University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A private Apartment.—Enter Cleonice and Arsinoe.
Cleonice.
Talk not of comfort—'t is in vain, Arsinoe;
Arsetes leaves us—my relentless scorn,
Impell'd by frantic jealousy, the madness
Of woman's love, drives from Bithynia's court
The first of warriors: his right hand, that still
Held Victory captive, now to happier realms
Shall bear his fortune and his fame—the sun
That rises on the war shall see our troops
Pale and dismay'd for their Arsetes lost.
Who knows the event?—the same declining sun
May blush upon Bithynia's shame, and guild
With favouring rays the tents of Artabasus,
May smile upon his arms; while Lycomedes
Curses each day that wider spreads his shame.

Arsi.
Alas! my friend, your warmth of temper frames
The gloomiest prospects of imagin'd terror—
Though fortune now may frown—

Cleo.
Thee too, Arsinoe,
Thee have I wrong'd—forgive thy Cleonice—
Art thou to blame, if, fram'd for gentlest passions,
Thy breast, the seat of innocence and love,
Confest the manly beauties of Arsetes,
Not bound by cruel ties of fame or duty?
Rouze, rouze, my feeble virtue—yes, I feel
New strength, and should Arsetes yet remain—
I think, Arsinoe—Heaven support the thought!
I think—I could resolve to yield him to thee—
But see, thy father—

Enter Teramenes.
Tera.
All the hopes we form'd
To keep Arsetes here, dissolve in air:
Thus oft, presumptuous man too fondly grasps
Ideal good: the hero, whom we deem'd
Secur'd by every tie, declines the hand
By Hymen given, endow'd with wealth and honours;
While candour blushes on his modest cheek,
He owns Arsinoe's virtues, owns the fate
That now forbids him to receive her love,
Or longer to remain Bithynia's guest.

Cleo.
Still art thou true, Arsetes!

Tera.
My Arsinoe,
Why heaves thy bosom?—Still our guardian gods
We trust will smile.

Arsi.
My lord, Arsinoe stands
Prepar'd for all—be witness, Heaven! how oft
I check'd each flattering hope: forgive, my father,
The involuntary sigh! perhaps the last
The fruitless effort of expiring passion!

Tera.
Call up the thoughts that suit thy sex and rank:
Time shall, with lenient hand, relieve thy anguish,
Thy princess, with the gracious warmth of friendship
Shall shed the balm of comfort in thy wounds:
—Still art thou sad!—permit me, Cleonice,
Awhile retir'd, with dear paternal counsels,
To arm her tender breast, that peace again
May chase despair, and ease an anxious father.

[Exit with Arsinoe.
Cleo.
[Alone.]
Though my heart joys to find Arsetes true,
Still am I wretched—yet again methinks,
Fain would I once again behold that face
Where love, where faith!—but O! 't is madness all!
Doom'd to Orontes, when the lonely hour
Invites to shades of sorrow, tyrant duty
Makes even my grief a crime—but let me still,
Let me once more, while yet without reproach
I may indulge the sight, behold Arsetes,
Take the last sad adieu—and like a wretch
That shivers on the precipice of fate,
Enjoy the parting glimpse of peace and happiness,
Then sink at once to misery and Orontes.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A Hall.—Enter Lycomedes, Teramenes, and Orontes.
Lyc.
The gods have heard our vows, my Teramenes,
Ere yet the night ascends, to Pontus' camp
Pharnaces will return; even now we heard
From certain tidings, that the prince's signet
Receiv'd by Artabasus, had confirm'd
His near approach—

Tera.
My liege, the enemy
Will feel new vigour from the expected sight
Of young Pharnaces—ere a few short days
Are past, th'advancing troops by Arcas led
Will join our arms; united then, our bands
May rush to certain conquest.

Oro.
Teramenes,
Forgive me, if my soul revolts from counsels
Which frigid prudence dictates—shall we then
Remain inglorious, skulk within our walls,
To wait uncertain aid—permit the foe
To gather strength and courage from the presence
Of this Pharnaces?—O! forbid it, virtue!
That virtue which has fired Bithynia's sons
To glorious conquest and extended sway!

