University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Garden, with Palm-trees, Olives, and other Easter Plants. Enter Cleonice.
Cleonice.
Alas! it will not be! and fond remembrance
In vain recalls the past—where, where is now
That reason's boast, which o'er creation lifts
The pride of man, when fickle as the gale
That sweeps the blossom from the bough, our passions
Veer with each hour, and shake our best resolves?
How is my bosom chang'd!—no longer now,
From my example, mother's teach the young
And tender maid, who dreads each swelling wave
That heaves but gently o'er the stream of life,
To rise superior to her sex's weakness!—

Enter Arsinoe.
Arsi.
Friend of my life, whose partial choice has given
Arsinoe long the privilege to pass
The ceremonious bounds, which birth and title
Had plac'd between us, wherefore art thou chang'd
From her that lov'd, and lov'd but her Arsinoe?

Cleo.
Still art thou here the partner of my heart:
Then wherefore this reproach? and why complain
Of change that never yet this breast has known?
We were two plants that grew in friendship's soil,
And promis'd fruits of never-dying love.

Arsi.
Then every care that Cleonice knew
Arsinoe too has shar'd—but late I've mark'd
That Cleonice, different from herself,
Shuns even Arsinoe's presence, ever seeks
The lone recess, and brooding o'er her thoughts,
Nurses some hidden grief—soon war again
Shall loose its rage—perhaps the threatening danger
Alarms your fear.

Cleo.
Thou know'st that I alone
Remain'd the comfort of a father's age,
When fate, that tore Polemon from the hope
Of his Bithynia, from a husband's arms
A hapless consort sever'd, thou remember'st,
My mother, sad Arete, bow'd with grief,
Soon mix'd her ashes with the son's she mourn'd:
Then, left in early youth, my converse oft
Sooth'd a fond parent's pangs, when recollection
Rais'd up the form of blessings lost for ever!
While, as I grew, paternal fondness saw
With partial eye his Cleonice's mind
Expand beyond her sex: hence not alone,
The soft, the winning talents, that to life
Give female polish, but the greater arts
Ennobling man were taught my ripening age.
But, o'er the rest, my sire, whose bosom glow'd
T'avenge his son, enur'd my thoughts to cherish
Deep hatred of the foe by whom he fell.

Arsi.
Hatred and vengeance ill agree, my friend,
With tender grief like thine—estrang'd from all
Thy wonted temper, solitude bespeaks
Far other change—Then seek not to deceive
The searching eye of friendship.

Cleo.
Alas! Arsinoe,
I feel the woman here—thou said'st but now
That war again must soon unloose its rage:
Is there no cause for fear? whate'er the tongue
Of stoic fortitude may boast, the mind,
The generous mind that owns life's dearest ties,
Will nourish feelings pride disdains to own.

Arsi.
Revolve our present state, our country's sword,
Now us'd to victory, gives high expectance
Of future triumphs, while for you, my friend,
If love, if grandeur charm, Bithynia's throne
Shall raise you high, and Hymen light his torch
At Cupid's flame—Is not the first of men,
The first of heroes, yours? Yes, Cleonice,
Each anxious doubt shall fleet like morning mist,
And all be lost in your Orontes' arms.

Cleo.
Orontes' arms!—O, Heaven! what have I said!
By every tie of love—But whither—whither
Now rove my thoughts! Leave, leave me, my Arsinoe,
To brood in secret o'er my treasur'd sorrows.

Arsi.
Scarce from her tenth fair crescent has the moon
Silver'd night's fleecy robe, since I've beheld,
Though silent, I've beheld thy altered mien;
Methinks e'er since the day, when 'midst the ranks
The sword of violence, may now secure
A nation's fame and vengeance—Yes, whate'er
Arsetes' race or country, beauty's charms
Insure his future service.—Fair Arsinoe,
Thy virtuous friend, shall bind her native land
In grateful thanks for such a hero's valour.
Our friend, our Teramenes, joins to his
Arsinoe's hand, and gives, in such a son,
A great ally in Lycomedes' cause.
Led by Orontes' and Arsetes' valour,
What may Bithynia's squadrons not atchieve?

Cleo.
[Aside.]
Support me, Heaven! [To Ter.]
—sir, I confess the virtues
Of my Arsinoe, and her beauty's charms:
Permit me yet to ask you, if Arsetes
Has e'er reveal'd—Perhaps some distant fair,
Whose love and beauty had possess'd his soul,
Impels him to forsake Bithynia's court.

Tera.
No, princess—if this judgment, not unskill'd
In human kind, can read the thoughts of men,
He loves Arsinoe: late have I observ'd
His bosom labouring with the stifled passion,
Of recent birth; and well I know my daughter
Owns, with a virgin blush, Arsetes' virtues:
Nor could a youth, whose fortune only rests
In his own merits and his sword, refuse
That hand which Nicomedia's noblest peers
With transport would receive.

