University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE, A pleasant Prospect of the Country.
Enter Hermione, and Laodice.
Herm.
'Twas not a Dream; full to my waking Sense
The Goddess stood confest: Her Form and Grace
Still strong to View; and still I seem to hear
The awful Accents of her grave Command.
“Hermione, said she, if yet the Care
“Of thy betroth'd Orestes touch thy Mind,
“That gallant Youth, thy Royal Grandsire's Choice,
“Thy destin'd Husband, if the Fates be firm,
“Swift to the Scythian Tauri speed thy way;
“Where Dangers thicken round his princely Head.
“Sparta obeys thee in thy absent Sire,
“And, glad, shall send the delegated Vessels.
“Go forth; and know, whate'er the Gods have purpos'd,
“Whether 'tis giv'n you to ensure his Safety,
“Your Stars are equal, and your Fortunes blended.

Laod.
That he was shipwreck'd on this barb'rous Coast,
By Drift of Circumstance seems well avouch'd:
But whether he escap'd the boist'rous Wave,
Whether 'tis he now wears the Scythian Bonds,
There Rumour's at a Loss.

Herm.
And Fears suggest,
O dear Laodice, a Fate of Horrors.
Thence big Discomfort swells, thence flows a Train
Of startling Doubts, and Hope grows sick to Death.
Perhaps, the Billows, piteous of his Woes,
Lent him a secret Grave, in kind Prevention.
Perhaps, (more frightful Thought!) in hideous Pomp
The crimson Shrine has drunk his streaming Blood.
What then for lost Hermione remains?
What but to die, and bid adieu to Terrors?

Laod.
The pitying Gods avert that fatal Doom,
Nor wound their Sparta with so dear a Loss!

[Musick is heard.
Herm.
Ha! whence these sudden Strains? this airy Charm?
What strange Musician wantons with my Sorrows?

[Pallas descends in a Chariot of Clouds.
Pallas.
Look up, bright Maid, and see
What Pow'r is watchful o'er thy Fate;
Pallas, that still thro' wayward Turns presides
Patron of Virtue, and the Hero's Guard.
Thy dear Orestes lives; but holds
His Life in doubtful Scale:
In Bonds the gallant Youth's detain'd,
The destin'd Victim of Diana's Shrine.

Herm.
Then all is lost

Pallas.

[Pallas ascends.
Herm.
Thanks, sacred Pallas, best belov'd of Jove!
Thy Deity still by me revered and blest!
How hast thou planted Comfort round my Heart,
And made the gloomy Prospect gay within!
Goddess of Arms and Wisdom, lend thy Strength,
Thy Conduct to me, thro' this Maze of Fate.
Help to make mild thy sterner Sister's Wrath,
Dian, whose Virgin Liv'ry yet I wear,
Whose Altar now I seek; whose dread Resentment
With heaving Sighs of Woe, and streaming Eyes
I bow to deprecate.—If Virtue's Cause
Of Right from heav'nly Minds Compassion draws;
If bending Grace our melting Sorrows chears,
'Tis ours to weep, so Mercy dwell in Tears.

[Exeunt Hermione and Laodice.

[[SCENE II.]]

SCENE Opens to the inward Part of the Temple. An Image of Diana with a Bow and Quiver is seen. An Altar with a Fire on it. Priests attending.
Enter Iphigenia.
Iphig.
Fate urges on the black, tremendous Moment;
Impatient of Delay, the Scythian Tyrant
Demands the Rites, and raves aloud for Blood.
Oh! wherefore am I weak with Woman's Fears?
Why have I not the noble daring Soul
To brave the fierce Barbarian's stern Commands,
And earn from him that Wound, I dread to give?
'Tis base to shrink at Guilt, yet fear to die,
And shun the Perpetration of that Guilt.
Conscience, that makes us Cowards in Offence,
Should make us valiant to avoid a Crime.
Inhuman Goddess! Blood-demanding Queen!
Dart thy fell Shafts at this devoted Breast,
Which stands reluctant to the Task of Death,
And hates the Business of thy savage Shrine.
I shake to lift the executing Steel,
With such an Horror as its murth'ring Point
Were turn'd on One, that twinn'd with me in Birth.
[A Sound of flat Trumpets within.
Ha! the hoarse Trumpet gives the dreadful Summons.
The hideous Rites come on, th'unhallow'd Flames
Rise on the Altar, and demand the Victim.

