University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A Room of State in Philip's Palace. Philip sits on his throne, surrounded by Perseus, Demetrius, Antigonus, Dymas, and other Lords. Marcius and Cecilius, the Roman Ambassadors, stand together and somewhat apart from the rest.
Marcius.
Here, Philip, we conclude. Rome will not stand
An idle looker-on, while her allies
Are trampled under foot.—You know her will:—
Recall your forces from Bithynia,—
Your garrisons from every Thracian fort;—
And, nor by open, nor by covert means,
Oppress her friends, or aid her enemies—
Then Rome remains at peace. If you refuse,
She bids you think of Cynocephalæ;
And tells you, the good swords that conquered there
Have not been blunted. Think upon't we pray you:
And so we take our leave.—Philip, farewell. (Going.)


Philip.
Stay, Marcius and Cecilius;—we have thought:
And you shall bear our answer. Rome's commands
Shall be obeyed. Would they had been more just!
Or we more strong to cross them!—But, to Heaven
We trust th' event!—Tell it to haughty Rome,
Philip forgets not Cynocephalæ,—
But Rome forgets her greatness, when she stoops
To listen every pitiful complaint
That comes 'gainst Philip.—And, with this, my lords,
We do dismiss you.

Cecilius.
As your truest friends,
We caution you to such a course in this,
That in broad day your deeds may bear the eye
That pries the closest.

Philip.
Thank you for your pains.

Marcius.
And, to your private ear, I'd whisper this.
When Philip needs ambassadors to Rome,
Whom he'd have listened to,—he would do well
Sending his son Demetrius. So adieu.

Cecilius.
Philip, adieu.

Marcius and Cecilius.
Lords, all of you farewell.

Macedonian Lords.
Farewell.

Demetrius.
Marcius,—a word with you.

[Exeunt Demetrius and Roman Ambassadors.
Philip
(descending hastily from his throne).
Insufferable arrogance!—Proud Rome—
Look to thyself erelong—thou den of thieves!
For I will strike thee yet,—or lower fall.—
Bearded upon my throne!—and not a hand
To strike the upstarts down!—Demetrius—
Where is the Roman minion?—

Perseus.
Sir, my brother,
Your duteous and right loyal son . . .

Philip.
Speak on—
A forthright tale,—thou everlasting sneerer.
Whate'er Demetrius be,—thou art his mate
In all his worst.—Recall my garrisons!
Give up my fortresses! Deny my aid
To my oldest friends!—and threatened on my throne
By fellows such as I can tread upon
Each hour i' th' day! Which of you witnessed this?

Perseus and several Lords.
We all, my liege, beheld it.

Philip.
Loyal souls!
(To Perseus)
What you—our eldest son, and heir to the throne,
You heard,—and saw,—and had nor tongue nor hand,
To tame their insolence;—not even an eye
That dared to wink reproof.—And you sir, too—
And you—and you—and, old Antigonus, you—

Antig.
Philip, reprove me not, for I can show—

Philip.
Peace! on thy life, old man! I'll hear no prating.
Where is Demetrius?—Bring him to my sight.
Better a beggar free—than fettered king!
But Rome shall echo yet to Philip's shout,—
And her grave senators shall duck the head
To Philip's veriest slaves;—and her proud dames
Shall wait on Philip's concubines.—Oh Gods!
Let me have vengeance—full—full—full to the brim.
Vengeance,—let me have vengeance.—Carthage will aid,
And Sicily—and many Grecian states,
That hate the Roman, while they hug him hard—
And gold—and golden promises—ha—ha—
I'll fee them well—I'll—

(Enter Demetrius.)
Antig.
(to Dem.).
He's incensed to the height,—
Do not speak to him now.

Demetrius.
Nay, give me leave:
I'm guiltless,—therefore bold. Behold me, father;
You summoned me—I haste at your command.

Philip.
They say, from Hæmus, all th' Italian plains
Lie like a map.—The war shall try new fields.
I'll fight no more, like to a baited beast,
In my own den,—the lion shall go forth.
For Italy—for Italy!—
(To Dem.)
Oh sir—
I crave your pardon that I saw you not:
We missed you from the presence. Please you, prince,
If so an old and humbled king may crave
Of his young, haughty son, Rome's favourite—
Why went you hence with Marcius, even now?
With Marcius, who had held his finger up,
In impudent rebuke to your throned sire,
And school'd him like a boy?—Was't well? Was't well?

