University of Virginia Library

Fourth Scene

A Gallery hung with Pictures.
Enter Tyridates.
Tyrid.
What cloudy Blacks my Heart and Visage wear,
And Love it self's scarce greater than my Fear.
To mighty Love all Passions else submit,
Grow calme, and are to Tempests rais'd by it.
So it Usurps the Empire of the mind
And Governs there, as o're the Seas the Wind.
Whilst it blows gently, Seas as Gently lye;
But when it Storms, they Storm and Rave as high.

Enter Salome at a distance.
Solom.
He's there—
I will not lose the occasion now—
Stay—I'le advise, first what I have to do.
Oh Heavens, must then this great Heart stoop so low;
And must he from my Mouth my Passion know.
Vertue, where art thou?—or where art thou Shame?
Tush—Shame's for Maids—Vertu's an empty name.
I Love, and I am scorch'd so with the fire,
That all things now must yeild to my desire.
—Vertue, and Honour, all things else lye by.
'Tis Love o'recomes, and I must speak, or dye.—

Tyrid.
My Passions did disturb enough before.
[Aside.
Thy Company will yet disturb me more.
I cannot shun her.

Salom.
Tyridates here!
I did not think such happiness so near!
I doubt I on your Privacy intrude.

Tyrid.
I am not busie, Madam!

Salom.
But I am Rude.
What were your Thoughts?

Tyrid.
On nothing?

Salom.
Is that all?

Tyrid.
I view'd those Artfull Pictures on the Wall.

Salom.
Their Story, Sir, you may not understand:
I will Interpret them—Lend me your hand;
Such a Commanding awe hangs on his brow
Aside.
It daunts me, and my Tongue does faulter now.
Aside.
The World here Tyridates found its Grave,
And none escaped, but what that Ark did save.

Tyrid.
We by our Stories, Madam, understood
The World once suffer'd by a general Flood.

Salom.
Here is the man, who did our Nation Free
By Miracles from Ægypts Slavery:
See there what Vengeance he on Pharoah throws;
Though all his great Magicians do oppose—
See where the King pursues him in his Pride.
Here, at his Word the Seas themselves divide:
Here Pharoah still pursues them with his Host.—
Look there—the King, and all his Army's lost.—
Has not the Painter here expres't his skill?
How well in Death he Frowns, and Threatens still.

Tyrid.
Madam! I doubt I too much trouble you—

Salom.
I take delight in't—Sir, in Truth I do.—
When I look on him, all my Courage fails:
Aside.
And o're my Resolutions fear prevailes.
Aside.
Your Eyes a little on this Captain lend:
He Conquer'd first this Land, you now Defend.
The Sun stood still, and did his Word obey;
And gave the World a most Prodigious Day.

Tyrid.
Will none come hither to Release me yet?—
[Aside.
'Twill take up too much time to view 'em all.

Salom.
One or two more; you needs must see—you shall—
Oh that I had my Story-once begun!
[Aside.
See here two Kings, the Father and the Son:
That's David, the best Captain of his Time:
This Salomon, whose Wisdom was sublime.
Wise, as he was; yet that Wise Salomon
Did not disdayn to put Love's Fetters on:
And to that Queen which hangs close by his side,
No coldness shew'd, nor Love, for Love deny'd:
His Fame far off had kindl'd am'rous fires;
He Lov'd, and satisfi'd her warm desires.

Tyrid.
It was but just; and to so Fair a Queen,
He would have otherwise ungrateful been.

Salom.
Whilst thus you pass your judgment Sir on them;
Consider that your self you do Condemn.
You to a Princess have appear'd too Rude,
And for true Love return'd ingratitude.
Though she has left no Realms to visit you,
Yet that which is more hard, she does pursue.
She treads on Dangers, and for you she dies,
And Liberty more dear then Empire flies.

Tyrid.
I may believe my Miseries might move
In tender Breasts some Pitty—but not Love—
I am an Exile, no Retreat do know
But what I to your Brothers Bounty owe.
That Princess then in Herod's Court may see
Objects more worthy of her self than Me.

Salo.
With willful blindness You Obligements slight;
That you may shun occasions to requite.

Tyrid.
My great Misfortunes Madam, make me blind.

Salo.
No Tyridates, 'tis Disdayn I find:
And you are too clear-sighted not to know,
That you are Lov'd, and who 'tis Loves you too.
No Soul, but Hers, could have endur'd that pain,
Caus'd by the Tyranny of your Disdayne.

Tyrid.
Such worth I dare not to my self apply,
Nor look up at a Fortune that's so high;
And though your glorious Beauty shou'd descend,
To grant me all the Charms that Love can lend:
My mind does under such misfortunes bow,
I could not have the power to taste them now.

Salo.
You for your coldness have a fine pretext;
You'l be no more with such Discourses vext.
And since you with affection are opprest,
That Importunity shall be redres't:
Fury's the steps of incens'd Lovers guide;
And Love converts to Hate, with scorn deny'd.
[Ex. Salom.

Tyrid.
Thy Love and Hate are both alike to me.
What difference 'twixt Mariamne is, and Thee?
I her denyal better do approve:
Which less torments me than thy proffer'd Love.
Her Anger looks with so much Innocence;
That though it kills, it cannot give offence.
And were not Love by Vertue clear'd in Me,
I'd hate the name of Love, as I do Thee.
Enter Polites and Arsanes.
Would you had come sooner—
All that Misfortune that I so much fear'd,
Just now with Impudence enough appear'd.
For Salome her self, the secret told.

Arsa.
But I perceive your Answer was but cold.

Pol.
That Coldness has incens'd Her; for but now,
We saw a raging scorne inflame her brow;
With all the marks that do on Fury wait.

Tyrid.
It is not Love, but Lust that turns to hate.

Arsan.
The King's return'd, and will this Night be seen
In publique t'entertain his welcome Queen.

Tyrid.
What, then the Queen's Releas't?

Polit.
Yes Sir; 'tis true.
And Herod seems enamour'd now anew.
He gazes on her with Affection still:
You'd think 'gainst her he never dream't an ill.

Tyrid.
Thanks Fate! I'le be my self a Guest to Night:
And at her Eyes direct my wondring sight.
What Nobler Object to exalt my Joy?
Unless my Envy does my Joyes destroy:
Of what I wish that Tyrant is possest?
I can but gaze on Banquets where he Feasts.

[Exeunt.
Enter Salome Sola.
Salom.
'Tis done—I am resolv'd—I'le Love no more—
But Hate as much as e're I Lov'd before.
With what kind warmth does now my Anger move?
And dear Revenge tasts sweeter far then Love.
The Poets say that Love in Heav'n does dwell;
If so, then there more Pleasure is in Hell.
For though the Furies whip and lash my mind;
Yet in that Rage I secret Pleasure find.
Thou at my Feet shall unregarded lye,
Who with disdain a Princess could'st deny.
I Tyridates, will pluck down thy Pride:
Let Hell and all its Furies be my guide.

Enter Philon.
Phil.
Madam, The King and Queen's already sate,
They and the Revels do your presence wait.
Your place stands Empty—

Salo.
Revels are a sport
For Loving Fools: Blood is the Mirth I'le Court:
I'le follow;—Rage has so posses't my mind,
I no Diversion but in that can Find.

[Exeunt.