 | Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia |  |
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
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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,
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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.
| Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia | |