; and Virtue keeps aloof:
Like sculking Scythians, shifts her wand'ring Tents,
Nor dares to fix a Court throughout the Earth;
A Stranger, and an Exile ev'ry where!—
But yet, howe'er Licentiousness prevails,
Let not your strict Austerity of Soul,
With an accusing Frown, reproach the Joys
Which rise in ev'ry Breast from Persia's Triumphs:
Think on the glorious Havock of the Day;
And let the gaudy Scene inspire your Virtue
To welcome Conquest.—

Memn.
Rather, let me think
On all the Dangers we have undergone,
And bless those Pow'rs, by whom we were preserv'd!
Those Pow'rs, that chang'd the Issue of the Day:
Making our Foes Confederates in their Ruin.
While our young King, the Life of all our Hopes,
Spurr'd on his Courser in the Lists of Death,
Where the Fight hottest rag'd, He was unhors'd;
When at that Instant a brave unknown Foe
Broke thro' the Press, and with his gen'rous Arm
Prevented th'horrid Stroke, prepar'd to fall
Upon the Head of Majesty oppress'd!—

Mirv.
It was an Act of Wonder, and of Praise:
And tho', whene'er Armenia comes across my Thoughts,
A Curse attends it; May your hostile Swords
Pierce thro' its utmost Limits, lay it waste,
Raze all its Palaces, consume its Stores,
And bring the Plough upon its fenced Cities!
Yet I could smother all my Wrongs; forgive
This hated Country for so brave an Action.
I long, yet dread to know the happy Man
That did, what Pride and Envy wish undone!

[Aside.
H. Priest.
Had Mars appointed you for his Relief,
You might have doubly claim'd our Princess' Love;
For her own Freedom, and her Brother's Life:
Attractive Charms to break her Virgin Coyness,
And give her up to crown your high Desert.

Mirv.
Sooth not my Madness with the fond Conceit
Of Virgin Coyness;—By the Sun's bright Beams
I swear, 'tis insolent Perverseness in her;
The saucy Pride of Woman's Affectation
To return Scorn for Courtship!—When our Arms
Had made her aged Father and her self
Pris'ners to our Armenian State, I thought
A Victor's Pow'r might awe her to Compliance;
Yet then she haughtily disdain'd my Suite,
And to my Face avow'd,—(O Plague to think,
And Hell to utter!)—my Brother had her Heart.

H. Priest.
Women are blind to Merit; obstinate
In Choice; and led at random by their Wills;
Still fond of Contradiction!—

Mirv.
—No my Priest;
For tho' they search not Virtues in the Soul,
Yet they are caught with Glory's dazzling Bait.
My Rival had the Rights of Eldership;
Immediate Heir to wide Armenia's Empire;
Him, Him she saw the curst obsequious Croud
(Neglectful of my Father's Years,) adore:
And bask their Vileness in his rising Beams.
Tho' I confess, in spite of stubborn Hate,
And, as his Foe, I grudge the Praise I give him;
Yet Nature form'd him worthy of a Throne:
With Courage, Justice, Eloquence, Compassion,
And all the Virtues which indulgent Heav'n
Could grant a Prince to bless his People's Hopes.

Memn.
How relish'd our Old King your sev'ral Suites?
Pris'ns, and the keen Resentments for his Loss
Of Liberty and Empire, made him sure
Look on you both with Eyes of Enmity,
And heighten'd Scorn—

Mirv.
—Quite contrary, my Lord;
He was not heard to breathe one murm'ring Accent
During his Chains; but calm, as if his Hate
Were sunk in an Extream of Piety,
And Shackles were the easie Bands of Friendship,
By Fate, or Chance, he favour'd my Pretensions;
And urg'd, in vain, his Daughter to obey him.
This partial Choice soon got a Tongue at Court,
And Artaban's Disgrace was loudly talk'd of;
Our Father, jealous of his Darling's Honour,
Took on himself the Vengeance of his Son;
And, 'spite of constant Intercessions made,
Pronounc'd the Good, the Royal Captive's Doom.

