 | Demetrius |  |
SCENE II.
Enter Barsene.Cleo.
Alcestes, O! where art thou? Lov'd Alcestes,
Dost thou not hear me? Still in vain I call,
In vain expect thy presence.—My Barsene,
Perchance thou bring'st me news of glad import;
Say, is my dear Alcestes yet return'd?
Bar.
O would to Heaven he were! I come, my queen,
To hasten your approach: the populace
Begin to murmur loud at your delay,
Nor can you longer, but with utmost danger,
Protract your stay.
Cleo.
O me unhappy! come
[going, she stops.
Let us depart to choose this husband—Heaven!
My courage fails, Barsene: vainly reason
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And tardy feet refuse—Is there a wretch
So curs'd, so tortur'd, so forlorn as I?
[throws herself in the chair.
Bar.
Why thus ingenious to torment yourself,
By feigning woes that are not?
Cleo.
Feigning woes?
Is it a fiction then that tyrant duty
Constrains me now to bind myself in marriage,
A slave till death to one I cannot love?
To one perhaps who while with seeming transport
He seeks my hand, laments the hard condition
On which he buys the throne?
Bar.
'Tis true; but yet
The sacred ties, the dear succeeding pledges
That bless the nuptial bed; and stealing time
Whose course can reconcile two hearts averse;
All these, by slow degrees, will change aversion
To love, or soften it at least to friendship.
Cleo.
And what if my Alcestes should again
Return, and find me in another's arms!
What must become of both?—The thought distracts me—
How shall I then repent my breach of faith!
What torment must be his to see me false!
Alas! I figure to myself his rage,
His just reproaches, and his jealous pangs,
And in his features every thought I read
His secret heart conceals.
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And can you hope
That ever he'll return? A season now
Is past, since 'midst the Cretan ranks, in battle
Your father fell; you know that by his side,
Alcestes fought, nor has been heard of since.
Or now he groans in chains, or 'midst the waves
He found his fate, or was in combat slain.
Cleo.
No, my heart tells me that Alcestes lives,
Alcestes will return.
Bar.
Should he return
You must be more unhappy. If to him
You give your hand, you slight a hundred lovers
That claim regard; or should you choose another,
Alcestes present at your fatal choice,
You kill the man you love: thus his arrival
But offers you this hard alternative,
To show your cruelty to one, or prove
Unjust to many.
Cleo.
Let him but return,
Some way may yet be found—
| Demetrius | |