University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A night-prospect of a garden; a pavilion in view, beyond which appears the back part of a palace; a terrace adorned with statues, &c. &c.
PHOEBUS and LEUCOTHOE enter from the pavilion.
CLYTIE, with a black slave, listening behind.
Leucothöe.
The winds are fast asleep, there's scarce a breeze
To rock the little birds upon the trees.
What grateful odours rise from ev'ry brake!
See how the moon-beams shine on yonder lake!
How softly sweet these waters fall to ground,
That break the silence with their murm'ring sound!
You will not, sure, so quickly bid farewel;
I've yet a thousand things to ask, and tell.

Phoebus.
And I could ever stay to talk and hear;
But look how faint those glimm'ring fires appear!
I must be gone, by sad occasion prest:
The morning-star already lights the East;
Aurora now unbars the gates of day,
And from that mountain summons me away.

Leucothöe.
Yet stay.—I know I've somewhat to impart;
If you are absent long, 'twill break my heart.
How soon will you return?

Phoebus.
With double speed
I'll lash my coursers to their western bed
At night.—Believe me to my promise just;
I'll come on wings—

Leucothöe.
Then must we part?

Phoebus.
We must,
But for a few short hours: restrain your tears;
Why thus incompass'd with unusual fears?
You droop!

Leucothöe.
Oh, Phoebus!

Phoebus.
Say'st thou? Prithee speak.

Leucothöe.

Phoebus.

Leucothöe.
My life, farewel!

Phoebus.
My love, adieu!

SCENE II.

During this scene Clytie attempts coming forward several times, but is with-held by her slave.
Leucothöe.

SCENE III.

Clytie comes forward with the Black Slave. A short silence.
Slave.
Why stand you thus bemus'd, in silence lost?
Fiend-struck you seem, or frighted by some ghost.
Alas! she hears me not; within her mind,
As warring flames are in the earth confin'd,
So is her rage and indignation pent.
Dear Mistress!

Clytie.
Oh!

Slave.
There give your passion vent.
Behold of love the so much boasted bliss!

Clytie.

Slave.
Assuage your transports, you augment the ill
By nourishing those thoughts you ought to kill.

Clytie.
Hence, paultry babbler! when the loud winds sweep,
Command the Nile's impetu'us surge to sleep;
When burning Ætna rages, bid it cease;
Go sooth the tortures of the damn'd to peace:
Their sieve, their stone, their vulture, and their wheel,
Are light, are nothing, to the pangs I feel.

Slave.
Take comfort.

Clytie.
Yes; 'tis six'd, I'll die this hour;
That's all the comfort now within my pow'r:
A dagger ends at once my life and care.

Slave.
Oh! toss'd on seas of ruinous despair!
Yet hear me e'er you split upon this shelf;
Revenge on those who wrong you—not yourself.

Clytie.
Revenge on whom? a God!

Slave.

Clytie.
Is this the mighty veng'ance you propose,
This the kind comfort then you yield my woes?
To sue to others, and from them obtain,
What all my love deserved from him in vain.
Returns I've had—How sweet!

Slave.
How quickly past!
Better ne'er tasted, since they could not last.

Clytie.
And shall I turn a beggar with my charms?
The thought with double strength my fury arms:
No! thus at once my farther pangs I save—

[Drawing a dagger.
Slave.
Behold upon her knees your faithful slave!
Oh! let my tears, my services, prevail;
We've means of great revenge, which cannot fail.

Clytie.
Avaunt!

Slave.
Oh! hear me.

Clytie.
Yet again! beware,
Nor tempt the fury of my rage too far.
Come, thou last, only friend, thy work pursue.

[Looking at the dagger, as she holds it ready to strike.]
Slave.
By all my hopes of happiness, 'tis true;
The object of your jealousy shall die!

Clytie,
pausing from the stroke.
Go on.

Slave.
First lay that dreadful weapon by:
I cannot speak, your looks my words appal.

Clytie,
throwing away the dagger.
Said'st thou not she, th'accursed she, should fall?
You held my arm, or she, ere this, had lain
Dead at my feet.

Slave.
And she shall still be slain,
But not by you; the God already cold,
What then should gain his love, his veng'ance hold?

Clytie.
Speak quick the means; my soul has ta'en alarm,
And all my flutt'ring senses round me arm.
Oh give me poison, racks, consuming fire,
Swift as my rage, and wild as my desire.

Slave.
Nor poison, racks, nor fire, we need to wait,
The King, her father, be our means of fate:
To him unfold in secret all you know,
You point the weapon, but he strikes the blow.

Clytie.
I'll do't;—each moment is a year's delay:
'Tis clear, 'tis obvious as the noontide-day;
By passion blinded, by despair misled,
I walk'd in clouds.—She is already dead!
My rival's doom'd! I see her on the ground!
I hear her groans!—There's music in the sound.

Slave.
Look where in shades those myrtle-branches throng,
The King appears, and this way moves along;
The time, th'occasion, both conspire to bless
Your great design, and crown it with success.

