University of Virginia Library

Act IV.

Scene I.

Gondibert.
Hail Marriage! Fountain of unsullied Bliss,
Descending from above, to quench the Thirst
Of Holy Love, and bathe the Soul in Sweetness.
Hail Hymeneal Rose, without a Thorn!
How have thy Leaves distill'd into my Heart
Their balmy Dews, as pleasant as the Drops
Which softly fall upon our Fields and Hills.
But see the beauteous Partner of my Life,
My Birtha moves this Way. Her modest Cheeks
With rosy Virtue flame, and speak her Thoughts
As bright and spotless as the golden Lamps
Which burn before the sacred Throne of Love.

Scene Fourth.
Gondibert, Birtha.
Birtha.
My Lord, my Gondibert, it was not kind
To leave me thus alone, so soon to leave me,
For I cou'd dwell for ever in your Sight,
Live on your Looks, or dye within your Arms.
But you'll forgive me while I thus complain,
For 'tis Excess of Love, it is, believe me:
Love overflows my Heart, inflames my Pulse,
Beats with my Life, and mingles with my Soul.

Gondibert.
Good Heav'n! what Blessings has thy Mercy pour'd
On thy unworthy Servant!—O My Birtha,
Thy Love is Wonderful, surpassing far
The Love of Women! Vestal Maids might own it,
And learn from thine to glow with purer Fires.
Here I had sought the Bosom of the Grove
To wonder at thy Charms, to feed my Heart
In Meditation on Thee, and to thank
In humble Pray'rs the Gods for giving Thee!
For, trust me, while I stand blest in thy Presence,
Such ardent Tumults of severe Delight
Astonish all my Soul, that nought is left
To shew the boundless Virtue of my Love
But dying Gazes, Sighs, and speechless Raptures.

Birtha.
The Language of the Soul! no Tongue can speak it:
O Love! thy Thoughts are painted to the Eye;
Each Motion has the Force of Eloquence,
And nothing in us, but our Tongues, is silent.—
Support me, Gondibert, I faint with Rapture.

Gondibert.
Methinks I am a real Atlas, thus
While I support my Birtha—Heav'nly Burthen!
Ambition! how I spurn thee!—And I swear
The Flame of Glory, and the shouting Field,
The golden Chariot, and attending Princes
Who bit their Chains to swell the Triumph high,
Cou'd never pour such Transports on my Heart,
As now I feel, thus clasping Thee!—Farewel
All future Thoughts of War: farewel, my Arms,
Which spread a burnish'd Horror o'er the Fields,
I give you up to rust. No more the Foe
Shall tremble at the nodding of my Plumes;
And Death no more look grimly pleas'd to see
Her griesly Empire growing by my Sword.
No Sights but Beauty now shall charm my Eyes,
No Sounds but Sighs be pleasing to my Ears,
And nought but Birtha triumph in my Heart.

Birtha.
And by the gentle Pow'r of Love, I never,
O never tasted Joy compar'd to this
Through all my Virgin-Life. Your Words are Honey
Distilling from your Lips, and feed my Soul.
Your Silence and your Words both charm alike.
O may our Bliss continue thus to roll,
A long, a soft, uninterrupted Stream,
Nor vext with Troubles, nor the Storms of Life;
Till having run through Meadows, green Retreats,
And peaceful Vales, refining as it runs,
It meet the Ocean of Eternity,
There lose itself in never-ending Love.

Gondibert.
My Heart has form'd as fair a Scene of Joy.
For I have call'd to mind a Seat of Safety
Low in a Vale, and distant from the Court,
Where Peace and Innocence wou'd chuse a Dwelling:
Where Pleasure smiling roves through blooming Bowers,
Through flowery Fields, through silver-rolling Streams,
And dips in rosy Dews her purple Wings.
In those soft Scenes of Love and rural Silence,
Where Nature laughs, a Wilderness of Sweets!
There lives a good old Man, my Father's Friend,
I know He gladly will receive us both.
We'll fly to Him, nor hear of Danger more.
There like two Vines we'll grow and curl together,
Swell into Ripeness, blossom into Joy!
The Sun shall sooth us with his sweetest Beams,
No Winds, but spicy Gales, refresh our Noons,
No Birds, but Turtles, warble in our Shades,
And Love Himself shall wave his Banner o'er us:
While Truth, and Joy, and Hope, a smiling Train,
Sport round, and fan us with their shining Plumes.
—You tremble and look pale:—Why starts my Love?
—What sudden Change is this?

Birtha.
Behold the Guards;
Protect us, Heav'n! I dread the fatal Consequence.

Gondibert.
Heav'n will protect Thee: Let us meet the Storm,
I'll either save my Love or perish in it.

SCENE II.