Lyc.
My empire's hope! on whose succeeding reign
Sits expectation: this Pharnaces still
Turns every scale of fight; his towering spirit,
Enthusiast of the battle, looks with scorn
On vulgar honours.—

Oro.
To this boasted hero,
Deck'd in his foreign triumphs, send the trump
Of stern defiance, that Pharnaces' arm
May meet with mine before the camp, and give
A glorious opening to the morn of war!

Lyc.
—'T is nobly utter'd—thy impatient sword
May find employment—to the hostile camp
A herald shall to-morrow bear our challenge
To this Pharnaces, in the listed field
Next day to engage in single fight, the champion
Bithynia's king shall send—but since the life
Of my Orontes on the great event
Suspended hangs—to thine six warriors more
Shall join their dauntless names.

Oro.
Let instant lots
Decide the combatant; or rather fix,
Without the chance of lots, Orontes' sword,
Which here he tenders, vowing from Pharnaces
To tear his recent spoils, and to the manes
Of your Polemon, shed his life, or fall
Himself a victim, happy in the applause
Of his lov'd sovereign, and his country's tears.

Enter Arsetes.
Arse.
Permit me, sir, since time, with rapid wing
Now mocks my stay, to waken your remembrance,
That call'd by fate to other ties which honour,
Which duty must enforce, Arsetes now
Prepares to leave the court, reluctant leave
That court, where Lycomedes' royal hand
Sheds lavish honours on his poor desert.

Lyc.
Yet ere thou goest, thy valour that has long
Sustain'd our arms, may add one labour more;
For still methinks, Arsetes, would my soul
Detain thee here; but fate, I know not why,
In thee from Lycomedes tears a hero,
Whom next Orontes he esteem'd his son;
This very now, ere thy arrival here,
A challenge was decreed to dare Pharnaces
To single fight—Orontes, 'midst the list
Of noble candidates for fame, demands
The glorious peril, let us add to these
Arsetes' name, and instant lots decide
The champion fated on his venterous sword
To bear Bithynia's vengeance—

Arse.
[Aside.]
Ha! what means
My wayward destiny!

Oro.
Behold the champion
Thy choice selects—see, Lycomedes, see,
Suspense is on his brow—Is this the man
Whose arms so oft—

Arse.
Yes, 't is the man, Orontes!
Who fought Bithynia's battles, he whose force—
But I am calm—No, Lycomedes, think not
I shrink from honour's trial—should the lot
Bring forth Arsetes' name—believe me, sir,
Whate'er Pharnaces—I alone perhaps
Am doom'd his victor, when the world shall own
That what Pharnaces was, is then Arsetes.

Lyc.
Enough, enough;—thy zeal, Orontes, here
Prompts thee too far; nor thou, Arsetes, heed
Orontes' eager warmth—to dare beyond
The level of mankind, and bravely reach
At virtue's height, is all that human firmness
Can boast her own—Success, enthron'd above,
Beyond a mortal's power, by Heaven alone
Commissioned, crowns the deed—now let us hence—
The lots once drawn, soon as the fated morn
Ascends the steep to gild the turret's height,
Our knight shall wait the signal.

[Exeunt Lyr. Ter. and Oron.
Arse.
[Alone.]
Deity
Of blind events!—say, whither wouldst thou lead
Pharnaces now?—yet let me once again
Behold my Cleonice, then forsake
This fatal realm, no more a feign'd ally
To tread with hostile step Bithynia's court.
Enter Cleonice.
She comes—once more 't is given me to address
My Cleonice—'midst surrounding perils
Yet happy, if I once again can pour
My soul's full anguish here—

Cleo.
Alas! Arsetes,
What shall I say, how speak my bosom's tumult!
I fear too much I wrong'd thee; though our fate
Can ne'er unite us, yet I feel my heart
Will never cast Arsetes from the throne
Where Love hath placed him.—

Arse.
O! thou most unkind!
What had I done to merit!—when my soul
With anguish bled—

Cleo.
Alas! I thought thee false,
And though I knew thou never could'st be mine,
I could not bear another should receive
That love, which once I deem'd was mine alone.

