 | Osman |  |
SCENE VIII.
Sultan and Vizier.OSMAN.
How have the Imams sped among the Troops?
Have they submitted to our Obedience?
VIZIER.
They're not return'd as yet, great Sir—My Lord!
Might your Slave venture to propose his Thoughts,
Your Highness should postpone this Enterprize;
Such Opposition rises from each Quarter,
I wish my Suffering may save my Lord;
I hear they loudly clamour for my Head.
OSMAN.
Believe me, Vizier, they'll have mine as soon.
[Enter Ashad. Kneels.
ASHAD.
My Lord, my Duty casts me at your Feet;
Mov'd by Affection, as your Priest and Father,
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Your Empire, Friends, and this Imperial City;
Blame not, great Sir, this humble Testimony,
Of my sincere Attachment to your Highness:
You see not with my Eyes, the mad Contagion
Spreading thro' every Member of the Janizars;
That turb'lent Corps conceal their Rage no longer,
Are now preparing to obtain by Force,
What their sound Reasonings (they say) can't gain;
The Levantines deserting their Commanders,
Join'd to the Soldiers, make their Numbers dreadful:
For Heaven's sake, my Lord, appease their Fury,
E're they proceed too far, to sound Retreat.
[Enter two Cadileskiers, presenting a Paper.
OSMAN.
How durst you venture to approach our Presence
Uncall'd for?
CADILESKIERS.
Mighty Lord, we were compell'd.
OSMAN.
Was ever daring Insolence like this!
[Reads.
What! am I menac'd here with Fire and Sword,
For following the Dictates of my Will,
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I am their Emperor, and will be obey'd.
[Exeunt Cadileskiers, and enter Aphendina.
APHENDINA.
Most gracious Lord, my Emp'ror, my Husband!
By all the sacred Ties of human Nature!
Your Dignity, your Empire, and your Love,
Take Pity on a poor distracted Woman,
Whose Grief's too pungent for Alleviation,
But from a gentle Answer of your Highness.
The rapid Torrent of curst Disaffection,
Not to your Highness's Person, but Designs,
Drives on the Soldiers with resistless Motion,
To sacrifice (as they proclaim) th'Advisers
Of your pernicious Schemes against the Empire.
O! let Compassion reach your gen'rous Heart,
And melt it into Mercy for the Opprest;
Your Wife the chief, your dearest Aphendina;
My Father, my Lord Vizier, and the many,
Your faithful Friends, who'd rather die than leave you.
My dearest Lord, consider what y'oppose,
Licentious Rabble, excited by their Fears
And Jealousies, to murder and destroy.
The good, the bad, the great, the infamous,
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But those, whose Pow'r may call 'em to Account,
Are sure to feel the Weight of their Resentment:
One Word from you, my Lord, may stop the Rise,
When your Life only may retard their Progress.
OSMAN.
You, pow'rful Advocate! can't plead in vain;
Rise and embrace me, dearest Aphendina;
You have your Wish; tell 'em, I will not leave 'em:
And you, fair Princess, set your Heart at Rest,
And follow me.
APHENDINA.
With right good Will, my Lord.
[Exeunt.
| Osman | |