University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE, A Vault in the Temple of Diana, with Lamps burning.
Orestes discover'd sleeping on a Couch. Harsh Musick. Three Furies rise and sing.
Orestes, waking, starts up hastily.
Orest.
Avaunt! Be gone! Tie up your cruel Scorpions,
Ye all detested Hags! Demons of Night!
Descend to burning Lakes, your Seats of Birth,
And rid my Breast of this intestine Hell.
Be gone! and tell th'unrighteous Pow'rs you serve,
Th'Infernal Gods, my dread Revenge was just.
[The Furies sink, and the Ghost of Clytemnestra rises.
Ha! I have said too much!—Come back, ye Furies;
Daughters of Rage, come back; and I will fix
My Eye-balls on you, till I'm blind with Horrors:
For here's an Object, makes the Sense of Seeing
Rebel against itself.—Well; shew thy Wound,
Whose Blood is cold; glare on me with those Eyes,
Whose Beams of Sight are quench'd; I own, I kill'd thee;
But strict Command urg'd my reluctant Hand:
And the absolving Gods, who will'd the Deed,
Must quit me of the Crime.

Ghost.
Never, Orestes:
Heav'n doom'd not, but thy sacrilegious Will
Forg'd a pretended Purpose of the Gods;
And nought can clear thee, but avenging Justice.
No Ease shall crown thy Days, no Rest thy Nights;
But ghastly Visions, and heart-sick'ning Dread,
Shall chill thy Veins, and poison all thy Pleasures.
The Guilt of Parricide, with conscious Stings
Lashing thy Mind, shall keep awake Despair;
Pall thy best Appetite o'er the mirthful Bowl,
And blast Fruition in the Bed of Joy.
Anguish, in ev'ry Form, shall haunt thy Soul;
And when thy Spirits are lull'd to seeming Peace,
I, and my Wound, shall rouse the sleeping Frenzy,
And make thee curse a Life thou can'st not lose.

[Here the Ghost sinks.
Orest.
Must it be thus?—Then Piety's a Crime;
Obedience to the Gods of fatal Moment;
And Heav'n is wrathful, when it dictates to us.
Unrighteous Pow'rs! Withhold your dire Commands;
And, without Guilt, permit us to be wretched.
O Father, wherefore was it not in Fate
That I should mourn, and not revenge, thy Death?
I could have born the Pangs of Sorrow well,
And in my Grief avow'd the pious Son.
But Murther—Parricide—O! there lies Madness,—
Distraction,—Torture,—agonizing Fears.—
The Priestess—Ha! My Thoughts again recoil;
Enters Iphigenia.
And furnish out a Scene of new Distraction.
Is it the Coinage of o'er-busy Fancy?
The dreadful Pageantry of inward Fears?
Or does my cooler Sense present these Horrors?
Such was the Form, and such th'aspiring Gate,
The Mien majestick, and the aweful Eye,
Of my Imperial Mother.—Horror wounds me.

Iphig.
Stranger, condemn not in your Thoughts my Tongue,
That hates the Tidings, I am forc'd to bring:
The fatal Lot of Death—

Orest.
Is fall'n on me.
I am prepar'd: lead to the destin'd Altar.
There, Gods, your juggling Promises shall end;
That flatter to the Ear, and cheat the Soul.

Iphig.
He must be Grecian by this noble Daring.—
How have the Pow'rs oppress'd your Youth with Woe,
That Life's become your Plague? This Unconcern,—
This Zeal of pressing into Death's dark Cave,
Seems as you did contemn the Gods best Gift,
And wish'd to lay the irksome Burthen down.

Orest.
Tho' yet my Years should speak the Bloom of Spring,
Dry Sorrows have drunk up my Sap of Youth,
And all my Leaves are shed. Know too, fair Maid,
A Grecian holds not Life of dear Account,
But whilst his Pow'r remains to serve his Country.
Despoil'd of that Renown, all second Fame,
All meaner Joys make Life not worth our Care.