Orestes and Pylades are brought in bound from opposite Quarters of the Stage, attended by Priests.
Iphig.
They come: Distraction!—teach me, righteous Gods,
How shall I not pronounce the Doom of Death,
Yet save the Man I love?

Aside.
Pylad.
Most charming Maid!
I'll spare your Tongue the all-displeasing Task
[To Iphigenia.
Of pointing out a Wretch, that waits his Doom.—
Come, bind my Brow with your infernal Chaplets;
And I will wear them as the Wreaths of Triumph.

Orest.
What means my Friend?

Pylad.
To save the best of Men;
And by my Death attone my past Offence.

Orest.
It must not be:—Scythians, the Lot is mine:
Wilful, foreknowing your sworn Hate to Greece,
I entred in Despight your hostile Clime;
And fearless court the Death, I thus provok'd.

Pylad.
Alas! he raves:—The gallant, luckless Youth
Beneath my Banners came to wage the War;
By Friendship only seconding my Crime.
If you aspire to wreak your Hate on Greece,
Do it on him, who, did not these curst Bonds
Controul my Rage, purpos'd the like on you.
Enter Thoas, attended.
Behold me, with determin'd Soul, your Foe;
And those tall Barks, that threaten now your Coast,
Wait my Command to pour Destruction on you.
I know, my faithful Troops will soon revenge me;
And, in that Knowledge, I defy your Rage:
Nay, it behoves you to be quick in Act,
Or they will snatch me from your baffled Malice.

Thoas.
Whence this Delay? What mean th'unmanner'd Priests
To loiter thus? Begin the Sacrifice.

Orest.
Cease, cease, my Friend, the unavailing Contest,
And leave me to my Fate. Be thine this Glory;
Report me, how I took the Stroke of Death,
Then head my Subjects to revenge their Prince,
And wrest the Sceptre from his Tyrant Hand.

Thoas.
Extravagance of Daring!—Doubly brav'd!
Can Death have Charms to justify this Strife?—

Pylad.
Now by thy Father's injur'd Shade, I beg,
By all th'Endearments of our Friendship past,
By that big Glory my Soul pants to earn,
Forego thy Claim: or, hear me, awful Justice!
And witness, Jove!—I will not live behind thee.

Orest.
No more:—It must not be. Tyrant, proceed.

Pylad.
Proceed:—We both are Grecians, Princes both,
And both alike contemn thy Pow'r and Thee.

Iphig.
Where will this glorious, dreadful Contest end!

Thoas.
Their Insolence demands that Both should die;
Yet, since our Sentence was, that one should 'scape,
(And one stands foremost in our Eye of Hate;)
We will begin the Work of Vengeance, where
Th'Election of our hallow'd Urn directs it.
Straight with our Garlands bind the Victim's Brow;
And to our Priestess give the solemn Steel.

[The Priests crown Orestes, and lead him towards the Altar. One offers the Knife to Iphigenia. A Peal of Thunder is heard. The Flame on the Altar goes out.
Priest.
Avert these Omens, Heav'n! the sick'ning Flame,
All fierce before, starts from the sacred Brands,
Now dead and unsusceptible of Fire.

Thoas.
On with the Rites; rekindle the sunk Flame:
And with fresh Zeal appease the wrathful Goddess.

Priest.
Urge not our Zeal, 'till better Omens offer.

Thoas.
Pernicious Caitiffs! I shall find a Time
To make you fear an injur'd Monarch's Wrath:
Ye Coward Herd! Give me the sacred Knife;
I'll execute her Vengeance and my own.
[As Thoas snatches the Knife, and goes to stab Orestes, two Dragons rise out of the Earth, and bear him away; and Circe appears above in her Chariot, drawn by Dragons.
O spight of Hell! Confusion! Disappointment!
This is the Working of the Sorc'ress Queen,
Injurious Circe, that ungrateful Spoiler,
Who thus repays my Benefits with Wrongs;
Slights my sworn Vows, and her own plighted Faith;
And in the Face of Heav'n, in Shame to Virtue,
Affronts my Majesty, and robs my Vengeance.