Arse.
Another, Cleonice! is there then
Amidst the blooming circle of your sex
A maid whose charms—what treacherous tongue has dar'd
Traduce my faith?—

Cleo.
The king and Teramenes
Declar'd your purpose to espouse Arsinoe;
Fir'd at the thought, my rash ungovern'd temper—
Thou know'st the rest.—

Arse.
Forbear, I know too much:
For this, thou could'st unheard condemn the man
That lives not but in thee; bid the same breath
That warm'd my love to rapture, like a frost,
Nip every blossom of my future hopes!—
Thou never lov'dst—

Cleo.
Then wherefore am I wretched?
Unjust Arsetes! give me back, ye powers,
That blest indifference, when us yet this pulse
Had never learnt to beat, these nerves to tremble
With fear, suspense, with all the nameless train
That banish peace for ever—In Orontes
I viewed a prince, to whom paternal care
Had pledg'd my nuptials; till a stranger's virtues
Drove every thought from Cleonice's breast
Of interest or ambition—still remember
I will—I would retain the inbred dignity
That suits the daughter of Bithynia's king.—
Enough, Arsetes, that my soul has stoop'd
To own her weakness—yet since cruel Fate
Forbids our union, when thy heart selects
Another love, may every happiness
That crowns the fondest pair—

Arse.
O! never, never!
This bosom traitor to its first—

Cleo.
The king—

Enter Lycomedes.
Lyco.
Well dost thou honour here the man whose sword
May turn the tide of victory—my daughter,
Behold Arsetes, now decreed to meet
In combat with Pharnaces—know, the lots
Of fate are drawn; our fame is in thy hands;
Thou art our champion.

Arse.
Since the will of destiny
Seals me thy warrior; till the morn dissolves
The truce with Pontus, let me from the court
Awhile retire, on something that concerns
My weal, my honour—when the blush of dawn
Shall strike the altar on the forest's edge
To Mars devoted, there thy guard shall find
A champion arm'd to meet Bithynia's foe,
If Artabasus' son accept the war.

Lyco.
Till then the hours be all thy own—Nor claims
Bithynia, or Bithynia's king, from thee
But what befits thy honour—should success
Attend our hero's arms, these walls shall ring
With joyful pæans, and to crown the day
With jubilee, the day that sets us free
From such a foe, Orontes to the altar
Shall lead his Cleonice; and the garlands
Of Hymen's triumphs mingle with the palms
Which victory displays—The important hour
Demands my counsel hence—till next we meet,
Farewell—and should Pharnaces, sway'd by virtue,
Accept our challenge—may Polemon's death
Sit on thy lance—a mother's grief and death
Edge thy keen faulchion, and a father's sufferings
Infuse new spirit in the day of fight,
That every eye may view with tears of transport
Arsetes' laurels and Bithynia's glory!

[Exit.
Cleo.
[Pauses.]
Yet is there more! O, no! my fate has long
Frown'd in the distant prospect—now the vision
Draws near, and misery with rapid speed
Rides on the advancing hour—thy life, Arsetes,
Expos'd to peril in to-morrow's field,
Excites each fear—for thee my prayers shall pierce
Jove's awful throne; yet must thy victory
Doom me a wretch for ever—led to grace
Thy triumph in Orontes' hated bands!
Yet be it so—fate, honour, virtue, all
Demand this sacrifice!—and should the event
Of battle crown thee with the victor's wreath,
And still Bithynia's vows detain thee here,
Arsinoe be thy bright, thy dear reward—
She loves thee, my Arsetes—yes—O, Heaven!
Why do I weep—let her bestow that happiness
Which Cleonice never—

Arse.
Still thou know'st not
What fate has yet reserv'd—the ensuing combat
May clear a mystery, which till now compell'd
My bleeding heart had kept from all—from thee!
Then by each past, now hopeless hour of love,
Still cherish in thy breast the gentle flame
Arsetes kindled, till the expected sun
Sets on the battle's fate; our fate perhaps
Hangs on the equal balance—Cleonice
Will ne'er refuse these moments to Arsetes:
Thou know'st not what I feel for thee, my soul
Labours beneath a load of secret anguish:
While danger, ambush'd in a thousand forms,
Waits every step, and threats my way with ruin.

