University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Sigismunda
alone, sitting in a disconsolate Posture.
[Rising.

SCENE II.

Siffredi, Sigismunda.
Siffredi.
Sigismunda,
My dearest Child! I grieve to find Thee thus
A Prey to Tears. I know the powerful Cause
From which they flow, and therefore can excuse them,
But not their wilful obstinate Continuance.
Come, rouse Thee then, call up thy drooping Spirit,
Come, wake to Reason from this Dream of Love,
And shew the World thou art Siffredi's Daughter.

Sigismunda.
Alas! I am unworthy of that Name.

Siffredi.
Thou art indeed to blame; thou hast too rashly
Engag'd thy Heart, without a Father's Sanction.
But this I can forgive. The King has Virtues,
That plead thy full Excuse; nor was I void
Of Blame, to trust Thee to those dangerous Virtues.
Then dread not my Reproaches. Tho' he blames,
Thy tender Father pities more than blames Thee.
Thou art my Daughter still; and, if thy Heart
Will now resume its Pride, assert itself,
And greatly rise superior to this Trial,
I to my warmest Confidence again
Will take thee, and esteem thee more my Daughter.

Sigismunda.
O you are gentler far than I deserve!
It is, it ever was, my darling Pride,
To bend my Soul to your supreme Commands,
Your wisest Will; and tho', by Love betray'd—
Alas! and punish'd too—I have transgress'd
The nicest Bounds of Duty, yet I feel
A Sentiment of Tenderness, a Source
Of filial Nature springing in my Breast,
That, should it kill me, shall controul this Passion,
And make me all Submission and Obedience
To you, my honour'd Lord, the best of Fathers.

Siffredi.
Come to my Arms, Thou Comfort of my Age!
Thou only Joy and Hope of these grey Hairs!
Come! let me take Thee to a Parent's Heart;
There with the kindly Aid of my Advice,
Even with the Dew of these paternal Tears,
Revive and nourish this becoming Spirit—
Then Thou dost promise me, my Sigismunda—
Thy Father stoops to make it his Request—
Thou wilt resign thy fond presumptuous Hopes,
And henceforth never more indulge one Thought
That in the Light of Love regards the King?

Sigismunda.
Hopes I have none!—Those by this fatal Day
Are blasted all—But from my Soul to banish,
While weeping Memory there retains her Seat,
Thoughts which the purest Bosom might have cherish'd,
Once my Delight, now even in Anguish charming,
Is more, alas! my Lord, than I can promise.

Siffredi.
Absence and Time, the Softner of our Passions,
Will conquer This. Mean time, I hope from Thee
A generous great Effort; that Thou wilt now
Exert thy utmost Force, nor languish thus
Beneath the vain Extravagance of Love.
Let not thy Father blush to hear it said,
His Daughter was so weak, e'er to admit
A Thought so void of Reason, that a King
Should to his Rank, his Honour and his Glory,
The high important Duties of a Throne,
Even to his Throne itself, madly prefer
A wild romantic Passion, the fond Child
Of youthful dreaming Thought and vacant Hours;
That He should quit his Heaven-appointed Station,
Desert his awful Charge, the Care of all
The toiling Millions which this Isle contains;
Nay more, shall plunge them into War and Ruin:
And all to sooth a sick Imagination,
A miserable Weakness—Must for thee,
To make Thee blest, Sicilia be unhappy?
The King himself, lost to the nobler Sense
Of manly Praise, become the piteous Heroe
Of some soft Tale, and rush on sure Destruction?
Canst thou, my Daughter, let the monstrous Thought
Possess one Moment thy perverted Fancy?
Rouse thee, for Shame! and if a Spark of Virtue
Lies slumbering in thy Soul, bid it blaze forth;
Nor sink unequal to the glorious Lesson,
This Day thy Lover gave thee from his Throne.

Sigismunda.
Ah, that was not from Virtue!—Had, my Father,
That been his Aim, I yield to what you say;
'Tis powerful Truth, unanswerable Reason.
Then, then, with sad but duteous Resignation,
I had submitted as became your Daughter;
But in that Moment, when my humbled Hopes
Were to my Duty reconcil'd, to raise them
To yet a fonder Height than e'er they knew,
Then rudely dash them down—There is the Sting!
The blasting View is ever present to me—
Why did you drag me to a Sight so cruel?