Enter Tibalt and Guards.
Gondibert.
What mean these Guards, and Tibalt in Disorder?
You seem to labour with some mighty Message
That's big with Fate: whate're it be declare it.

Tibalt.
Unwilling we approach with bleeding Hearts
And faultering Tongues, but Orders from the King—

Gondibert.
Tibalt, speak out, what Orders from my Sov'reign?

Tibalt.
Forgive Us, noble Sir, the King commands
That we confine you till his farther Pleasure.

Gondibert.
I know Submission, as I knew to conquer.
I fought his Battles, and He thus rewards me.
But be it so; for Kings must be obey'd.
The delegated Majesty of Heav'n,
The radiant Image which improv'd Creation
Is stamp'd upon Them, and their Laws enforces
With sacred Characters. The Deity
Lets down Himself into the Rays of Kings,
And throws a reverential Glory round Them
Inviolable, as a Guard celestial
And Panoply divine. I know my Duty.
Ev'n tho' They err—And Man is prone to Errors;
Altho' protected with that high Commission,
His Passions may betray Him or his Weakness—
Yet still we must forget Him as a Man,
Confess the Tye betwixt the Gods and Him,
Like Jupiter's betwixt his Throne and Earth,
And glory, while we suffer, in Obedience.
—I follow You—lead on.—Alas, my Birtha,
Thy Sorrows, not the royal Menace, wound me;
No sooner Heav'n bestow'd its choicest Blessing,
In giving Thee, but—

Birtha.
Oh, my Heart, my Heart!
The Pangs of Seperation are upon Thee.
And is our Love thus blasted in its Spring,
Now, when the Buds of Hope were sweetly-swelling
And promising a bounteous Crop of Joy?

Enter Messinger.
Messinger.
Your Stay is dangerous: This Moment part Them,
Or Punishment awaits your Disobedience,
The Princess self commanded me to tell you,
And threaten'd Vengeance in her Words and Eyes.

Gondibert.
The Princess—ha!—The King may be impos'd on;
Perhaps his Tenderness for Rhodolinda,
Perhaps the sudden Transport of his Passion
Inflam'd with her pernicious Rage might drive Him
Impetuous on, which Reason yet may cool;
Perhaps—we still may Hope—

[Aside.
Tibalt.
It grieves us, Sir,
But pardon us—our Lives are else in Danger—

Birtha.
Nought but the cruel Hand of Death shall part us.
No:—I will be Companion of your Woes,
Your faithful dear associate in Confinement,
Try every gentle Art and winning Charm,
To woo you from Affliction and beguile
Approaching Pangs from hatching in your Bosom.
I'll teach your Chains to sit more easy on you,
And by the powerful Chemistry of Love
Their Iron soften or convert to Gold.
When the raw Dungeon-Damps pollute your Senses,
I'll breath a warm and fragrant Gale of Sighs,
To sweeten Misery; my Breast, your Pillow,
Shall heave you to repose, my faithful Arms,
A kinder Prison, fold you into Rest,
And my Lips chastly kiss away your Sorrows.

Gondibert.
The Gods will bless Thee, Birtha, and protect Thee,
And for thy Sake may kindly look on Me.

Enter another Messinger.
Tibalt.
My Lord!

Gondibert.
'Tis well: one dear Embrace, my Birtha.
The Rest I leave to Heav'n; for Heav'n is just.
Adieu—be comforted—we must obey—
Adieu!

1. Guard.
We little thought to lead our General
To Prison thus—

2. Guard.
But if the Camp shou'd hear it,
He's so deservedly belov'd, They'd All—

Tibalt.
What are you muttering there?—Sir, We attend you.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

BIRTHA, THULA, ASTRAGON.
Birtha.
Are these the Comforts of a Bridal-Day?
The Sighs of Ecstasy are sunk in Sobs
Of Bitterness. A Prison deep, and dreary
As the dark Mansions of the Dead, receive Him,
Receive my Lord and Husband! Oh, my Heart,
What Hoards of Rapture didst thou fondly promise,
What golden Scenes, what Flows of endless Joys,
What Calms of Fortune, and what Smiles of Love!
Instead of these, O Heav'ns, instead of Blessings,
The baleful Stars have pour'd their Curses on me
And empty'd all the Vials of their Wrath.
But why on me, ye Stars, but why on me?
How have my tender Years provok'd your Rage,
And what has been my Crime? for sure, o sure
It is no Crime to love as I have lov'd,
So chastly, tenderly as I have lov'd!
Then why these Plagues on me? If Love be Guilt,
Who, who is innocent?

Enter Astragon.
[Astragon.]
What lovely Mourner,
What Daughter of Affliction wounds my Ear
With such sad Accents? ah—it is my own,
My poor, dear Birtha, 'tis my only Child!
What ails my Love? what Misery unheard of
Provokes this deep and overflowing Sorrow?
Say, tell me; that thy Father with the Wing
Of Tenderness may guard Thee from thy Sorrows.