Iphig.
Then Friendship holds no place in Grecian Breasts,
Insensible alike to that and Love.

Orest.
Have I said aught to merit that Reproach?
To speak me dull to Nature's choicest Touches?
Forgive me, Beauty, who have felt thy Charms:
Forgive me, sacred Friendship, that have tasted
The Partnership of all thy dearer Int'rests.
Ev'n now my glowing Bosom swells with Joy,
To think, my Death shall save the best of Friends,
And loose his Virtue from indecent Bonds.
Oh! Might I be indulg'd once more to see him,
And breathe the Transports of my Soul before him,
I should embrace my Fate with ample Pleasure.

Iphig.
Stranger, your Friend prevents you in that Wish;
Unknowing, whom the fatal Lot has doom'd,
Already he, with pity-moving Tears,
And with Knees bent as to the Gods for Succour,
Has at my Feet pour'd forth his strong Desire,
To taste the Comfort of a last Embrace.

Orest.
And is it possible, his Suits' obtain'd?
Has Pity won so far?

Iphig.
—Mistake not, Youth,
Nor think my Soul stern as my hated Office.
I am, like you, a Greek; like you, unhappy;
Enquire not from what Source:—Let it suffice,
I feel such tender Sentiments within,
Were you my Brother, more I could not pity.

Orest.
Such Kindness to repay, may you be happy
As Heav'n can make you! Happier than that Maid,
Who must in me mourn a lost Brother's Fate!

Iphig.
Instant, your Friend shall greet you; but be warn'd,
(For Mercy is esteem'd a Crime in me,
And I'm suspected by my cruel Guardians;)
If you regard his Safety, fear his Danger:
And make your Conf'rence short.

Orest.
We will observe;
And, thus oblig'd, count it our Bond t'obey you.
[Exit Iphigenia.
What Majesty she wears!—and such a Sweetness
Breaks from her, as enrich'd my Mother's Smiles,
While yet she clasp'd me in the Folds of Love.
Reflection brings the Image strong to View,
And turns my Eyes into my Soul with Wonder.
But Friendship comes to chase the painful Thought,
And cheer my Bosom with a better Object.
Enter Pylades.
O Pylades! Thou Partner of my Soul!
Thou better Half! Come to my aking Breast,
And give me to My self.—Ha! whence this Coldness,
Those down-cast Eyes, and this dumb Pomp of Sorrow?
Why do thy Arms fall languid back from mine,
Nor grasp me with the noble Rage of Friendship?

Pylad.
What shall I say, or how excuse my Treason?

[Aside.
Orest.
Let us not now grow Truants to Renown,
And forfeit the great Praise of mutual Fondness.
We, that have liv'd the Patterns to our Age,
From whom aspiring Youths have copied Faith,
Should hold the gen'rous Ardour to the last;
And stand the Monuments to After-times,
How we could love, and how in Death we parted.

Pylad.
O think not that the Flames of Friendship languish:
That Time, or Chance could banish thee my Heart.
Youthful Desire ne'er met untasted Beauty
With stronger Ardour, than I meet thy Love.
Yet tho' I can in that avow my Faith,
Still I'm a Recreant turn'd to thee and Honour:
False as Inconstancy, and wav'ring Baseness;
And undeserving of thy kind Embrace.

Orest.
Why wilt thou wound my Ears with Something horrid,
I'm taught to dread, yet know not how t'interpret?

Pylad.
Hear Me then (for therein the Gods are just;)
Expound the Secret of my own Disgrace.
Know you to whom we owe, that now we've met?

Orest.
Why not? The good, th'indulgent Priestess gave it
To thy bent Knee, and supplicating Eyes.

Pylad.
I blush to think that thou do'st know my Treachery.
Those Tears, I shed, should have burnt out mine Eyes,
When my false suppliant Tongue, and my bow'd Knee,
Were Prostitutes to Shame.

Orest.
Then you repent
The Cause, that did employ your Zeal; and own,
The lost Orestes was not worth your Pray'r.

Pylad.
Still wide;—I must my self unfold my Guilt.
The Priestess—

Orest.
What of her?