Lyc.
Why droops my daughter?
Still cherish hope; a train of better days
Succeeds, where vengeance brightens up the prospect.
My age's darling! 'tis for thee my soul
Still labours, though declining years would fain
Woo me to shades of peace—to raise thee high,
With thy Orontes, and avenge my boy,
I scorn repose—nor will I rest till these
Old eyes behold in chains or breathless stretch'd
The cruel foe by whom Polemon fell!
Come, Teramenes, let us seek Arsetes,
Then once again renew our vows to pour
The war's whole rage on Artabasus' head.

[Exeunt Lyc. and Ter.
Cleo.
[Alone.]
It is enough—misfortune now has spent.
Her utmost shafts—and I defy the future!
O, Cleonice! has thy struggling bosom
For this so long contended? Oft when pride
Of inborn dignity, when sense of fame,
And every duty to a father, urg'd
My soul to combat love—how have the words
Of perfidy ensnar'd my easy heart!
Deceiv'd—rejected—wedded to Arsinoe!
But hence!—avaunt!—I will—I would forget
The perjur'd, yet the once belov'd Arsetes!
But see!—the traitor comes!—O, heaven! away
With woman's weakness—meet him as befits
a princess slighted and her love betray'd!

Enter Arsetes.
Arse.
While thus the fairest of her sex withdraws
Of rebel arms my father scap'd with life,
Sav'd by the gallant aid of brave Arsetes.—
Ha!—thou art pale—and now the mantling blood
Returns once more—What can this mean?—My heart
Has caught the alarm, and, Oh! my soul forebodes
Distress and anguish to my hopeless love.

[Aside.
Cleo.
It must be so—hence every vain respect!
I can no more dissemble—Hear, Arsinoe,
Hear then, and pity Cleonice's weakness!
While Lycomedes, with a monarch's care,
Plans future schemes of greatness—Cleonice,
Lost to herself, her rank, her sex's glory,
Dotes on the merits of a youth unknown!

Arsi.
Orontes then—

Cleo.
Orontes!—name him not—
I own his worth—I own the sacred rights
A king and father claim—but I must own,
Though while I speak, confusion fills my soul,
Arsetes bears down all; and though the pride
Of fortune rais'd me high above his hopes,
A pleader here, which nothing could withstand,
By looks, by deeds, by all that can ennoble
The pride of youthful manhood, had prepar'd
My easy bosom to receive the guest,
That now, sole tyrant, reigns my bosom's lord!

Arsi.
Then am I lost indeed!

[Aside.
Cleo.
Go, my Arsinoe,
And learn if aught is rumour'd that pertains
To my Arsetes:—soon this favour'd hero
Will leave Bithynia's court—but still remember
Veil'd in thy faithful breast to keep my secret:
To thee I trust my life, my fame, my all!

[Exit Arsi.
Cleo.
[Alone.]
Lost and bewilder'd still I rove in fate's
Distressful labyrinth—Why, Cleonice,
Why didst thou leave the shore of calm indifference,
To launch upon the dangerous sea of love?

Enter Lycomedes, and Teramenes.
Lycom.
This day, my Cleonice, surely dawns
With happiest omens—He, whose valiant arm,
Join'd with Orontes, quell'd our rebel sons;
To whom the public voice gave every suffrage
Of grateful tribute, threaten'd to forsake
Our realm, and bear to other climes his sword.
But Teramenes, who with counsel sage
For ever watches o'er his country's weal,
Has found the happy means to fix him here,
To graft his virtues on Bithynia's stock,
Blest earnest of revenge!

Cleo.
What means my father?
[Aside.
My lord the duty Cleonice owes
Her country's welfare, and her father's honour,
Demands my thanks for every aid that Heaven
Gives to Bithynia's strength—and sure, Arsetes
Stands first in martial praise—But say, my father,
What happy means has Teramenes found.
To fix him yours?

Lycom.
Such means as oft have dealt
Destruction on mankind: what oft has drawn
That his Pharnaces, his expected son,
Will join, ere yet they reach the bounds of Pontus,
His native bands,—there, kneeling at his feet,
Implore forgiveness—in this interval
Of fate and love, these lips shall once again
Assail with every soothing eloquence:
The cruel Cleonice; then, Agenor,
To Artabasus will I open all
My secret heart—perhaps some future day
(O, busy hope!) may give me undisguis'd
To plead my cause before her, when my sighs
Shall in her breast revive the tender flame,
And love with endless rapture crown Pharnaces!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

A Gallery. Enter Lycomedes and Teramenes.
Lyco.
How stand the soldiers' hopes, my Teramenes?
What spirit breathes among their ranks, to give
A presage of the war!

Tera.
The troops on fire,
Demand alone Orontes and Arsetes;
With loud reproach they execrate the foe,
And hail with joy the near expiring truce.