Siffredi.
It was a Scene to fire thy Emulation.

Sigismunda.
It was a Scene of Perfidy!—But know,
I will do more than imitate the King—
For he is false!—I, tho' sincerely pierc'd
With the best truest Passion ever touch'd
A Virgin's Breast, here vow to Heaven and You,
Tho' from my Heart I cannot, from my Hopes
To cast this Prince—what would you more, my Father?

Siffredi.
Yes, one Thing more—thy Father then is happy—
Tho' by the Voice of Innocence and Virtue
Absolv'd, we live not to our selves alone:
A rigorous World, with peremptory Sway,
Subjects us all, and even the Noblest most.
This World from Thee, my Honour and thy own,
Demands one Step; a Step, by which convinc'd
The King may see thy Heart disdains to wear
A Chain which his has greatly thrown aside.
'Tis fitting too, thy Sex's Pride commands Thee,
To shew th' approving World thou canst resign,
As well as He, nor with inferior Spirit,
A Passion fatal to the Publick Weal.
But, above all, thou must root out for ever
From the King's Breast the least Remain of Hope,
And henceforth make his mention'd Love Dishonour.
These Things, my Daughter, that must needs be done,
Can but this way be done—by the safe Refuge,
The sacred Shelter of a Husband's Arms.
And there is one—

Sigismunda.
Good Heavens! what means my Lord?

Siffredi.
One of illustrious Family, high Rank,
Yet still of higher Dignity and Merit,
Who can, and will protect Thee; one to awe
The King himself—Nay, hear me,Sigismunda—
The noble Osmond courts Thee for his Bride,
And has my plighted Word—This Day—

Sigismunda
kneeling.
My Father!
Let me with trembling Arms embrace thy Knees!
O if you ever wish'd to see me happy;
If e'er in infant Years I gave you Joy,
When, as I prattling twin'd around your Neck,
You snatch'd me to your Bosom, kiss'd my Eyes,
And melting said you saw my Mother there;
O save me from that worst Severity
Of Fate! O outrage not my breaking Heart
To that degree!—I cannot!—'tis impossible!—
So soon withdraw it, give it to another—
Hear me, my dearest Father! hear the Voice
Of Nature and Humanity, that plead
As well as Justice for me!—Not to chuse
Without your wise Direction may be Duty;
But still my Choice is free—That is a Right,
Which even the lowest Slave can never lose.
And would you thus degrade me? make me base?
For such it were, to give my worthless Person
Without my Heart, an Injury to Osmond,
The highest can be done—Let me, my Lord—
Or I shall die, shall by the sudden Change
Be to Distraction shock'd—Let me wear out
My hapless Days in Solitude and Silence,
Far from the Malice of a prying World!
At least—you cannot sure refuse me This—
Give me a little Time—I will do all,
All I can do, to please you!—O your Eye
Sheds a kind Beam—

Siffredi.
My Daughter! you abuse
The Softness of my Nature—

Sigismunda.
Here, my Father,
Till you relent, here will I grow for ever!

Siffredi.
Rise, Sigismunda,—Tho' you touch my Heart,
Nothing can shake th' inexorable Dictates
Of Honour, Duty, and determin'd Reason.
Then by the holy Ties of filial Love,
Resolve, I charge Thee, to receive Earl Osmond,
As suits the Man who is thy Father's Choice,
And worthy of thy Hand—I go to bring him—

Sigismunda.
Spare me, my dearest Father!

Siffredi,
aside.
I must rush
From her soft Grasp, or Nature will betray me!
O grant us, Heaven! that Fortitude of Mind,
Which listens to our Duty, not our Passions—
Quit me, my Child!

Sigismunda.
You cannot, Oh my Father!
You cannot leave me thus!

Siffredi.
Come hither, Laura.
Come to thy Friend. Now shew thy self a Friend.
Combate her Weakness; dissipate her Tears;
Cherish, and reconcile Her to her Duty.

SCENE III.

Sigismunda. Laura.
Sigismunda.
O Woe on Woe! distrest by Love and Duty!
O every way unhappy Sigismunda!