Memn.
O mighty Brother!—Most unhappy Prince!
How did our Persia stagger in thy Death?

Mirv.
That Scene of Blood for ever banish'd me
Th'Armenian Court: I fled the barb'rous Soil;
And tho' intreated, nay commanded back,
I still remain'd an Exile; 'till at last
Proclaim'd a publick Traytor to the State,
And, stung with that Indignity, I left
My Country's conqu'ring Arms to succour Persia.
Enter Barzanes.
I left my Mistress too;—The cruel Fair one,
To her admir'd, successful Artaban.

Barz.
With Him be all your Pangs of Rival Love
Forgot; Report, that fain would be believ'd,
Agrees, this mournful Day's declining Sun
Saw Artaban's Eclipse.

Mirv.
—Triumph my Heart,
And all my Spirits dance to that glad Sound!
While my pleas'd Senses whisper to my Soul,
Thy Rival, hated Artaban's no more!—
Oh, 'tis a Theme to satisfie Revenge,
And injur'd Love attone: But say, my Friend,
My best Barzanes, teach me how he fell.

Barz.
When he perceiv'd his last Reserve of Men
Too few to conquer, He, intent on Death,
Survey'd a while, where noblest he might fall.
Then, furious, rush'd amidst his yielding Foes;
And, as he were the Minister of Fate,
Where-e'er he turn'd, Destruction mark'd his Way:
'Till—

Mirv.
—Death!—Be silent, Slave; I bad you not
Descant upon his Fate; but, by the Pride
That swells my Breast, I would have giv'n this Hand
To've heard, he had a flying Stab of Shame
Upon his Back; and bit the Ground in Anguish!—

H. Priest.
Cease, mighty Sir; your Anger grows too loud:
The Trumpet's Sound proclaims the Triumph near,
And see, the King;—

Enter King, attended with Commanders, who range themselves on each Side of the Stage; bowing low, as the King speaks.
King.
At length, my Friends, the dire Decision's o'er;
Discord and War, by our victorious Fury
Whip'd back, are slunk into their native Hell;
Turn all our Battle-Axes, Swords, and Spears,
To Scythes and Plough-Shares; or let's hang 'em up,
As useless Trophies, to our Houshold Gods;
The rusty Prey of long corroding Peace.

Memn.
Accept the Tribute of your humble Slave,
That kneels with Joy to kiss your sacred Robe;
And counts the greatest Blessing of his Years,
At once, to see your Safety and Success.

King.
Rise, my good Uncle; Welcome to this Breast;
Be always present here, with sober Counsels
Restrain the Rashness of your head-strong King,
And guide his Youth with Reason—Pardon, Prince,
[To Mirvan.
That you thus long have unregarded stood,
The Source of all our Joy: To you we owe
Those Heaps of Slain, that, cov'ring o'er the Field,
Must gorge our Kites and Vultures! Common Fame
Speaks such Heroick Executions of you,
As even strike our Admiration dumb.

Mirv.
My Lord, I court not popular Applause;
But scorn the Praise, when from so base a Tongue:
The many-headed Monster weighs not Merit;
But deals the shuffled Prize, with rash Design,
As publick Hate or private Int'rest sways 'em.
I fought not on the common servile Score
To conquer Kingdoms, or erect new Thrones;
A more sublime Ambition fir'd my Soul,
Love wing'd my Arm, and got the start of Fortune!—

King.
By my bright Race of Royal Ancestors,
Love has a Champion worthy of its Cause;
And who deserves to reap its best Rewards.
To such high Worth all Recompence is vile,
Or all but Her, for whom you fought and conquer'd.

Mirv.
What Lustre or what Pride can Conquest boast,
When she, in whom all Triumph is compriz'd,
Absconds; and grudges her indulgent Beams
On publick Pomp?—An empty Pageantry,
Thus unadorn'd with her illustrious Presence!

