University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Enter Jocasta and Olympa.
Joc.
Go, go, Olympa, see this Tragick Scene,
See if the bloody Combat still proceeds;
If nothing can prevail to sooth their Rage—
'Tis said that Artaban designs to try.

Oly.
On what Design he's bent I could not know;
But an heroick Ardour fires his Cheeks,
And some great Purpose flashes in his Eyes.
'Tis ne'er too late to bid farewel to Hope,
Perhaps some Dawn of Comfort yet may rise.

Joc.
O no, I will not flatter my Distress,
The greatest Comfort that the Wretched have
Is to behold their utmost Woes at once.
Go, bring me Tydings of this Day's Result.

Oly.
But must I leave you in this Solitude?

Joc.
This Solitude is a Degree of Bliss.
The pensive Cypress, and the silent Gloom
Are the Companions my Afflictions chuse.
[Exit Olym.
Is not the Store-house of celestial Rage
Exhausted yet, and must I still survive
To bear the Tortures of repeated Deaths,
Yet be forbid the Benefit of one?
How are your Thunders, Oh ye Gods, employ'd,
You cannot spare a single Bolt on me?
If I am guilty, Justice bids you strike;
If innocent, Oh! wherefore am I curs'd,
With Life imbitter'd with superior Woes,
To those the happier favour'd Damn'd bemoan?
My greatest Crime was Ignorance, and that,
Were you less partial, might admit Excuse.
I knew not, that this wretched, wretched Son
Possess'd my Bed; you brought him to my Arms;
You bad us drink the Draught of horrid Love,
And you're the first to charge us for the Guilt
Your own Decrees forbad we should avoid.
If you delight in making Mortals err,
Can you not chuse out Instruments 'mongst those
For whom the black enormous Lot has Charms?
Enter Antigona.
Oh! my Antigona, what have they done?
Have they perform'd their Fratricide? Oh! speak.

Ant.
Madam, another's Blood supply'd the Place,
And has restor'd Tranquillity to you,
And to the Nation Peace; Peace to us all.
The Gods are satisfy'd; 'tis done, by Blood
That's worthy of the Stem from whence it sprang.
I went to soften Phocias and my Brother,
But hostile Rage had bore 'em distant far:
I cry'd to stop 'em, and delay their Heat.
Far from complying, with more furious speed,
They hasten'd to the Battle. On the Tower
I stood to wait th' accomplish'd Doom of Thebes.
Her Citizens throng'd round with bleeding Hearts;
And in that dismal Moment, to th' Amaze
Of all the anxious Crowd, the Youngest, ah!
The Youngest of our Line, brave Artaban,
The worthy Brother of the generous Phocias,
And the too glorious Son of such a Father,
Warm'd for the Rescue of his suffering Country,
Bravely advanc'd between th' encountring Hosts.

Joc.
And did the noble Resolution draw
The Armies to a Truce?

Ant.
Cease, cease, he cry'd,
Inhuman Fiends, restrain your impious Swords;
The Soldiers heard with Awe th' illustrious Youth,
And with obedient Speed declin'd the Fight.
Brothers, attend, says he, what Fate decrees,
Expect from me a Period of your Woes:
I am the last of the Imperial Blood,
And Heaven requires the Purchase of your Peace
From me, receive then from this Patriot-Hand
The willing Current of this ebbing Blood;
With that receive the Peace it flows to buy:
And then, with well-aim'd Lance, he sends his Soul
T' acquaint the Gods their Orders were obey'd.
The Thebans, gazing at th' expiring Hero,
Observ'd with Dread the noble Victim die,
And moan'd their Safety at a Price so dear.

Joc.
With equal Horror and Surprize, I hear
His brave Atchievement of unmatch'd Renown.
And is not this, ye Gods, Atonement full?
And has the Peace an Opposition now?
Sure this illustrious Victim will suffice
To answer your Demands of Theban Blood.
For, if, as well as Punishments, Rewards
Flow from th' impartial Ballance of the Sky,
What Crimes can swell to such prodigious Height,
But must admit an Expiation here?

Ant.
Yes, Madam, yes, a Recompence is sure,
To Virtue strong as this; the single Blood
Of one heroic Patriot is esteem'd
A Sacrifice more grateful to the Gods,
Than Seas of purple Tides from vulgar Veins.

Enter Eteocles and Creon.
Joc.
Is't thus, my Son, that Kings regard their Word?

Eteoc.
Madam, this Fight proceeded not from me,
But from the Soldiers, Argives as well as Thebans:
Who intermingling accidental Quarrels,
Rush'd without Order to the Field of Battle.
The Battle we must own was truly bloody,
And has decided now our jarring Cause.
When Creon's Son effus'd his willing Blood,
Both the encountring Hosts forbore their Arms;
This Prince, the last of our unhappy Line
Bravely explain'd the Oracle's Intent.