Clytie.
What sudden tremors seize upon my heart!
Cold dewy damps from ev'ry pore perspire!
No matter—Injur'd Love, perform thy part,
The consequence be what it may.—Retire.

SCENE IV.

Clytie.
Hence, weak remorse! hence, hence away!
In vain before my dazzl'd eyes,
In all your daunting shapes you rise,
To fill me with dismay.
Your checks I defy,
My rival shall die;
And thou, whose false, ungrateful heart
Thy immortality secures,
Look down, while I revenge my smart,
And thro' her bosom strike at your's.

SCENE V.

ORCHAMUS, CLYTIE.
Orchamus.
Hail! roseate dawn, at whose approaching light,
Spectres and birds ill-omen'd take their flight;
Thou, at whose rise Shame seeks Cimmerian shades,
And Lust and Murder hide their horrid heads;
Hope springs aloft, the mists of Grief exhale,
And Life and Joy renew their course—all hail!

Clytie,
kneeling.
May the King live for ever!

Orchamus.
Rise, bright maid;
Thou shouldst not pay obeisance, but be paid:
Abroad thus early have you made your way,
To add new charms to, or outshine the day?

Clytie.
To view the infant morning at its birth,
As first it rose upon the darken'd earth,
When great Jove utter'd the creative word,
And Nature all alive obey'd her Lord;
To hear the birds, observe the waking flow'r,
And wond'ring at Heav'n's works, adore its pow'r.

Orchamus.

Clytie,
aside.
Now tremble, ye inconstants, wheresoe'er,
Who cheat with fraudful vows th'unwary fair:
Fate is at work—Love sits on Justice' throne,
And hastens to chastise you all in one.

[Going to speak to Orchamus, she corrects herself.
Orchamus.
What would'st thou? Speak. But now, there something sprung
Warm from your heart, which froze upon your tongue.
Give it free air—lay chilling fears aside,
And on a Monarch's faith and pow'r confide.

Clytie.
Yet why should friendship force me to reveal,
And tell him that which pity should conceal!

Orchamus.
Whate'er you would demand, my grant ensues;
When beauty asks, can Orchamus refuse?
Say, then, what thoughts so cruel to molest
The peaceful tenour of that gentle breast?

Clytie.
Ask not the subject of my thoughts, which known,
Perhaps may spoil the quiet of your own.

Orchamus.
Virtue unmov'd the thund'rer's voice can hear;
To guilt a stranger, we're unknown to fear.

Clytie.
Ay, but some ills there are of such a kind,
So black, so dreadful, ev'n the virtuous mind
Cannot support their shock, which leave a sting
Like vice behind.—Oh ill requited King!
Think, is there nothing could affect you more,
Than loss of state, dominion, wealth, and pow'r?

Orchamus.
You deal in riddles!

Clytie.
Dreadful to expound!
Oh! be my tongue to silence ever bound!
Drive, drive me from you to the farthest pole—

Orchamus.
You mean to stagger my determin'd soul!

Clytie.
Your daughter!

Orchamus.
What of her? I shake all o'er!

Clytie.
Yet send me hence in time, and seek no more.
Farewel!

[Going.
Orchamus.
Return, I charge you; haste, come back:
[She returns.
You would not leave me thus upon the rack.
Say, is my daughter dead?—I think I can—
At least I'll try—to bear it like a man.

Clytie.
Was that the worst, how easy to be said,
For what's the loss of life? Her honour's dead.
Her virtue!

Orchamus.
Hah, beware!

Clytie.
But now these eyes
Beheld them rev'ling in their guilty joys;
Ev'n here they parted as you sought the place.
I could have stabb'd them in their last embrace.

Orchamus.
O name the traitor, that he soon may bleed!

Clytie.
The God you worship, Sir, has done the deed:
The glorious Sun, inspir'd with lustful flame,
Has paid your incense with your daughter's shame.

Orchamus.
'Tis well!—Oh Kings, your boasted pow'r how small!
Where, when did he? Damnation! tell me all.

Clytie.
At a silent, secret hour,
Softly stealing to her bow'r,
There he found the love-sick maid,
Wishing, warm, and unarray'd;
Fir'd with the charming sight,
Soon began the am'rous fight!
Their pulse beat high to love's alarms;
He strove—and triumph'd o'er her charms.

Orchamus.

[Walks about in great disorder.
Clytie,
aside.
What a rough war contending Passion keeps!
Now the storm's up; now, hah! by Heav'n he weeps.
Oh may these drops, like those which fall from high,
Before the rapid thunder rends the sky,
Be the fore-runners of approaching wrath,
And bode destruction, perils, rage, and death.

Orchamus.
Ye furies that howl in the abyss profound,
Hither, hither repair,
From the wilds of Despair,
And encompass me round;
Each a torch in her hand,
Take your terrible stand!
From my breast keep all motions of pity away;
And when Nature speaks,
In your yellings and shrieks
Drown her soft'ning plea.
What honour demands, 'tis our duty to give;
Who merits to die, shall we suffer to live?

SCENE VI.

Clytie.