University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Enter Phocias and Antigona.
Pho.
And will you, cruel Fair! so soon deprive
My Eyes of the sole Joy that can repay
The bitter Penance that my Love sustain'd,
In Absence from those Charms a tedious Year?

Ant.
Would you advise me, Phocias, to forget
A Sister's Office, and neglect the Joys
Due to my Brother on his safe Return,
And the sweet Prospect of approaching Peace,
T' attend the Addresses of a Lover's Tale?

Pho.
Why, Madam, do you seek so many Bars
To distance me from Happiness? Why now,
When all flows easy, each relenting God
With-calls his heavy Anger, and fair Peace
That has so long been banish'd from our Walls,
Comes with a smiling Grace triumphant home:
When every Theban has such Cause for Joy,
Why will you render, by your fierce Disdain,
The Triumph tasteless unto me alone?
Need I remind you, as my Merit's Plea,
Of my Obedience to your harsh Commands?
How, to oblige your Cruelty, I went
A sad, despairing Exile from your Eyes,
I follow'd Polynices' weaker Cause,
Rebell'd against my Country and my Father,
To give a Proof of Loyalty to you?

Ant.
And is this, Phocias, this a generous Part,
T' upbraid my seeming Coldness with your Boasts
Of ill-requited Services? I own
When first this Legacy of Discord drew
My Brothers to the Field, my Pity then
To injur'd Polynices' ravish'd Right,
Urg'd you to animate the Youngest's Cause:
That you obey'd my Wishes, I confess;
But you, too big with these Deserts, were loth
To leave th' Acknowledgment for me to pay.

Pho.
Reproach me not, Antigona, with this
Injurious Charge; if I have rashly err'd,
Believe 'twas too much Love that made me err:
You know I love you, love you with a Flame
That burns impatient of the least Repulse.
If that be Criminal, I own the Guilt,
Own it, and glory in offending so.

Ant.
Force not my Blushes, Phocias, to declare
I struggle to reject your Vows in vain.
I wish'd, my Phocias, wish'd that you might suffer;
And that in Absence some invading Gloom
Might make the Day seem tedious to your Pains:
But don't resent it, for my suffering Heart
Wish'd you no more than what I felt myself.

Pho.
And does the Princess of my Soul confess
That I've been absent to so fair Account,
Drove from your Eyes to triumph in your Heart?
Who would not for a Price like this rebel?
Who would repine to lose a Father's Love,
To have thy Beauties in the rich Exchange?

Ant.
Forward the Peace, and re-unite my Brothers,
And in requital for the generous Work,
Your Love obtains its utmost Hope.
Enter Alcander.
—Alas!
Thy Looks, Alcander, speak some dreadful News.
What is it that the Oracles declare?

Alc.
Ah, Madam, ah!

Ant.
What is it they pronounce?
Is't War, Alcander?

Alc.
Ah! 'tis worse, 'tis worse.

Pho.
What's then the heavy Wrath they have against us?

Alc.
Your Highness may collect it from their Answer.
'Tis this—‘O Thebans, if you'd end your Wars,
‘The Fates irrevocably have ordain'd
‘The youngest of the Royal Stem must die,
‘And with his Blood impurple Thebes.’

Ant.
Ye Gods!
Why did ye then create this wretched Line?
And has your Rage condemn'd us altogether?
Were you not sated with my Father's Death,
But must we all be butcher'd to appease you?

Pho.
Madam, this Sentence cannot strike at you;
You're not the Victim that the Stars demand:
The Gods know how to shelter Innocence.

Ant.
'Tis not, my Phocias, that I dread their Vengeance
For my own sake; my Innocence would be
Too weak a Guard, I'm Oedipus's Daughter,
And I must die because of Oedipus.
I wait without regret the fatal Stroke;
But should I tell the Source of all my Fear,
You'll find, my Phocias, 'tis for you I fear.
You sprung from this unhappy wretched Blood,
As well as I, and I too plain discern
That you are destin'd for a Victim too:
You have the fatal Honour of Alliance,
You've Reason to lament your dangerous Birth,
And envy a Plebeian Parentage.

Pho.
Who would repent his Privilege to a Death
That looks so fair, so lovely in my Eyes,
It charms Ambition to its wish'd Embrace?