King.
This Night she has obtain'd, in close Recess,
Conversing with the Gods—
Some idle Zeal of short continuance,
Or hasty Vow, yet unfulfill'd, that hangs
Upon her Woman's Conscience: In the Morn
This holy Man shall preach her into Love,
And give her up, resign'd to your Embraces.

H. Priest.
Most glorious Sir, th'Infernal Pow'rs exact
The Tribute you by solemn Oath declar'd
To pay their Deities, the War once done;
A Hecatomb of Slaves.

King.
Be all those Wretches, (whom th'Event of War
Has doom'd a Sacrifice, t'appease the Ghost
Of my Great murther'd Father;) brought before us:
That if Lord Mirvan have a Friend amongst 'em,
He may escape the Rigour of his Fate;
The rest conduct to th'Altar—

[A Train of Prisoners in Chains guarded, are drawn in Files across the Stage; Artaban last.
Mirv.
Death to my Hopes!—By all my Hate, 'tis he;
Perdition seize him! Whirlwinds snatch him hence,
And rid me of that Face, which gives me Tortures!

King
to Memn.]
Who's he, whose dazzling Garb and august Port
Attract all Eyes? on whom the croud of Slaves
Gaze with Concern, nor heed their own Distress?
I would be taught his Name, and Quality—

Mirv.
Like a Mute Victim must he bleed, unknown?
Where then is my Revenge?—Or, if I should
Disclose him to the King, who knows th'Event?
But Royal Pity, and his Sister's Pray'rs,
May bribe some gen'rous Start of fickle Temper
To pardon; and so disappoint my Hate!—

[Artaban advancing from among the Prisoners.
Art.
How long must we retain this servile Being,
To wait the Victor's Sentence? We are arm'd
Against the worst of Fate, and scorn alike
Your Mercy, or your Malice. Death's the Prize
We wish to draw, now Liberty is gone!
These Chains revenge you of the Man, has made
Your Soldiers tremble and your Subjects fly;
Behold the Scourge of Persia, Artaban—

Mirv.
Proud forging Slave, thou ly'st; for Artaban
Was seen to fall; and thou, to die more nobly,
Would'st imp his Shape, and arrogate his Fame.

Art.
Too well thou know'st this Face, dissembling Mirvan;
Thou Traytor to thy Father, Gods, and Country!
I envy not the short-liv'd Pomp you've gain'd,
The Hire of Treason and the Troops you sold.
Better be thus—in Honour's vanquish'd Cause,
Than that inglorious Pageantry of Falshood!
Thou wert my Brother, and I will not curse thee,
But my superior Virtue spurns thee off;
The Stain and Dregs of Royalty prophan'd!

Mirv.
The Losers have a Priviledge to rail,
But I'm to learn this Woman's wrangling War;
Which, wert thou Free and durst assert in Arms,
My Sword should answer thee—

Art.
—Take back that Falshood;
Were I in Arms, thou would'st as soon contend
With angry Jove; or stand the falling Shock
Of riving Thunderbolts, as meet my Rage.
I hunted thee, thro' all th'embattled Plain;
Shook off the Crouds, that press'd to meet their Fates
Beneath this Arm, and only wish'd for thee:
That Fortune would have set us, Face to Face,
Where I might fairly 've charg'd thee with thy Crimes;
Thy Father's and thy Country's Trust betray'd,
And sunk thee with thy Shame—But still thy Fear
Out-ran my lame Revenge in the Pursuit!

King.
'Tis Insolence in Captives thus to talk—

Memn.
Yet you, that boast such fierce Demeanour now,
Are conscious of one Act, viler than Fear;
(For he that suffers Crimes, is guilty of 'em;)
I mean, the captive King of Persia's Death;
Against the Law of Arms and Nations murther'd:
Murther'd for you!—Now let your Conscience answer,
What Martial Worth, what Trophies can efface
So rank a Stain to Honour?

Art.
—Hear me, Statesman;
If thou, unknowing, lay'st it to my Charge,
That I consented to that Monarch's Fate;
Thou hast a Soul black as that Deed of Rashness:
Black as those Arts devising Politicians
Use to subvert the Innocence, they want!
I hope not to be spar'd for this Confession,
No threats of Death, or Tortures, could have forc'd;
But, as a Soldier, I would clear my Fame:
And like the Sun, set in an Orb of Glory.