Joc.
Ah, if your Country's Love alone enflam'd
Your virtuous Thoughts, and taught your swelling Soul
To disregard th' inglorious Baits of Life;
Let this Example damp Ambition's Fires,
And charm you to ascend the guiltless Steps
Of Honour, and in Fame's eternal Roll,
To shine for ever, shine, yet unoblig'd
To lay your valu'd Diadem aside.
Decline but only for a while your Claim
To absolute Possession of the Throne,
And you'll do more than Artaban has done,
And from your Country merit larger Praise.

Eteoc.
This Instance of his Virtue warms my Soul
As much as yours, his glorious Death creates
A rival Inclination: Yet howe'er
I must assure you, Madam, that a Crown
Is deck'd with more engaging Charms than Life.
A Thirst of Immortality has oft
Lifted the Brave to a Contempt of Death;
But Kings there are but few, that can descend
To pay Obedience where they have Right to claim it.
This Prince has shed the Blood the Gods requir'd;
My Cousin could not without Guilt refuse
His Life a Victim to th' endanger'd State:
And that same State that did demand his Blood,
Demands that I should reign; and reign I will,
Till Thebes withdraws her Scepter from my Hand.
And if my Absence only can appease
Her Troubles, let her ask it, I resign.

Cre.
Since Artaban is dead, and Heaven would have
No Victim but my Son, forbear, Great Sir,
To aggravate my Loss, in seeing you
Persist in this detested War, to risque
A Life of such Importance to us all.
And since he dy'd for Peace, in pity grant it:
Grant it, my Liege, to Millions of Desires.

Eteoc.
But, Creon, why should I for Peace declare?

Cre.
For having been too eager for the Sword,
You see into what Woes my Age is plung'd.
One Son is dead.

Eteoc.
His Death must be reveng'd.

Cre.
On whom should I revenge it? On the Gods?

Eteoc.
No, on your Foes. Your Foes are Foes to Thebes,
And Foes to me; on those your Vengeance light.

Cre.
May it, for yours, and for my Country's sake.
But Oh, my Lord, amidst those Foes I find
Your Brother and my Son: And can I spill
My own, or strike at your more valu'd Life?
Yours is too sacred, and my own is dear;
And must I be unnatural or prophane?
Shall I be stain'd with Blood that I revere,
Or shew the rigid Sire in that I share?

Joc.
Since Creon, thou art flexible at last,
And our Woes touch thy sympathizing Soul,
The Blood of Artaban will sure prevail.
Let Thebes assure herself the generous Act
Has had its Aim; the Thunder is recall'd,
Since Fate, a double Prodigy, has chang'd
Your Mind, the Current of our Blood is staunch'd.
Peace from this Moment ushers in her Dawn,
Since Creon does invite the Goddess down,
She'll come and shed her silver Beams on Thebes.
The Planet that has conquer'd Creon's Soul,
By Consequence on Polynices gains.
Let such a Change as this disarm your Rage;
Quit, quit this Chase of your Ambition's Guilt;
Comfort your Mother, comfort Creon, spare
My Son to me, and Phocias to his Father.

Eteoc.
Howe'er you judge it, Madam, I must beg
Your Leave to be the Master of myself.
You can't but own what Polynices wants;
He wants the Throne; nor thinks on his Return,
But with the Ensigns of Imperial Power.

Enter Attalus.
Attal.
May it please your Majesty, an Herald's come
From Polynices; his Commission is
To ask an Interview: But for what Reason
Is told not: He, however, does appoint
To attend you here, or in the open Camp.

Cre.
Doubtless he's weary of this lingring War,
And his Ambition cools to easier Terms.
By his last Battle he has learnt to-day,
That you're as potent for a lengthen'd War,
As he. The Argive Troops are tir'd with Blood:
Besides, I've lately heard his Marriage-Father,
Preferring Softness, and an easy Reign
To the Fatigues of a successless War,
Has given him Argos, keeping to himself
Mycenæ: And howe'er his Courage swells
To brave Atchievements, 'tis his View to make
A fair Retreat, and from the doubtful Siege
Draw honourably off. Since then he asks
An Interview, believe he asks in that
For Peace; this Day is the decisive Day,
Either to end or break it off for ever.
Be it your Part to keep him in this Aim,
And second his Design; permit him all
That he demands, except the Diadem.

Eteoc.
He demands nothing but the Diadem.

Joc.
However see him, see him, Son, at least.