Ant.
Yet, Phocias, are you not so near ally'd,
But Heaven might let his Offspring's Blood suffice
To pay the dreadful fated Score of Vengeance
My Father's guilty Ignorance entail'd.
But I foresee another Cause, my Phocias;
My Love, this fatal Love unites our Woes,
More than the Guilt of Oedipus, the Blood
Of Laius, or all else the Stars alledge.

Pho.
Why, Madam, why this Fear? What is't a Crime
To adore a Beauty so divinely Fair?
Since you have deign'd to authorize my Love,
What can create the Rage of those above?
When first I nourish'd my presumptuous Flame,
And gaz'd upon your Charms with wishing Eyes,
Your Glances gave my Soul so fierce an Awe,
That more I dreaded to incur your Frown,
Than all the angry Terrors of the Skies.
Let all the Stars conspire against me, let
The Constellations turn to Saturns all,
They strive in vain to shake my settled Love.
Dispose of me, ye Gods, howe'er you please,
My great Engagements bravely I'll maintain,
Zealous for Death, in Polynices' Cause,
To sacrifice my Blood; more zealous still
To die, my dear Antigona, to die
For you, before you, and to warm your Knees
With my expiring, faithful, loving Breath,
And take your Orders when I mount the Stars.

Ant.
Alas, what says my Phocias he would do?

Pho.
In this Confusion what would you advise?
I can resolve on nought but noble Death.
In vain the Gods would trifle Time away,
Distance my Tomb, and keep me from the Grave.
Despair will soon supply me with my End—
But see, my Father's Presence bids us hence.

[Exeunt.
Enter Creon.
Cre.
With how much Haste he strives to 'scape my Eyes!
Is't from Abhorrence of his Father's Guilt,
Or from a gloomy Knowledge of his own?
I'm plunging to a damning Depth indeed
If he detects my Aim, and hates me first.
Sure my ambitious Dæmon guides me wrong,
If the great Motive of my ripening Schemes
Is shadow'd with such penetrable Veils,
That this hot Boy sees thro' it with Disdain.
Heroes and Statesmen are of different Molds;
The first, in Confidence of Merit bold,
Bear their Pretensions open to the World,
Nor know a stronger Claim than Valour gives;
Their Sword, their Reason, Policy and Guide:
The Instruments the Statesman's Skill employs,
To execute the Ruin he projects.
My Royal Nephews, at each other's Throats
Demand the Theban Throne with lifted Swords:
And let these thoughtless Rivals still proceed
To make their Claims in Blood; this Brace of Heroes
Combat, and know it not, on my Behalf.
I seem to favour one, yet hate 'em both,
And meditate from both to snatch the Crown.—
The Queen and Polynices! let him take
This short Advantage of the Truce, he shall not
Continue long a quiet Guest in Thebes.

Exit.
Enter Jocasta, Polynices, Phocias, Antigona.
Pol.
Madam, I see that Peace has wing'd away;
Partial Astræa has forsook her Throne,
And quits the Cognizance of Things below.
Why does the silent Goddess else forbear
To launch her Magazines of Flame and Rage
Against despotick swelling Tyranny?
Does she not yet regret these Streams of Blood,
This sanguine Deluge that discolours all
The Theban Floods? And is't not time at last
To give the guilty Sword of Discord Pause,
And fix the Case of this disputed Crown?
Since thus the Stars are byass'd to my Wrong,
Can I have room to hope a factious People
Will lend an Ear of Reason to my Right?
Shall I resign my Cause to Tumult's hands,
And make a Statesman, and th' unthinking Crowd
The Umpires of my Claim? I've felt too long
Their Insolence and Rage; they know I'm injur'd,
And are too jealous of my just Revenge,
To yield to give me back my ravish'd Throne.

Joc.
And if, as 'tis too true, the Thebans dread
The threaten'd Woes of your revengeful Reign,
Why would you seek the Throne thro' Seas of Blood,
And strive to sway a Nation that abhors
Your impious Maxims, and disowns your Claim?

Pol.
Who gives the People Privilege to chuse,
Or to reject a King, as Humour serves,
Or the Moon sways them in the wild Caprice?
Like giddy Eddies, let the madding Throng
Whirl here and there at pleasure of the Wind,
'Tis Right, 'tis Justice mounts us to a Throne,
And whom they love not, they must learn to dread.