King.
Enjoy the fancy'd Glories of your Fate;
Guards, drag him to his Doom—

Art.
—Ay, glut your Hate;
Let my Blood stream to quench your thirsty Souls
Till ev'ry Vein be empty.
But know, insulting Prince! whom this Day's Chance
Has made th'Ascendant of my trampled Fortune;
Had not this abject Slave, you now condemn,
Sav'd you from Death, and blunted Slaughter's Edge,
You had not liv'd to know your Arms have conquer'd!

[Going with the Guards
King.
Soldiers, come back,—By Heav'n, I am o'erwhelm'd
With Shame, and Wonder!—Let me view that Face,
Whose Features now confirm my doubting Thoughts,
And shew me my Preserver: O forgive,
Thou gen'rous Man, the Rashness of my Rage;
And to my Ignorance impute your Sentence:
Behold, with open Arms I meet your Virtues;
And, for a Life restor'd, embrace your Friendship.

Mirv.
Death to my Hopes!—

Art.
—Yet hold, mistaken Prince;
For I must speak what Honour bids me say:
Think not, that Artaban's own rugged Breast
Counsel'd his Arm t'arrest th'impending Stroke;
And save his Persian Foe to make a Friend of.
No;—but the Princess, e're the Fight began,
Adjur'd me, by the tender Love I bore her,
By all my Hopes of Victory and Her,
To save her Brother, and decline his Sword.
Oh! my Amestris,—
What a Reward has partial Fortune giv'n
For my Obedience, and unconquer'd Faith?

Mirv.
Demand your promis'd Victims, holy Sir.

H. Priest.
My Lord, 'tis in the Gods behalf I speak;
For our Nocturnal Altars all are rais'd,
For the Performance of your vow'd Revenge.

King.
Peace, greedy Priest,—and tell your churlish Gods,
No sanguine Steam shall feed their famish'd Nostrils
Till Persia's Monarch pleases.—All the Court
This Night shall shine with gay luxurious Pleasure,
Nor Blood prophane the sacred Festival.
Back to their Prisons with the Crew of Slaves,
But for Prince Artaban, take off his Chains;
And let a Guard at distance wait his Pleasure;
Tho' sternly he declines our proffer'd Love,
The Princess till to Morrow shall reprieve him
To grace her Nuptials.—Forward, to the Temple.

[Exeunt omnes, præter Mirv. Artab. and Guards.
Art.
Ha! Grace her Nuptials? O my tortur'd Soul!
Stay, cruel Prince, and take your Gift again.
For Life will be my Curse:—I dare not live.—
Let me be rack'd, impal'd, or have my Flesh
Torn from the starting Bones, I'll suffer all,
Nor groan beneath my Doom.—But he is gone;—
And I afflict my self with idle Rage,
That spends it self on Air: as angry Waves
Swell up at Rocks, and dash themselves to pieces.

Mirv.
Brother;—

Art.
Away—

Mirv.
But hear: The rising Morn
Resigns the Princess to my longing Arms;
Then, if a Smile from her will ease your Pains,
She shall have leave to shew you Grace.—Farewel.
[Exit Mirvan.

Art.
Brav'd by this Stripling!—who, not two Years since,
Ere this reverse of Fate, would fawn and cringe;
Paying his Worship jointly to the Sun
And Me, without distinction of Respect.
So specious a Sincerity, as made
It Sin to doubt! But thou, my good Oxartes,
(Whom this Day's Fray has sever'd from thy Friend;)
Didst point his Falshood out thro' its Disguise.
But thou art lost!—And my Amestris too!
My Princess:—O Destruction, Death and Horror!
Torn from my Arms yet in our Bridal State:
Why was I born, ye Gods, with such a Fate?
So over-charg'd with mighty Bliss at first,
Then in a total Deprivation curst!

[Exit guarded.