Lyc.
Yes, Teramenes—civil discord now,
That sheathes her sword, has left revenge to rear
Her dreadful banner—Nemesis has heard
Our solemn vows against exulting Pontus.
No more Polemon's ghost shall haunt my dreams,
Arsetes and Orontes shall extend
My name to latest times; the glorious love
Of empire and of arms, that fir'd my youth,
Shall warm my frozen age—too long compell'd
I smother'd in my breast the flame of hatred;
But when my soul forgets thy loss, Polemon,
Disgrace and ruin o'er these silver locks
Shed their black influence!—Orontes, welcome;
What hear'st thou of the foe?

Enter Orontes.
Oro.
Not unprepar'd
The king of Pontus, from Heraclea's walls,
Has drawn the choicest sons of valour forth,
That lie encamp'd beside Parthenius' stream.

Tera.
'T is said they wait the arrival of Pharnaces,
(The kingdom's hope) whom Artabasus sent,
What time Bithynia sign'd the truce with Pontus,
To distant Rome to train his youth in arms,
And Fame, with loudest tongue, proclaims his praise.

Lyc.
A stripling when he left his father's court?

Tera.
He was; and now scarce twenty suns have ripened
Our fruitful years, since Artabasus gain'd
By him a parent's name.—

Lyc.
Such as he is—
O, scorpion memory! such perhaps had been
Bithynia's heir and Lycomedes' son!
O, Teramenes! O, Orontes! pity
To solitude and sadness, shuns the gaze
Of admiration, let Arsetes yet
Intrude on Cleonice's lonely hours,
Ere cruel fate compels—

Cleo.
My lord, forbear—
This needed not—a hero's towering soul
Soars high above the weakness of the lover:
Since thou wilt part, it is not Cleonice
Can here detain Arsetes—other charms—
But I forget myself—excuse me, sir—
Whate'er your aims—let not my presence damp
The glorious fortune love and fate prepare—
And think not e'er, awaken'd from her dream
Of fond credulity, that Cleonice
Will cloud your joys, or stop your path to greatness.

[Exit.
Arse.
[Alone.]
Where am I? sure I dream—my every sense
Is lost in wild amazement—

Enter Agenor.
Age.
All is ready,
And nothing now remains but that we quit
Bithynia's court for Artabasus' camp—
What mean those looks of sorrow, wherefore heaves
Your swelling breast, while clouded with despair
Your eyes, in silent pause, reproach the gods!

Arse.
Alas! what shall I say—could'st thou believe it,
Agenor? she for whom my soul had near
Forgot a kingdom's fame, a father's love,
Each nice respect of honour, made my name
To future times the scorn of every tongue,
That fathers to their sons might point the example,
And bid them fear to fall as fell Pharnaces!
Even she, my friend, has now with cruel scorn,
Repaid my love—

Age.
O, sir, forgive Agenor;
But sure in pity fate concurs even here
To hasten your resolves—whate'er the cause
Of Cleonice's anger, every moment
Is wing'd with peril—think what foes conspire
Against your father's peace, his life and fame.

Arse.
No more, no more, Agenor—best of friends,
In thee thy father Tiridates speaks.
Pharnaces still thou shalt retrieve thy glory,
Burst from the veil of dark obscurity
And blaze in virtues beam—But yet, Agenor!
O, yet induge a heart that sinks beneath
Accumulated anguish—can I leave
My Cleonice thus—alas! who knows
How soon, by rash resentment urg'd, her hand
May to Orontes yield her plighted faith!
While absent hence Pharnaces.—

Age.
Wilt thou then linger here, unmindful still
Of fame and Artabasus?

Arse.
No—this night,
Be witness every power! we leave the court—
This only day indulge a lover's fondness!
The care be thine that Artabasus soon
Receive this signet, with the welcome news
A father's feelings—Thou, Orontes, saw'st
My hapless boy—thy pious arms embrac'd
My lost Polemon, as life's gushing stream
Sprinkled his budding laurels—where was then
A father's vengeful sword, while to his tent
You bore him pale and senseless, distant far,
Detain'd by coward age, these ears receiv'd
The dreadful tidings, when his frantic mother
Ended her wretched being—Powerful Jove!
Shed from thy bitter urn the dregs of anguish
On my poor span of life, withhold each comfort
Which creeping years, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, claim,
If I forgive the cruel hand that cropt
This blooming plant, which else had flourish'd now
And shelter'd with his shade my wasting age!

Oro.
Soon shall we lead th'embattled squadrons forth
On Artabasus—should this boasted son
Return, though conquest-plum'd, he comes perhaps
A fated victim—

Lyc.
O! that thought, Orontes,
Gives vigour to my nerves!—Ye powers of vengeance!
Hear, hear a father's voice, and through his son,
Reach Artabasus's heart, that after years
Of tedious expectation, now at length
Return'd and scarcely welcom'd, he may fall
A dreadful sacrifice—then through the sense,
The thrilling sense of fond parental love,
By his Pharnaces let him know the pangs
Of Lycomedes, when Polemon fell!

[Exeunt.