Circe.
Rail on, and curse that Stubbornness of Purpose,
Which would presume with impotent Efforts
To cross my Will. Be Jealousy thy Plague!
Yet, in despight of weak, ill-judging Passion,
I'll save thee from the Dangers of thy Spleen;
And guard a Throne, thy Rashness aims to ruin.

[Circe is carried off in her Chariot.
Thoas.
False, false Adult'ress! this is but the Painting,
The Varnish of thy soul, luxurious Guilt.
Injurious Gods! why made you me a King,
Yet arm'd my sceptred Hand with Pow'r no better
Than that, which Nature's meanest Drudges boast?
O, for the Thunderbolt of darting Jove!
That I might reach the Traitress in her Flight,
Now, now, she trains him to the magick Bower:
But I'll pursue her, tho' to Hell she lead him.
Suspend the Rites, 'till we regain the Minion;
All Vengeance now displeases, but on her.
[Exit Thoas attended.

Iphig.
You righteous Pow'rs, that from your awful Thrones
Look down with Pity, when our Pray'rs are just;
Thanks to your Virtues, that have yet prorogued
The dreadful Thought-affrighting Hour, and sav'd
Poor Iphigenia from the Crime of Blood.

Pylad.
What do I hear? O Transport!—Do I wake?
Or are my Senses charm'd with sweet Delusion?
It must be she; her Majesty of Form,
Beauties unparagon'd, and gen'rous Pity,
Are Proofs most pregnant of the Royal Maid.
Did you not say, your Name was Iphigenia?

Iphig.
I did, but what of that? Such was my Name,
While better Fortune made it worth Remembrance:
I would forget it now: And much I fear,
Your Raptures suit but ill your lost Condition.

Pylad.
Where is my Friend? Return him, ye just Gods!
And let me to his Ear transport the Tidings,
Then do your mighty Pleasures.

Iphig.
Can it be,
(Inform my Wonder, if it errs;) that you,
Who would have dy'd in Ransom of your Friend,
Should wish him back to a fresh Scene of Horrors?

Pylad.
Hold; yet instruct me farther, heav'nly Maid;
For I am wrapt in Wonder deep as you.
That you're of Greece, I've heard; where just Report
Spoke loud ere-while of Agamemnon's Name.
She weeps,—and ev'ry precious Tear that falls
Is rich with Confirmation!—That great Chief,
In Death ill-fated, left one princely Son,
Orestes nam'd:—

Iphig.
My Brother!—Bless him, Heav'n!
If yet he lives, fall Glories thick upon him!
Nor let my hapless Fortunes reach his Ear,
To wound him with a Grief!

Pylad.
'Tis she:—O Joy!
Let Ecstasy pronounce it to my Soul,
Remorse is at an End; I've now no Pardons
To ask of Friendship for a misplac'd Love.
My Eyes and Heart, unknowing, follow'd Fate;
And felt the Influence of the destin'd Charmer.

Iphig.
Stranger, your Words seem big with mighty Meaning,
Some Birth of Fate, lab'ring to be disclos'd,
That keeps aloof from Sense: their mystick Tenour
Dark as the Raptures of prophetick Seers,
Yet fraught, like Oracles, with wond'rous Import.

Pylad.
I fear, I've said too much; this austere Guard,
These Men, that should be holy,—

Iphig.
Fear not them;
They are, like Me, reluctant to these Rites;
Servants of Virtue, tho' constrain'd to Guilt.
I know, they will in faithful Silence bury
Whate'er you utter.