Birtha.
No, rather curse me; for my Woes are such
So black with Fate, that not a pitying Pow'r
Dare spread one Ray of Comfort on my Soul
Or lift me kindly into Joy again.
Despair has drag'd me down into her Cave,
And chain'd me there for ever—O my Father!

Astragon.
What? shall I curse my Child? no, Birtha, no:
May the best Wishes of a dying Mother
Pour'd for her Infants, weeping round her Bed
In all the Agonies of artless Sorrow,
Encompass thee about with dearest Blessings.
But say what sudden Stroke of Fate has sunk Thee
So very low, that Hope has left my Child,
That Hope, the last of Friends, has left my Birtha?

Birtha.
Oh!—do not break, my Heart, before my Tongue
Has told the Tale of Misery; but then
In a long Sob dissolve my Life away.
But do not break before my Father know
The Pangs I feel, and their most dismal Causes
That he may pity me: and sure He will,
For he has ever been the best of Fathers,
Most loving and belov'd! and see, He weeps,
Poor, good Old-man He weeps before He knows them,
What must He then, what must He when He hears?
What Heart-felt Stings, what bleeding Drops of Nature!
—But I will spare his Peace: Why shou'd I wound Him,
Why drink the Fountain of my Life, and lay
His venerable Greyness in the Dust?

Astragon.
Yet tell me, tho' thy every Accent blast me,
And shrivel up my Being like a Scroll.
Tell me, for I am on the Rack? what said I?
The Rack is softer Ease than Beds of Roses.
Uncertainty is Death, is more, is Hell—

Birtha.
First, I am marry'd, there, O there I fall—

Astragon.
Marry'd? I hope to Gondibert.

Birtha.
To Gondibert.

Astragon.
And can thy Marriage with that Noble Youth,
And gentlest of his Sex too, give This Pain.

Birtha.
O that undoes me! 'tis the Pang of Pangs,
To think the dear, the tender, gentle Youth,
Just when the Holy Priest had made us One,
Just when He breath'd the fondest Vows of Love
That ever fill'd a Virgin's Ear with Rapture,
And sigh'd, and smil'd unutterable Softness,
That He shou'd then be ravish'd from my Arms,
That then the Bolt of Fate shou'd hurl Him from me,
Shou'd hurl Him thus for ever—'tis too much—
I sink—I hope the Hand of Death is on me.
My Father, Oh my Father!—

Falls into his Arms.
Astragon.
O my Child!—
Run, Thula, fetch the Life-restoring Drops,
The Aromatick Stream of Herbs and Flow'rs
By Chimick Forces drawn to stay the Soul
Just fleeting to the Stars, and call it back
To animate again the pallid Clay.—
Awake, my Birtha! O my Child! my Child.
Why wilt thou leave thy Aged Father thus
To Pain, to Grief, to Wretchedness for ever?
Thou only Comfort of my Eyes, awake,
Prop of my Life, and Glory of my Age,
Thou dear, dear Image of thy Mother's Sweetness,
Awake, and bless thy Father with thy Beauties,
Gild his Grey Hairs with thy returning Beams,
And do not leave me on the Verge of Age!
For who shall close my Eyes, when thou art gone?
Who pay the last sad Duties at my Grave?
Who pour the Stream of Sorrow on my Herse,
Or sooth my hovering Spirit like to Birtha?

She revives.
Birtha.
O—oh—Why am I curst to Life again.
And does the Grave too envy me its Darkness,
Nor will it kindly gape and take me in?
My Father! am I in your Arms again?
I hop'd e're this that Life had left its Mansion,
Nor wou'd have staid with one so curst as I am.
O how I long to mingle with the Dust,
To mingle with my Mother's cold, cold Ashes
And warm Them to receive and blend with Yours.
O Death, Death, Death, borrow the Wings of Time
For now thou art too slow.