Dem.
I knew not, father, that he uttered more
Than, as the Senate's organ, he was bid:
In doing which he had no greater guilt
Than the mute parchment that upon it bears
The words of mortal quarrel. For myself . . .

Philip.
Despatch!—Few words, and weightier matter, sir.

Dem.
I did but beg that Marcius, reaching Rome,
Would to some dearest friends remember me.

Philip.
Ay—ay!—Thy dearest friends—and our worst foes!
Look to't, Demetrius!—He's no friend of mine
That's linked to my black enemy. Look to't!
I say look to't!—Foul whispers are abroad—

Dem.
If any whisper that Demetrius
In anything's disloyal to his king,
Or to his country,—here Demetrius says,
And loudly, he's a villain that so whispers,—
A liar, and a coward!

Philip.
Words—brave words!—

Dem.
Which with my sword I gladly will maintain
On him who dares dispute them.

Philip.
Boast no more
Of what you'll do,—but look your course be clear.
Sharp eyes are on you. There's the taint of Rome
Upon your very brow,—your gait,—your speech;—
Your every motion is Rome-spotted, prince.

Dem.
Till, at some happier moment, I may plead
To him who is at once my judge and father;
And set forth truly all my love to him,
And to my country,—now a vain attempt,
In this assembly, where stand counsellors
Who have poured poison in that father's ear
Against his son,—for which forgive them, Heaven!—
Humbly I take my leave.

[Exeunt Demetrius and Lords of his party.
Perseus.
Thy humbleness
Is prouder than another's arrogance.

Philip.
Oh! for one moment to stand up in Rome
Her victor—but one moment!—all that's yet
Of life to come, I'd toss away unprized
For that one instant!—see—and hear—and die!

(Enter Lysius.)
Lysius.
Health unto Philip! To his arms success!

Philip.
Philip returns thy greeting. By thy mien,
And free discourse, some prince I hold thee, youth:
Please you go on.

Lysius.
To Philip, the great king,
The strong Bastarnæ proffer amity,
And close alliance. Philip's wars be theirs,—
And theirs be Philip's.—For a farther tie,
A princess of the royal blood I bring,—
My sister—for my name is Lysius,—
Whom, so he please, to one of Philip's sons
I give in marriage.

Philip.
And in happy hour
Thou com'st, young prince. This amity I hail,
And straight will seal the bond. And, for the maid
Thy sister, she already is my child;
For, with a fond contention, my two sons
Will strive who wins her first. For thee, young Lysius,
Come to my arms, and let me call thee son.
Thy fame hath gone before thee.

Lysius.
Royal sir,—
You bend me with the burthen of your love.
Permit me, I beseech you, to haste now,
And with this joyful news to bless the ear
Of my loved sister, who . . .

Philip.
Nay—go at once,
And bring her to me, that upon her cheek
I may bestow a father's blessing kiss,
And show her to my sons. Stand on no form.

Lysius.
Your majesty will bind me ever yours.
I take my leave.

Philip.
What forces now in field?
Are your horse numerous?—and your infantry,—
How stand they for the push, dear Lysius—ha?

Lysius.
Full thirty thousand are our foot, pick'd men;
Our horse ten thousand. Never better steeds
Gallop'd o'er battle-field.

Philip.
Dear Lysius, haste.
Bring me my future daughter to my arms.
Ten thousand horse,—and thirty thousand foot—
Said you not so?

Lysius.
Even so.

Philip.
Picked men—strong steeds—
Haste—haste, dear Lysius, haste.—Yet, stay awhile,
We hold, to-day, a solemn festival;
The rites performed,—our army in review
Passes before us:—after that, divides
Into two bodies, each beneath the lead
Of Perseus, or Demetrius, our two sons,—
And so, in friendly strife, mock battle wages
With blunted weapons. There thy sister bring;
Where she shall see our royal sons contend,
And take her choice of them.

Lysius.
I haste to her.

[Exit.
Philip.
Ten thousand horse,—and thrice ten thousand foot!
What, lords,—all mute?—Is there no tongue let loose
For joy of such a fortune?—'Tis at Rome
This should be heard in silence.

Perseus.
Royal sir!
Our hopes are by our fears for-ever checked:
From foreign aids we cannot so much hope,
As from domestic enemies we fear.

Philip.
What is't you mean?

Perseus.
We in our bosoms hold,
If not a traitor, yet at least a spy.
The Romans, since he was a hostage there,
Have sent his body back,—but keep his heart.
On him the Macedonians fix their eyes,
Persuaded that they never shall have king,
Save him that Rome shall choose.