Laura.
Forgive me, Madam, if I blame your Grief.
How can you waste your Tears on one so false?
Unworthy of your Tenderness? to whom
Nought but Contempt is due and Indignation?

Sigismunda.
You know not half the Horrors of my Fate!
I might perhaps have learn'd to scorn his Falsehood;
Nay, when the first sad Burst of Tears was past,
I might have rous'd my Pride and scorn'd Himself—
But 'tis too much, this greatest last Misfortune—
O whither shall I fly? Where hide me, Laura,
From the dire Scene my Father now prepares!

Laura.
What thus alarms you, Madam?

Sigismunda.
Can it be?
Can I—ah no!—at once give to another
My violated Heart? in one wild Moment?
He brings Earl Osmond to receive my Vows!
O dreadful Change! for Tancred haughty Osmond!

Laura.
Now, on my Soul, 'tis what an outrag'd Heart,
Like thine, should wish!—I should, by Heavens, esteem it
Most exquisite Revenge!

Sigismunda.
Revenge on whom?
On my own Heart, already but too wretched!

Laura.
On Him! this Tancred! who has basely sold,
For the dull Form of despicable Grandeur,
His Faith, his Love!—At once a Slave and Tyrant!

Sigismunda.
O rail at me, at my believing Folly,
My vain ill-founded Hopes, but spare him, Laura!

Laura.
Who rais'd these Hopes? who triumphs o'er that Weakness?
Pardon the Word—You greatly merit him;
Better than him, with all his giddy Pomp!
You rais'd him by your Smiles when he was nothing!
Where is your Woman's Pride? that guardian Spirit
Given us to dash the Perfidy of Man?
Ye Powers! I cannot bear the Thought with Patience—
Yet recent from the most unsparing Vows
The Tongue of Love e'er lavish'd; from your Hopes
So vainly, idly, cruelly deluded;
Before the Publick thus, before your Father,
By an irrevocable solemn Deed,
With such inhuman Scorn, to throw you from him!
To give his faithless Hand yet warm from thine,
With complicated Meanness, to Constantia!
And to compleat his Crime, when thy weak Limbs
Could scarce support thee, then, of Thee regardless,
To lead Her off!

Sigismunda.
That was indeed a Sight
To poison Love! to turn it into Rage
And keen Contempt!—What means this stupid Weakness
That hangs upon me? Hence unworthy Tears!
Disgrace my Cheek no more! No more, my Heart,
For one so coolly false or meanly fickle—
O it imports not which—dare to suggest
The least Excuse!—Yes, Traitor, I will wring
Thy Pride, will turn thy Triumph to Confusion!
I will not pine away my Days for Thee,
Sighing to Brooks and Groves; while, with vain Pity,
You in a Rival's Arms lament my Fate—
No! let me perish! ere I tamely be
That soft, that patient, gentle Sigismunda,
Who can console Her with the wretched Boast,
She was for Thee unhappy!—If I am,
I will be nobly so!—Sicilia's Daughters
Shall wondering see in me a great Example
Of one who punish'd her ill-judging Heart,
Who made it bow to what it most abhorr'd!
Crush'd it to Misery! for having thus
So lightly listen'd to a worthless Lover!

Laura.
At last it mounts! the kindling Pride of Virtue!
Trust me, thy Marriage will embitter His—

Sigismunda.
O may the Furies light his Nuptial Torch!
Be it accurs'd as mine! For the fair Peace,
The tender Joys of Hymeneal Love,
May Jealousy awak'd, and fell Remorse,
Pour all their fiercest Venom thro' his Breast!—
Where the Fates lead, and blind Revenge, I follow!—
Let me not think—By injur'd Love! I vow,
Thou shalt, base Prince! perfidious and inhuman!
Thou shalt behold me in another's Arms!
In his thou hatest! Osmond's!