Cleo.
Thou hast prevail'd, Arsetes; and whate'er
The fateful birth that waits to be disclosed,
My love shall hope the event—

Arse.
The day declines,
And warns me hence—

Cleo.
O, Heaven! we meet no more
Till that eventful time! yet go, Arsetes;
Go whither glory calls—Hear, every power!
Raise o'er his head the buckler of defence,
Pluck from the hostile hand the nerve of strength,
And bring him victor home—nor let a tear
From Cleonice stain the hour that gives
Bithynia safety, and Arsetes fame!

[Exit.
Arse.
[Alone.]
Methinks my pulse more quickly beats, and all
My spirits rouse, as nearer to the goal
Verges my fate.

Enter Agenor.
Arse.
Agenor!

Age.
O, my friend!
Reflect what perils hover round; some God
(Forgive me, prince!) that frowns upon our rashness,
Has form'd the labyrinth that threatens now—
This combat by the king propos'd—

Arse.
O, wherefore
Did not Orontes mark the champion's lot,
Then Fate, perhaps—But yet my friend, this fight,
This mystic fight, may work some means to unravel
The knot of destiny—The hour now presses;
The herald soon will seek my father's camp.

Age.
Then let us hence!—The war-like troops of Pontus
Impatient wait to see their prince return;
Whose glories won in distant climes, attract
Each listening ear, while every soldier, warm
With expectation, pants to view that face
Where Mars propitious in life's opening prime,
With youthful graces blends the victor's smile—
Your father too—

Arse.
I feel, I feel it here!
The godlike, virtuous ardor! yes, Agenor,
My soul is up in arms—methinks I see
Good Artabasus darting through the ranks
His ardent looks—methinks I hear him chide,
With fond paternal warmth, his tardy son.
Now, on his reverend cheek, where age begins.
To shed its silver honours, stands the tear
Of tenderness, while all the parent longs
To see those features ripening into manhood,
Which last he viewed in early bloom—I hear
The shout of charging hosts! the neigh of steeds!
The battle joins, and no Pharnaces there!
Now danger stalks around, and Artabasus—
Distracting thought! fly, fly, my best Agenor,
Fly to redeem our fame, and save a father!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Another Apartment. Enter Orontes and Zopyrus.
Zop.
Compose yourself, my lord.

Oro.
Zopyrus, never—
Was it for this I deem'd his absence near,
And now behold him with Orontes join'd
In glory's list—nay more, by partial fortune
Declar'd Bithynia's champion! Should he fall,
He leaves a name in arms to cope with mine!—
But should he conquer! Hell is in that thought?
Who knows, Zopyrus!—whither may the king's
Too partial views incline?—The kingdom freed
From such a foe—Polemon's death reveng'd—
He may, perhaps, forget—The crown, Zopyrus,
That mistress of my soul, to which ambition
Points every aim, may grace a stranger's brow!

Zop.
What says Orontes?

Oro.
This right arm might reach
His life—but policy forbids my hatred
To blaze abroad—The many blindly dote
On him they scarcely know—Zopyrus, speak,
Art thou my friend?

Zop.
Hold—let me think—Orontes
Bears not the coward's scruples—there is yet
Perhaps a way—

Oro.
Pause not, but speak—

Zop.
'Tis here—
Arsetes must not live—Give but the word,
He dies, and dies ere he can meet Pharnaces!

Oro.
But how?

Zop.
Thou know'st that I command the guard
To escort Arsetes from the fane of Mars
To meet Pharnaces; from a desperate band,
The power of gold, and vast reward, shall single
A chosen few, that at a signal given
Shall rid your soul of every fear in him:
And more, to blind suspicion's eye, their arms,
Their vests shall seem of Pontus' troops: the deed
Effected once, the ensuing fight shall see
These tools of our great enterprize expos'd
Full in the front of slaughter, that in heat
Of onset they may fall, and in their fall
Mock all discovery.

Oro.
Come to my breast!
By Heaven it ripens well—Then, when he's dead,
We lead the troops to well-feign'd vengeance!—Say,
Where lies the force of Pontus?

Zop.
Station'd near
Bithynia's bounds, that thrice an arrow's flight
May reach their outmost guard.

Oro.
Now, hated rival!
Now triumph for a moment—My revenge
Prepares such greeting, never more thy deeds
Shall shine to vulgar eyes—on proud Arsetes
Death soon shall close his everlasting gate,
While life to me displays the glorious path
That leads the daring mind to fame and empire.

[Exeunt.