Pylad.
Have I not sworn
To keep this Heart for Iphigenia's Charms?
Was I not all the Royal Virgin's due?
Yet now a Traitor to those awful Vows,
I've gaz'd away my Faith. The lovely Priestess
(Forgive me, that I still must call her so;)
Has stol'n into the Temple of my Breast,
And fill'd the Dome with sacrilegious Love.
How wilt thou punish this disloyal Friend?—

Orest.
No more:—My Sorrows leave no Room for Anger;
Poor Iphigenia! Who shall now befriend Thee?

Pylad.
Yet while I own the Crime, I could not shun,
Something may be to Gratitude allow'd:
For whilst I knelt and trembled at her Feet,
My Heart then beating in the Cause of Friendship,
She, with a Look sweet as the Paphian Queen,
And Voice more soft than Philomel's Complaint,
Wish'd, it had ne'er been my disast'rous Fate
To tread this dang'rous and inhumane Soil;
Or that it might be her's, to give me Safety.
But see!—the dear inchanting Virgin comes:
Now shield me in thy Bosom from her Eyes,
That, like Perfumes, o'ercome the Sense with Sweetness.

Orest.
No, we must part:—Perhaps, to meet no more!

[Aside.
Enters Iphigenia hastily.
Iphig.
Strangers, by virtue of the Royal Signet,
With Steps, importing haste, the Queen approaches;
And with a Guard has circled round the Dome.
You must retire at once; or, disobeying,
[To Pylades.
Danger will double on yourself and Friend.

Orest.
Away.—

Pylad.
What! go, without my Pardon seal'd?
Were it to die, still I would die forgiv'n.

Iphig.
You may anon debate with better Safety.—

Orest.
Away—one Moment's Pause ensures my Death.

Pylad.
Forbid it, Jove!—farewell.

[Pylades goes out with Iphigenia.
Orest.
Eyes, take your last,
Your latest Prospect of the best of Friends:
Who knows not, he no more shall view Orestes.

Enters Circe.
Circe.
Pity, that soars above Resentment's Rage
In gen'rous Minds, has sent an injur'd Queen
To say, she grieves that you are doom'd to die;
Nay more, to proffer you her saving Aid,
(So you consent,) and point the way to Safety.

Orest.
Madam, I came not to this Scythian Coast,
Unknowing of your Death-denouncing Law:
Sent by the Gods, unless their Aid protect me,
I yield to Fate, and am prepar'd to die.

Circe.
Then recognize in me the Gods Protection:
Alas! You doubt my Pow'r, or Will, to save you;
And think I wear my feeble Sex's Vengeance.
But know, I am above a common Female;
And boast a Mind divine as is my Race:
Circe my Name: The Daughter of the Sun.

Orest.
Circe!—

Circe.
Yes, sprung from that eternal Sire,
The God infus'd me with his choicest Flames.
Yes, potent in his Gifts, the watry Car
Of his pale Sister feels my strong Command.
By him the Pow'rs of ev'ry baleful Juice,
Each binding Charm, are servile to my purpose:
While by Effects, that startle Nature's Course,
I make the gazing World suspect her Laws.

Orest.
Yes; the Circæan Bowl and Wand are known,
E'er since the wise Ulysses 'scap'd your Snares:
Whose hapless Mates, debas'd from human Form,
And human Sense, around your Palace-Walls,
Howl'd like Night-Wolves, or eat the Draff of Swine.

Circe.
Well did that State beseem their grov'ling Souls,
Brutal, and tastless of sublimer Joys.
But wise Ulysses, capable of Bliss,
Aspir'd to me, and reap'd unfading Pleasures.
Yet then, ev'n when Delight was at its Flood,
Fearing, lest his slack State should ebb at home,
Who, but this Circe, lent a prosp'rous Gale
To waft the Hero to his native Throne?
Be thou like my Ulysses.—

Orest.
Perish rather!