Laura.
That will grind
His Heart with secret Rage! Aye, that will sting
His Soul to Madness! set him up a Terror,
A Spectacle of Woe to faithless Lovers!—
Your cooler Thought, besides, will of the Change
Approve, and think it happy. Noble Osmond
From the same Stock with him derives his Birth,
First of Sicilian Barons, prudent, brave,
Of strictest Honour, and by all rever'd—

Sigismunda.
Talk not of Osmond, but perfidious Tancred!
Rail at him, rail! invent new Names of Scorn!
Assist me, Laura; lend my Rage fresh Fewel;
Support my staggering Purpose, which already
Begins to fail me—Ah, my Vaunts how vain!
How have I ly'd to my own Heart!—Alas!
My Tears return, the mighty Flood o'erwhelms me!
Ten Thousand crouding Images distract
My tortur'd Thought—And is it come to This?
Our Hopes? our Vows? our oft repeated Wishes,
Breath'd from the fervent Soul, and full of Heaven,
To make each other happy?—come to This!

Laura.
If thy own Peace and Honour cannot keep
Thy Resolution fix'd, yet, Sigismunda,
O think, how deeply, how beyond Retreat,
Thy Father is engag'd.

Sigismunda.
Ah wretched Weakness!
That thus enthrals my Soul, that chases thence
Each nobler Thought, the Sense of every Duty!—
And have I then no Tears for Thee, my Father?
Can I forget thy Cares, from helpless Years,
Thy Tenderness for me? an Eye still beam'd
With Love? a Brow that never knew a Frown?
Nor a harsh Word thy Tongue? Shall I for These,
Repay thy stooping venerable Age,
With Shame, Disquiet, Anguish and Dishonour?
It must not be!—Thou First of Angels! come,
Sweet filial Piety! and firm my Breast!
Yes, let one Daughter to her Fate submit,
Be nobly wretched—but her Father happy!—
Laura!—they come!—O Heavens! I cannot stand
The horrid Trial!—Open, open, Earth!
And hide me from their View!

Laura.
Madam!—

SCENE IV.

Siffredi. Osmond. Sigismunda. Laura.
Siffredi.
My Daughter,
Behold my noble Friend who courts thy Hand,
And whom to call my Son I shall be proud;
Nor shall I less be pleas'd, in his Alliance,
To see Thee happy.

Osmond.
Think not, I presume,
Madam, on this your Father's kind Consent
To make me blest. I love you from a Heart,
That seeks your Good superior to my own;
And will, by every Art of tender Friendship,
Consult your dearest Welfare. May I hope,
Yours does not disavow your Father's Choice?

Sigismunda.
I am a Daughter, Sir—and have no Power
O'er my own Heart—I die—Support me, Laura.

[Faints.
Siffredi.
Help!—Bear Her off—She breathes—my Daughter!—

Sigismunda.
Oh!—
Forgive my Weakness—Soft—my Laura, lead me—
To my Apartment.

Siffredi.
Pardon me, my Lord,
If by this sudden Accident alarm'd,
I leave you for a Moment.

SCENE V.

Osmond
alone.
Let me think—
What can this mean?—Is it to me Aversion?
Or is it, as I fear'd, She loves another?
Ha!—yes—perhaps the King, the young Count Tancred!
They were bred up together—Surely That,
That cannot be—Has he not given his Hand,
In the most solemn Manner, to Constantia?
Does not his Crown depend upon the Deed?
No—if they lov'd, and this old Statesman knew it,
He could not to a King prefer a Subject.
His Virtues I esteem—nay more, I trust them—
So far as Virtue goes—but could he place
His Daughter on the Throne of Sicily—
O 'tis a glorious Bribe too much for Man!—
What is it then?—I care not what it be.
My Honour now, my Dignity demands,
That my propos'd Alliance, by her Father
And even her self accepted, be not scorn'd.
I love her too—I never knew till now
To what a Pitch I lov'd Her. O She shot
Ten thousand Charms into my inmost Soul!
She look'd so mild, so amiably gentle,
She bow'd her Head, she glow'd with such Confusion,
Such Loveliness of Modesty! She is,
In gracious Mind, in Manners, and in Person,
The perfect Model of all female Beauty!—
She must be mine—She is!—If yet her Heart
Consents not to my Happiness, her Duty,
Join'd to my tender Cares, will gain so much
Upon her generous Nature—That will follow.
The Man of Sense, who acts a prudent Part,
Not flattering steals, but forms himself the Heart.