Cre.
Yes, see him, since 'tis his Request. You two
Will more contribute thus to re-unite
The Royal Blood, than all our Schemes contrive,
And on its proper Basis fix the Throne.

Eteoc.
Let's see him then i' th' Name of all the Gods.

Joc.
Stay rather here, and see him in this Place.

Eteoc.
Well, Madam, be it so. Let all Security
Be granted to protect his Person. Come,
Let's go and meet this Hero.

Ant.
Creon, ah!
If Thebes is settl'd in her wish'd-for Peace,
'Tis you, and only you compleat the Work.

[Ex. Joc. Eteoc. Antig.
Cre.
Disdainful Princess! 'Tis not your Regard
For Thebes that touches your relenting Heart—
This subtle Soul, that throws its flattering Baits
On him whom once she view'd with Eyes of Scorn,
Is less concern'd for Peace than for my Son.
Soon shall we see if this Imperious Fair,
This scornful Lady, this Antigona,
Will equally despise a Throne as me.
Soon as the Gods have pointed out my Crown,
And bad me be your King, you'll see if Phocias,
This Rival Son, can disappoint my Love,
And force Antigona from Creon's Arms.

Attal.
Who would not, with myself, be lost in Wonder,
At such an unimagin'd Change as this:
That Creon, Creon should declare for Peace?

Cre.
Then 'tis your Thought that I design the Peace.

Attal.
My Lord, I now believe it, tho' before
I judg'd it the most distant from your Views.
Bury your Vengeance in Oblivion's Tomb!
The dying Artaban, all clad with Blood,
When for his Country's Peace he gasping lay,
Display'd not more exalted Worth; for he
That for the publick Welfare can decline
A just Revenge, dares sacrifice his Blood.

Cre.
Yes, the brave Man that can with generous Ease
Resign his Enmity, and sheath his Rage,
And love his Foe, will find it no great Task
To court Destruction, and be fond of Death.
But can I fight against my rising Spleen,
Curb Nature, and be deaf to my Revenge,
And hold my Shield before my Adversary?
My Son to Polynices ow'd his Death,
And shall I be the Guardian of his Murtherer?
But grant I could renounce the Cause of Vengeance,
Yet there is something of more Sovereign Price:
Can I forbear to love a Diadem?
No, no, I am unutterably bent
Warmly to follow Grandeur and a Crown.
A Crown first kindl'd my exalted Aim;
My Ancestor's great Blood conducts me up,
The Royal Steps, and leads me to a Throne:
With my first dawning Eyes I saw its Lustre,
Play'd with the Scepter in my Infant Hands,
And fix'd my Hopes upon the Royal Robes.
I blow these Royal Brothers quenchless Hate,
And my Ambition authorizes theirs;
I make Eteocles usurp the Throne,
The better to secure it to myself.

Attal.
But why, if War 's so prosperous to your Schemes,
Why do you urge them to forbear their Arms?
Why, if their Jars do favour your Designs,
Do your mysterious Counsels with their Union?

Cre.
Because continu'd War destructive proves
To more than to my Foes, and angry Fate
Turns all my own Artillery against me.
On my Account the War did first commence,
When, for the Torture of my Soul, my Son
Abandon'd me to follow Polynices,
And I became a Foe to my own Blood.
In short, I on that very Day dissolv'd
The Truce, I kindl'd all the Camp to rush
To fight; both sides were beaten, but at last
My Son turns Desperado, spills his Blood,
And ceas'd the War I forwarded: But still
Another Son remains, and I must own
I love him, tho' rebellious as he is:
Nay more, the only Rival of my Schemes.
I would destroy my Foes, and yet not him:
Th' Expence would be too great to lose two Sons.
The Hatred of the Princes swells too high
To think they'll ever soften into Love.
I'll still augment the Venom, fret the Sore,
That both shall rather perish than embrace.

Attal.
And yet, Sir, you've propos'd the Means they should.

Cre.
All other Foes bear transitory Rage,
But when the Links of Nature are dissolv'd,
There's nothing can repair the furious Breach.
A Brother's Hatred swells to th' utmost Madness;
But Distance still diminishes their Rage:
Let it not shock you then at my Design;
When I propos'd their Meeting, it was this,
That at each other's sight, the kindl'd Spleen
With reassembl'd Fury may revive.

Attal.
My Lord, yourself
Should be the only Object of your Dread.
For those who plume with an ill purchas'd Crown
Are loaded more with Curses, than its Gems.

Cre.
No, Attalus, when settl'd on a Throne,
And Royal Purple awes the kneeling Subject,
Far other Thoughts possess Imperial Heads;
Remorse is distant from the regal Brow.

[Exeunt.