Pylad.
Then there's yet a Hope.
But oh! let's move from this portentous Shrine,
Here Horror keeps her State,—to that lone Isle,
My first kind Prison, where I knelt before thee,
And found thee pitying as Jove's best-lov'd Mercy.
There, in Requital, I'll unfold a Tale,
Shall sooth thy Heart with Scenes of op'ning Joy:
Which these good, venerable, Men shall join
To think the Promise, and the Work, of Heav'n;
And catch the Omens of our dawning Rescue.

[Exeunt Pylades, and Iphigenia, Priests following.

SCENE III.

A Fort.
Enter the Sailers.
3. Sail.

If the Sea had but refunded us one more Runlet,
I would have been contented.

2. Sail.

Ay, one more Runlet to have regaled ourselves
with, whilst our Leaders are lost, and our Pilot busied
in refitting our Vessels; and let Fate have done its worst.

1. Sail.

Confound the Sea! It is more greedy than
a Greek Usurer.

2. Sail.

Look'ee, Friends, make your selves easy.
The Sea will be damnable drunk with our Wine; and
if it could play us such Tricks while it was sober,
what must we expect when it grows drunk? For my
part, I am ev'n for staying at Land, and becoming a
Man of another Element. While we are sober, d'ee
see, let us know when we are well, and stay here and
plant a Colony.—Never mind what precise Fools tell
you of Country. One Country is as good as another.

3. Sail.

Very true:—Thou speak'st like a very
wise Man indeed:—and thy Sobriety bespeaks it self.

2. Sail.

Do I not? For no wise Man ever car'd a Fig
for his Country.

1. Sail.

Unless he had an Estate in it, Dorax.—

2. Sail.

Very true! For why should a Man value a
Country which he is a Slave in? And in all the Countries
in which I have ever been, I have found the Poor to
be no better than Slaves to the Rich. Now here, d'ee
see, we shall be the greatest Men in our Country.

1. Sail.

I have but one Thing to urge against your
Design, and that is, how to satisfy two whoreson
Appetites I have of Eating and Drinking. For as we
shall live very free, whilst we have no one to enslave
us; so shall we live very hungry, whilst we have nothing
to eat.

2. Sail.

Pshaw! Never fear, Man; we shall find Fish,
Flesh, and Fowl enough, I warrant you; and if the
Climate do but produce the generous Grape—

3. Sail.

But there's another more whoreson Appetite
of mine, which must be supply'd. In short, Friend,
I would have a Posterity to leave the Fruits of our Labours
to.

2. Sail.

Never fear a Want of Women, Boy. As
soon as the Fame of our Colony reaches Greece, we shall
have 'em trooping over hither by Wholesale to make
their Fortunes. For my part, I am more afraid of
seeing my first Wife again, than of not getting a second.

1. Sail.

Well then, we are agreed to stay here, and
plant a Colony?

2. Sail.

Agreed! What else? What a Pleasure will
it be to us, when we grow rich and powerful, to receive
Ambassadors from our quondam Country to sollicit
our Alliance; ay, and sometimes to make 'em pay
for it? For I must tell you, I intend to insist on very
high Terms, whatever Side I declare my self of.

1. Sail.

You! Pree'thee, Dorax, do not talk altogether
in the Singular Number: We are to be a Commonwealth,
and every Man shall have an equal Vote.

3. Sail.

Ay, ay, all upon a Level. I'll suffer no Man
to be greater than my self.

1. Sail.

But hold you, hold you, Fellow-Statesmen;
and let us settle one material Point before hand. How
shall this Commonwealth of ours be kept on foot without
Money?

2. Sail.

Why there's it now. Ev'n confess yourself
shallow, and stand instructed.—Without Money, you
say? Why, we'll run deeply in Debt to one another,
and so grow rich. Every politick State in Greece is in its
readier Course towards Prosperity, by so much more
as it owes; as that Ship makes her faster Way to Port,
who has already spent all her Stock of Biscuit. Do not
you see now, Gentlemen, how necessary it will be to
have such a wise Man as I am at your Head to direct
your Councils.

Enter Pilot.
Pilot.

Fly, fly, my Friends; the Scythians are alarm'd,
and make in Bodies toward the Shore to surprize us. Our
only Hope to escape from Slavery is by our instant Flight.