Thula.
Break, break, my Heart!—

Astragon.
Forbear to talk thus.—Yet I hope that Heav'n
Will smile in favourable Blessings on us.
Come, my dear Birtha, Thula shall inform me
Of thy Misfortunes, and I'll strive to aid Thee
With all a Father's Care, and Mother's Fondness.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Enter Aribert. Guards at a Distance.
Aribert.
My Daughter's Passion hurry'd me too far:
Now cooler Reason mounts again her Throne,
I blame myself. True, Gondibert's Refusal
Might well alarm a Woman in her Weakness:
Besides, my Hopes are cross'd: my every Wish
Was center'd in Him for my Son and Heir:
By Blood ally'd, I fix'd on Him alone.
His Virtues might have dignify'd a scepter,
And added fresher Honours to my Kingdom.
My Kingdom's Wish no less than mine.—How blind
Are Mortals to Futurity? One Glance
From Beauty's Eye can baffle all our Schemes
And melt them down to Air. This fatal Marriage,
Thus unforseen, has overturn'd the Plan
Of many a wakeful Hour.—But be it so:
From different Courts I still have Choice of Sons,
Who plead their Passion for my Daughter's Love,
With richer Crowns than mine and fairer Kingdoms.
—Since Gondibert is marry'd, let me pay Him
The proper Honours which his Merit claims,
His Father's Goodness and his own demand it.
He still shall be my General and my Friend!
The Message which I sent was too severe,
Forbidding Him my Presence: I revoke it.
I know the Powers of Beauty and forgive Him.
I long to comfort his afflicted Youth
And hail the Bridegroom with the Voice of Joy,
Of prosperous Wishes and unfeigned Pardon.
To the Guards.
Go find the noble Gondibert and tell Him
To meet me in the Gardens: I'll be there.

SCENE V.

Enter Astragon and Birtha.
Astragon.
Forgive us, Royal Sir, forgive your Servants—

Birtha.
Forgive your humble suppliant who implores
Your Pardon to my Lord, tho' not to me.
Here let your Indignation sate its Fury
Upon my wretched Head: I'll dye with Pleasure
To satisfy the Justice of your Anger:
But spare my Gondibert, O spare my Husband,
For Mercy's Sake for Piety's forgive Him;
By these fast-streaming Tears—O let Them speak
The bleeding Anguish of my wounded Spirit,
And steal the Drops of Pity to your Bosom!—

King.
Speak, Astragon, what means this beauteous Vision,
This Daughter of the Skies (the Skies may claim Her)
Bright as the Morning Star, yet wet with Dews,
Thus kneeling at my Feet? Arise:—my Senses
Are dazzled at her Radiance.—Ease my Wonder.

Astragon.
My Daughter in the Feelingness of Sorrow,
And from a Heart in Pieces torn with Grief,
For her imprison'd Husband begs Compassion.
Upon my aged Knees I likewise beg it:
If e're my salutary Skill in Med'cin,
If e're my faithful Lessons of Instruction
Reliev'd your Body or compos'd your Mind
When agoniz'd with Doubts or stung with Pain;
If e'er my daily and my nightly Pray'rs,
Sent from the Fullness of my Heart to Heav'n
For Blessings on you, drew those Blessings down,
Have pity on her Youth, forgive the Duke,
And save us from the Terrors of your Wrath!

King.
Rise, Both.—Thy Daughter's Beauty might prevail
O'er Jupiter, offended at Mankind,
To lay his Thunder by.—As sure as Venus,
Like Thee distress'd and beautiful like Thee,
Shining in Tears and breathing of Ambrosia,
Obtain'd of Jove to pity her Æneas
Our glorious Ancestor, from whom we sprung,
So sure I pardon Gondibert and Thee.
His Choice of Thee absolves Him from all Guilt,
Thou Something more than Mortal! and exalts Him
Above the Thrones and Happiness of Kings.

SCENE VI.

Enter Tibalt.
Tibalt.
The Soldiers, Sir, in mutinous Disorder,
Allegiance broken, in a civil Storm
Led on by Ulfinore, with hideous Clamours
Rush from the Camp, and threaten Desolation,
Unless the Duke be quickly freed from Prison.

King.
From Prison freed! hah!—Who imprison'd Gondibert?
Thy Words confound me—speak—or else Thou dy'st.

Tibalt.
By your Commands, for so the Princess told us,
Sir, we imprison'd Him this Morn.

King.
Confusion!—
By my Commands?—the Princess told you so?—
Destruction on his Head who durst attempt it.
—This is a Plot of Hers: unhappy Woman!
—I'll teach her more Obedience.—By the Gods
She, She Herself shall wait upon their Nuptials.
Go tell Her so; and say that I command Her.
—My General the Protector of my Country
To be imprison'd for a Woman's Humour—
'Twas wrong—'twas base—She may repent her Rashness.
—You, Astragon, meanwhile appease the Soldiers,
While I myself release my injur'd Heroe,
And satisfy his Doubts.

Birtha.
O hear your Handmaid,
Most gracious Sir, and grant me this Request,
Commit the grateful Message to my Care:
Forgive my eager Fondness to convey
Myself your Royal Mercy to my Lord,
And Both will wait upon You with our Duty.

King.
Here, take this Signet: tell Him how I long
To make Amends for this unheard of Usage.
May Comfort guide thy Steps.

Birtha.
Upon your Head
May Blessings fall in neverceasing Show'rs,
Thick as the Winter Stars or Summer Flow'rs!
May future Lovers bless your Sacred Name,
And future Poets consecrate your Fame.