Philip.
I like not this!
But I see through you. For my throne and power
Ye are contending, ere I give them up:
And each of you would deal his brother death,
To make succession sure.—In time beware;
Lest, in my wrath, I sweep you both away,
And choose a stranger heir.

Perseus.
So please you read
This letter: then condemn me if, too soon,
I call Demetrius spy.

Philip
(reading at intervals aloud).

‘And, moreover, I can
satisfy you’—‘Philip suspected’—ha! ha!—he will give you
cause anon, ‘Perseus hated by the Senate’—‘the determination
that Demetrius shall succeed’—Indeed! indeed! ‘For, if
Philip should again compel Rome to war, his throne will be
declared forfeit.’ (Folds up the letter.)

Ha! shall it so?—How say you,—forfeited?
Is Rome become the mansion of the Gods?
What think you lords? Have they the Thunderer's bolts
Stored in their Capitol?—Yes, sure! and we
Must go and do them humble reverence.
On his old knees your king must humbly bend,
And beg his fate and yours of godlike Rome.—
Yes—yes—it shall be so:—and, for more pomp
Of worship, with our golden armour on
Will we our lowly pilgrimage begin:—
And in Rome's temples will we offer up
Rich sacrifice:—each soldier shall be priest,
And his sharp sword the knife of sacrifice!—
Oh Gods! immortal Gods!—what a rich steam
Of bloody incense shall your nostrils quaff!
Take back your letter, sir.—Demetrius king?
So—so.—This eaglet would soar up betimes;
He shall fly lower,—or his wings I'll break,
And hurl him to the earth.
(Enter a Messenger.)
Speak out at once
Thy business, and begone.

Messenger.
My gracious liege!
From Marcius I am come, who, in his haste,—
For which he craves forgiveness—took not thought
Of that wherewith he was intrusted to you—
This packet.

Philip.
Whence?—from Rome?

Messenger.
From Titus Quintius.

Philip.
Go now.
[Exit Mess.
What have we here? ‘From Titus Quintius
To Philip, King of Macedon.’—Proud worm!
Titus to Jupiter were next.—These knaves
Think kings and deities their playfellows;
And men the baubles only for their sport. (He reads in silence.)


Dymas
(to 1st Lord).
There's wormwood there. Look how he bites his lip.

1st Lord.
Will it be war?

Dymas.
Not yet. We must not stir
Till we be stronger; or Rome lose her strength.

1st Lord.
He's pale with rage.

Philip
(stamping furiously).
Damnation!—'Tis too much!

Perseus.
What ill afflicts my father?

Philip.
Look you here.—
But no! I trust you not. My sons are traitors.
I'll take no counsel; but I'll have revenge:—
I'll have revenge, and deep.—Perseus, the troops
By this are in the field. Betake you thither;
And whisper in the ears of all your friends
That they to-day must do their best. Remember
The princess sees you: and I'd have you win her;—
But you must toil for't.—When the tourney's done,
To him that best delights her, she shall send
Her ring,—or other token that her choice
Fixes on him. And 'tis an honour, prince,
Worthy your striving for.—The trumpets—hark!
Let us away.—Ride thou at my right hand;
So shall be seen how in thy father's sight
Thou art held worthiest.

Perseus.
Prouder so to be
Than sitting on the throne of Macedon!

Philip.
Too flowery, prince! No more! Antigonus!
After the tourney come to me again.
Thoughts are within me that to deeds must grow,
Such as the weak will start at. But the act
By the strange time is fashioned. Strongest kings,
No more than weakest hinds, their way can hold
Direct to th' point,—and do but what they would.
A seeming crime makes oft a real good—
The guilt is Fate's—forced on us—but our own
The good that follows it. But now no more.
Lords, to the field,—we meet again anon.

Lords.
Our humblest duties to your majesty.

[Exeunt King and Lords on opposite sides.
Antigonus.
What dreadful thing is brooding in thee now,
That needs this dark concealment? Crime enough,
Fate's, or thine own, already hast thou dared:
Yet doubtful still the after coming good—
If evil not the rather. Doctrine false!
And policy most foul and dangerous,
That wickedly would seek to work forth good!
Soundness, from rottenness, doth never grow;
Nor, from distemper, health. From evil, good
As little can be born. Beware, O king!
Lest the fair seeming path beneath thy feet
Do gape, and in a fathomless abyss
Headlong precipitate thee,—wise too late!

[Exit.