2. Sail.

Flight? a Plague on't, had ever young Commonwealth
so untimely an End! What a hopeful Prize
is here run adrift, before we could have time to board
her!

Pilot.

Away, Drunkard. Our Leaders are taken by
the Foe: As we shall be, if we don't immediately prevent
it. Away, away.

1. Sail.

Would I were well landed in Greece again,
tho it were thro' another Storm!

2. Sail.

And would I were well supply'd with Drink,
and I would fix the Colony, and govern here by my
self!

[Exeunt.

[[SCENE IV.]]

SCENE changes to Circe's Bower.
Enter Orestes.
Orest.
Was I, indeed, snatch'd from the dreadful Shrine?
Or did I suffer there, and wafted thence
To better Life, now tread th'Elysian Plains?
It must be so; for all is here Perfection.
This seems that verdant, never-fading Soil,
Where Heroes triumph in their Glories past;
And Lovers burn with unabating Fires.
Ev'n Thought, the Parent of Distress or Joy,
Is tun'd to Comfort, and drinks in Delight.
Musick?—oh, sweet as Orpheus' Harp new strung
With the fair Tresses of the Maid he lov'd!
Here I'll recline, and feast on circling Pleasures.
Enter Circe.
But see! the Goddess of the Place approaches;
Adorn'd with Youth, and rich in Beauty's Graces.

Circe.
My Spells are pros'prous:—Soft Desires have smooth'd
His manly Brow, and Languishment his Eyes.
[Aside.
Do I not break upon your better Thoughts,
Employ'd, perhaps, on some great Theme of Glory?
If so, reprove me for the bad Intrusion,
And send me from you, like a chidden Child,
To weep my Fault in Silence.

Orest.
Think not, fair one,
That I'm so savage, uninform'd of Soul,
So blind, or quite insensible of Heart,
As not to prize the Influence of your Charms
Beyond all Objects idle Thought can furnish.
What gross Barbarian was there e'er so rude,
As saw the Sun, and worshipp'd not his Ray?
Such Lustre yours, so fierce your sacred Beams,
That my rapt Sense owns you a Thing divine,
Feels all your Fires, and wonders at your Brightness.

Circe.
This Flatt'ry would displease from common Tongues;
Tho', I confess, it sooths my Heart from yours:
'Tis Beauty's Pride to be the brave Man's Praise.
But am I not to fear, the Hero's Strain
Prevails too strongly to descend to Love?
What Hope, the Lute should drown the Trumpet's Voice?
Or Sighs, and amorous Whispers, pierce an Ear
Tun'd to the Clank of Arms, and Shouts of Conquest?

Orest.
'Tis true, the Soldier deals in rude Alarms,
And Honour makes us brook the boistrous Trade,
When Fame is the Pursuit. But know, fair Creature,
Ambition kindles from the Paphian Fires;
Extent of Sway, and Rivalship of Pow'r,
Are not the Motives ever of our Broils:
Love often buckles on the stubborn Mail:
In Beauty's Cause we draw the Sword of War;
And tempt the Chances of the dang'rous Field,
To gain the rich, contended, Prize of Love.

Circe.
Yet might it much abate our Triumph, should you
Esteem the Struggle dearer than the Prize:
As vig'rous Hunters, that pursue the Stag,
Doat on the sprightly Chase, yet slight its Purchase.
Perhaps, should some o'er-fond, consenting Woman
(Who could not boast herself the Spoil of Arms,)
Begin th'Address of Love, and court your Kindness;
Such Yielding might defeat her wish'd Pretensions,
And make you view her with a cheap Regard.

Orest.
Not if the Fair One brought your Stock of Charms,
And came a wooing with those Dove-like Eyes.
Secure against Repulse, you're form'd to conquer,
And bow the Heart yet unsubdued to Fondness.

Circe.
How happy were it for our credulous Sex,
Had we that rare divining Spirit in Aid,
To know true Faith from Vows of common Breath!
But, lur'd at once by your professing Tongues,
We rush into the gilded Snare of Falshood,
And meet our Ruin in the gay Delusion.