Circe.
Give me not Cause to think too poorly of Thee:
If thou canst scorn this undecaying Youth,
This Bloom of Charms, that Monarchs sigh to gain,
Yet shew thee wise; dissemble thy fixt Hate;
A trivial Recompence for Life preserv'd.
Say but thou wilt receive that Gift from me,
Then curse me after; throw me to Neglect;
Do any thing Ingratitude shall prompt
Thy savage Heart to do, to make me wretched.

Orest.
Avaunt, Inchantress!—I am deaf as Adders;
Deaf as Ulysses to the Siren's Song,
Who strove in vain to lure him to Destruction.
Aim all your Knives, ye Ministers of Blood;
Willing I come thy Victim, stern Diana!

[As Orestes goes out, Thoas enters behind.
Cir.
Then perish, obstinate and virtuous Fool!
Yet—die he must not.—Something here within
Shakes my Resolve, and shudders at that Thought.
To be reveng'd, is Vengeance on my self.

Thoas.
Ha! parlying with our Captive, and alone,
When his Doom's fixt!—Is this her Zeal for me?
This her Distrust?—'Tis all as I suspected:
The Wanton counts me in the Vale of Years,
And seeks a Paramour of younger Pow'rs.
Madam, you seem disturb'd:—I hope, our Priestess
Was not in League to let the Victims 'scape;
Or has the haughty Greek, whose stubborn Soul
Disdains to bend, tho' Queens should stoop to sooth him,
With Insolence renew'd provok'd this Tempest?

Cir.
This unweigh'd Jealousy shews me, in time,
The Tyrant you would prove, had I resign'd
The Pow'r to make you so.

Thoas.
Ungrateful Queen!
Tho' Love be blind, Suspicion will have Eyes;
And reason on th'apparent Face of Truth.
You scatter'd Doubts in my too credulous Breast,
That, as a Greek, our Priestess might incline
To favour Greeks; and rob our Sacrifice.
Th'Event proclaims, that was a groundless Fear:
The Greek by her impartial Lot is doom'd,
And waits, this Hour, to pay his forfeit Life.

Cir.
Dull, and o'erweening King! Go, take your Victim;
Assist the juggling Train laid for your Ruin;
And think th'Election, and the Lot, impartial.
'Tis plain, the chosen Victim is a Prince.
The Priestess sees, with what imperious Threats
Of Havock his fierce Bands demand him back;
And, secret, triumphs in your sworn Defeat.
What hopes she less, than, when their hardy Rage
Shall make Reprisals for the rash-spilt Blood,
To find Conveyance to her native Soil?
The Crime will center all in you; and she
Stand, in their Eyes, an Instrument compell'd,
A Mourner for the Deed.

Thoas.
—O proper Stuff,
As superficial, as your Guilt is open!
This labour'd Web of aukward Policy
Too thinly covers o'er the bad Deceit;
And sets your treach'rous Passion out to View.
'Tis known, for whom you would preserve this Prince.

Circe.
Rather 'tis known, to what opprobrious End
You labour to excuse your subtle Vestal.

Thoas.
Recrimination is the mean Resource
Of self-convicted Spirits, of conscious Guilt
Refining on Detection. But beware;
Spight of my Love, and your imperious Charms,
I will assert the King in my Revenge.

Circe.
Spight of your Threats, you dare not, shall not do it.
Take back the Pow'r you poorly seem'd to lend;
[Throwing his Signet.
Attempt whate'er your Fears will give you leave:
Ev'n when your Swords are levell'd at his Breast,
I'll come with watchful, unforeseen, Prevention;
And disappoint the Malice of your Anger.
[Exit Circe.

Thoas.
By Heav'n, I will not trust a Moment's Leisure
To your infernal Arts. Go, speed the Rites;
Our Priests, on Peril of their Lives, be ready.
I'll see the pleasing Stroke of Vengeance giv'n.
Tho' my Life's Bliss, the Safety of my Throne,
Rested on this one Act of Rage undone;
Better, all sink into the common Grave,
Than tamely live to be a Woman's Slave.
[Exit Thoas.