Joc.
You'll be a Tyrant hated by your Realms.

Pol.
Madam, that barbarous Title suits not me;
My Right protects me from the odious Name:
'Tis not their Hatred makes the Tyrant; no,
Tyrant to their Eteocles belongs.

Joc.
But he's belov'd by all.

Pol.
Belov'd by all!
Then 'tis a Tyrant whom they love and chuse,
Who guards his Scepter, and maintains his Throne
By Means as vile as he usurp'd 'em first.
By Contraries his base Ambition acts;
To be my Tyrant, he's his Subject's Slave.
To those he fawns with Arts to which a Man
Honest and Brave would scorn to owe a Crown:
And, at the Sacrifice of all 'tis worth,
He barters for a despicable Power.

Joc.
Has then this impious Strife so many Charms,
The Sweets of Peace are tasteless to your Thoughts?
Is not your generous Spirit large enough
To give Regard to Pity's tender Call,
And spare your Mother's Tears, and Country's Blood?

Ant.
Ah! if his Soul is Marble to those Sighs,
What can I hope from Friendship's weaker Plea?
That Love his happy Sister once could boast
Is lost, translated to a sanguine Aim:
He's charm'd with Blood, the scarlet Object takes,
And fiery Polynices is no more
Th' affectionate, the soft, endearing Brother;
He eyes us both with a disdaining Look.

Pol.
Add not that Guilt to my afflicted Soul,
Say rather, Sister, say that you are chang'd;
Say that th' Usurper of my Right and Throne
Has ravish'd from me what I valu'd more
Than Scepters, Crowns, or Gems, a Sister's Love.

Ant.
Is this the Love you bear me, cruel Wretch!
To see me plung'd in this Abyss of Woe;
A bleeding Sharer in my Country's Wounds,
With that unpitying, unredressing Heart?

Pol.
Have I not juster Reasons to retort
Th' upbraiding Charge on you? These earnest Pleas
Are too too partial on my Rival's side.
What you request me, is to rob myself,
To drop a lawful Plea, and in return
Stamp Fool and Coward on my branded Name.
To what an Height of villanous Success,
Ye Gods! this curs'd Eteocles has climb'd?
'Tis your unjust Affection to his Crimes
That irritates my Sword, and stings me most.

Ant.
Believe not that my Tears from Treachery flow,
They are no Intercessors for your Foes.
I wish for Peace, but wish it not on Terms
That injure you, you have been absent long,
And are a welcome Victor. Alas!
'Twould be Unkindness to depart so soon
As your ambitious Warmth would spur you hence:
Oblige us, Polynices, with your stay,
A few Days longer; give us time to search
Some Method to procure a bloodless End
To these Distractions; is a Day of Truce
Too long a Pause from Murther and Revenge?
Is this Request too great to be allow'd?

Joc.
What Dæmon urges you to go so soon?
Do you desire Tranquillity, yet grudge
A single Day to fix the Happy Means?
You'll see Eteocles dismiss his Arms.
He'd have you see it done, and you refuse.

Ant.
Yes, Brother, he's of kinder Stamp than you;
With pious Care he dries my Mother's Grief.
Our Tears to-day disarm'd him of his Rage—
Have you forgot you call'd him Tyrant? Think
Whose guilty Conduct most deserves the Name.

Pho.
The Case is not so pressing; but, my Lord,
Your Safety may allow the Queen a Day
To try and perfect her pacifick Scheme,
On equal, just, and honourable Terms,
Both to your Country, and your own Renown.
But see! this Soldier's Countenance and Haste
Forebodes the Horror of some new Alarms.

Enter Officer.
Offic.
My Lord, the Armies are engag'd, the Truce
Is vanish'd, and the Scene is chang'd to Blood.
The Thebans, headed by their King and Creon,
Attack your Army, and discard their Faith:
The bold Hypomedon supplies your Absence,
And bravely stands the Shock of all their Power.

Pol.
Madam, you see how much he values Honour:
But Battle he designs, 'tis he attacks,
And thus I fly to meet him.

[Exit with Phocias and Officer.
Joc.
O my Son!
My Son, my Polynices, whither rush you?
Ah! how my Tears and Cries are disregarded!
Follow, Antigona, and stay his Rage;
Prevail on Phocias to divide their Swords.

[Exeunt.