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Demetrius

Hoole, John (1727-1803)
  
DEMETRIUS.
  
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collapse section1. 
ACT I.
 1. 
SCENE I.
 2. 
SCENE II.
 3. 
SCENE III.
 4. 
SCENE IV.
 5. 
SCENE V.
 6. 
SCENE VI.
 7. 
SCENE VII.
 8. 
SCENE VIII.
 9. 
SCENE IX.
 10. 
SCENE X.
 11. 
SCENE XI.
 12. 
SCENE XII.
 13. 
SCENE XIII.
 14. 
SCENE XIV.
 15. 
SCENE XV.
 16. 
SCENE XVI.
 17. 
SCENE XVII.
 18. 
SCENE XVIII.
 19. 
SCENE XIX.
collapse section2. 
ACT II.
 1. 
SCENE I.
 2. 
SCENE II.
 3. 
SCENE III.
 4. 
SCENE IV.
 5. 
SCENE V.
 6. 
SCENE VI.
 7. 
SCENE VII.
 8. 
SCENE VIII.
 9. 
SCENE IX.
 10. 
SCENE X.
 11. 
SCENE XI.
 12. 
SCENE XII.
 13. 
SCENE XIII.
 14. 
SCENE XIV.
 15. 
SCENE XV.
 16. 
SCENE XVI.
 17. 
SCENE XVII.
 18. 
SCENE XVIII.
 19. 
SCENE XIX.
collapse section3. 
ACT III.
 1. 
SCENE I.
 2. 
SCENE II.
 3. 
SCENE III.
 4. 
SCENE IV.
 5. 
SCENE V.
 6. 
SCENE VI.
 7. 
SCENE VII.
 8. 
SCENE VIII.
 9. 
SCENE IX.
 10. 
SCENE X.
 11. 
SCENE XI.
 12. 
SCENE XII.
 13. 
SCENE XIII.
 14. 
SCENE XIV.
 15. 
SCENE XV.
 16. 
SCENE XVI.
 17. 
SCENE XVII.
 18. 
SCENE XVIII.
 19. 
SCENE XIX.
 20. 
SCENE XX.
 21. 
SCENE LAST.

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SCENE XVII.

Enter Barsene and Phenicius.
Bar.
Is it then true, my queen, that you have gain'd
So great a triumph o'er your fond affection,
Even in the presence of the man you love?

370

Phen.
And is it true that Cleonice proves
So barbarous to herself and to Alcestes?

Cleo.
'Tis all too true.

Phen.
I thought such cruelty
Ne'er harbour'd in your breast.

Bar.
I hop'd no less
From constancy like yours.

Phen.
The inhuman deed
All will detest who feel a touch of pity.

Bar.
Each generous mind that owns the force of virtue,
Must praise the glorious action.

Phen.
By your rigour
What have you lost?

Bar.
What lasting honour won?

Phen.
Ah! yet revoke—

Bar.
Still persevere—

Cleo.
O Heaven!
Be silent; wherefore would you thus distress me?
What would you more?

Phen.
I would, while yet 'tis time,
Free you from this delusion.

Bar.
I would still
Preserve the triumph of your constancy.

Cleo.
Meanwhile you kill me both, my mind alike
371

Detests its sufferings, and detests the cure;
Who seeks to aid me, hastens on my death.
Though fann'd by gentle breath of air,
The torch, when ready to expire,
Demands a more than wonted care
To keep alive its dying fire.
If now your pity would bestow
Some ease to my afflicted heart;
Why will you add new force to woe,
And but increase my secret smart?

[Exit.
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