Orest.
Propose what Oath your doubting Heart best likes,
And hear me seal the lasting Bond of Love.

Circe.
You shall not swear; I'll rather be the Woman,
Be self-deceiv'd, than wrong you with Distrust.
But can you be content with tranquil Joys,
With calm Delight, and still renewing Sweetness?
Can you for these forsake the Hero's Toils,
The busy War, and grow estrang'd to Glory?

Orest.
Like one, long harass'd with some Dream of Tumult,
I wish to shake the cumbrous Frenzy off;
Start from Dismay, and fly to Love for Shelter.

Circe.
Make me but Agent for that healing God,
Invention shall be rack'd to work thy Peace.
Come, prove our Skill: Pleasures attend my Call,
And smiling Sports shall lull thy Cares to Softness.

[Circe and Orestes seat themselves on a Bank. Singers enter, and, ranging themselves down each-side the Stage, sing the following Song to a Minuet.
[Dancers enter, and perform in variety of Characters: The Dances concluding with the Minuet, repeated in Chorus, as they go off.
[Orestes and Circe rise, and come forward.
Orest.
Thou art, indeed, a Mistress in Delights.
Soft Languishment thrills sudden thro' my Veins,
And I am sworn the Votary to thy Beauties.
But, oh! the gaudy, prying, tell-tale Sun
Glares o'er our Heads, and mocks our Protestations.
Love wants not such a Witness of his Rites.

Circe.
Alas! I fear; and tremble at my Wishes.—

Orest.
Call up Desire, and he shall chase that Phantom.
Come, let's elude th'inquiring Eye of Day,
Steal to the Covert of yon friendly Bow'r,
Where Gloom and Silence shall record our Vows;
And crimson Blushes only gild its Shade.
Pleasures and Ecstasies, our Handmaids there,
Shall spread the Nuptial Couch; and Zephirs wait,
Like Mutes, to fan us when we burn with Transport.

[As they are retiring, a Clap of Thunder is heard; and Orestes stops, and lets go Circe's Hand.
Orest.
Ha! Do I wake?—Gods, speak again in Thunder!
Dart your Oak-cleaving Bolts, ye dreadful Pow'rs,
And blast this impious disobedient Slave,
That durst grow careless of your great Command.
I know you now.—

[To Circe.
Circe.
Oh, do not look so stern.

Orest.
Why, are you not that sly deluding Fiend,
Who trade in Incantations, Charms, and Philtres?
Deprive our nobler Faculties of Reason,
And train us, by a Shew of varnish'd Beauty,
To do such Deeds, as force the Heav'ns to blush,
And make the modest Moon mask her in Clouds?
O, for a Sword! that I might right the Gods,
And stop the Progress of thy future Mischiefs.

Enter an Attendant to Circe hastily.
Attend.
O sacred Queen! some envious Pow'r is busy;
And works to frustrate thy once-potent Charms.

Enter Thoas and Guards.
Circe.
Is there a Pow'r, has strength to break my Spells?
O Negligence of Art! The Fault's my own.

Thoas.
Seize on her Minion:—Bear him to the Temple:
Away: and charge our Priests, they guard him well.
[The Guards bear off Orestes.
Ungrateful Woman! Am I thus repaid?
Did I for this protect thee from the Rage
Of Subjects justly stir'd? For this, brave Heav'n?
And court the Dangers of thy wanton Bed,
To taste the Fortune of Sarmatia's King,
(Poor unsuspecting Prince!) thy night-drawn Dagger?
But I'll begin to make my Vengeance bitter;
And, in thy Lover, stab thy Heart with Vengeance.

[Exit Thoas with Guards.
Circe.
Forbid it, Love! Am I not Circe still?
And Daughter of the Sun? Insulting Man!
I'll weave new Spells, shall baffle yet thy Threats.
O triple Hecat! Lend thy boasted Pow'rs;
Those Pow'rs, that made Medea strong in Vengeance.
And, oh! If e'er Endymion touch'd thy Breast,
Aid a lost Queen, whom both those Passions move;
The Rage of Vengeance, and the Rage of Love.
[Exit Circe.