University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—A room in Philip's Palace.
(Philip discovered.)
Philip.
There is no way but this. His guilt is plain
To dullest eyes—bold—monstrous—seen far off
As huge Olympus.—When a limb's diseased
Beyond the leech's art to make it sound,
He cuts it off;—thus saving the whole man,
Who else had perished with it.—Macedon
Is now that man,—Demetrius that limb;—
And I, alas!—his father—am the leech
That must the sharp and cruel knife direct
To its stern purpose.
(Enter a Servant.)
What's thy business here?

Servant.

The lord Antigonus, so please your majesty,
most urgently requests admission to your royal presence.

Philip.
What would he now? I have forbid his coming:
But let him enter.
[Exit Servant.
(Enter Antigonus.)
Well, old lord,—thy business?

Antig.
Philip, thy happiness,—thy son's—the State's.
Forgive me, for I love Demetrius,
And know him innocent. He is your son,
And therefore should find mercy;—he's a prince,
And should have amplest justice. That at Rome
He is beloved may be in him no crime:
Is he not young, and beautiful, and brave,—
Open—and generous—liberal in expense—
Gifted with qualities that make men love
And women worship? Are not these enough—
Being a prince beside,—to draw the hearts
Of Romans as of Macedonians?
Is it a treason then to be beloved?
If so the hated vicious are most loyal:—
Is it—

Philip.
Stay—stay—old man,—thou'rt ignorant here:
He has found mercy,—and, be sure, shall find
The amplest justice.—I will hear no more.

Antig.
Philip, farewell. Remember he's your son.

[Exit.
Philip.
I would I could forget it (a pause)
. He must die;
And presently;—or the mad people's love
Will fortress him against the siege of justice—
Demetrius, or Philip, must go out;—
Rome must be stabbed, or Macedon.—Who waits?
(Enter a Servant.)
Bid the lord Dymas enter. (Exit Servant.)
It must be!
I cannot—may not—dare not shrink. Come hither.
(Enter Dymas.)
Hast thou a heart to feel thy country's wrongs?

Dymas.
I have, my liege:—to bleed,—to die for her.

Philip.
Hast thou unto thy king such loyal love,
That, well to aid him in a need extreme,
Thou'dst on thy gentle nature violence put,—
Drive pity and remorse from thy soft breast;—
And be,—even like the axe, that strikes the head off,—
Feeling no sympathy?—

Dymas.
What Philip bids,—
That will his servant act. I have no heart
But what is Philip's;—have nor hands, nor tongue,
Nor any power of sense—but what are his,
To use as likes him best.

Philip.
Enough—enough—
He sups with you to-night.—

Dymas.
He does, my liege.

Philip.
His life is dangerous to the State and us.
He must not live—

Dymas.
Then bring you him to trial?

Philip.
That were but shallow wisdom. Of the mob
He is beloved,—the soldiers too:—his youth
And comeliness would be loud orators
In ears whereto his treasons could not speak.
Yet must he die;—or, in his room, a host,
Whom his rebellion, to a bloody death,
Will bring untimely.—Something must be done;
Instantly,—secretly,—yet, done, avowed;
And his black guilt to all the world proclaimed
The cause of this great justice.—What is done,
Is borne with patience oft, as past recall;—
Though, were it yet to do, a thousand swords,
And fifty thousand tongues, would interpose
To stay its execution— (a pause).

Dost thou think
He might be spared, and yet the State . . . but no!—
Advise me not to mercy,—for his guilt
Is broader than heaven's concave. Die he must—
Or Philip fall,—and Rome. . . . It shall not be! (A pause.)

To-morrow let me hear thee say . . . dost mark me?

Dymas.
Most earnestly!—

Philip.
To-morrow let me hear
That . . . Macedon is safe—that treason's flame
Hath been put out—that . . . dost thou understand?

Dymas.
I see a fearful spectre in your words;
But 'tis in darkness yet.

Philip.
Dost dread to meet it?

Dymas.
I would 'twere more substantial. But, that thing
Which Philip hath no fear to wish enacted,
I may not fear to act.

Philip.
Thou sayst enough.
He sups with thee to-night.—Fill thou his cup.
What! dost thou start?—Thy words were bold enough.

Dymas.
So shall my deeds be. 'Twas a passing sting
Of foolish pity;—but the last. 'Tis gone!

Philip.
I'd have him laid asleep;—but—tenderly.
Seek thou some drug that shall extinguish life;—
Not tear't to pieces.—I would have him dead;
Yet would not wish him feel what 'tis to die.
For oh! he's still my son,—my youngest boy!
Have ye no mercy, Gods?—Might he not live?—
But no—no—no—I'll think upon't no more.—
Fate calls him—he must go—

[Exit.
Dymas.
So he but go,
I care not at what door. But go he must;
Or the bright honors that I seek to wear
Will prove a drunken dream.—What matters it?
Peasant, or prince—all must at some time die:—
His turn is now;—mine when the Gods shall please.
But not, I trust, before yon haughty dame
Her lofty head as low as mine shall stoop;—
Ay—call me friend, and kind deliverer.
I'll to her, and the tyrant paint so black,—
Tell her of deaths contrived so terrible,—
Shew her her children in their agonies
Herself to brutal lust exposed, and death
Horrid and infamous,—then, for one poor boon,
Promise escape.—She must—she shall be mine.

[Exit.