Cyrus the Great: OR, THE Tragedy of Love.
As it is Acted at the THEATRE IN Little-Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, BY His Majesty's Servants.
Written by IOHN BANKS.
LONDON, Printed for Richard Bentley at the Post-Office in Russel-street, Covent-Garden. 1696.
TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE Princess ANNE OF DENMARK.
Madam,
I Confess I am so transported at the Honour You have done this poor Play, that I know not in what Terms to pay my Devotion to Your Highness; I am not insensible too of my own Unworthiness, and that it is a Presumption even in the best of this Kind, to think to gain Admittance into the Closet [Page] of so Great a Princess; But when I consider that no Present, of what Value soever, can be made suitable to One of Your Illustrious Character, It gives me Encouragement to hope this Trifle may not be less Acceptable to Your Royal Goodness, than a Pitcher of Water was to the Great Monarch of the World, from the Hands of a Mean Soldier. 'Twere Prophaneness in me any longer to divert with my rude Pen Your Divine Thoughts and Precious Moments, that are still imploy'd Above, in imploring Blessings for the Nation, and more prophane to sully the Chrystal Mirrour of so many Incomparable Virtues with the coarse Breath of Mortal Praise.
I most humbly ask Leave then to withdraw from a Subject so much above my Capacity and Merit; (a Task fit only for the Angels You converse with,) and pray my Muse may have the Happiness to conclude, who groans to be deliver'd of her Duty, in these Homely, but Hearty Thanks.
[Page] Accept, Great Princess, this small Offering,
This humble Mite I to your Treasure bring,
The poor mean Present of a bended Muse,
Amidst the Heaps of all the Wealthier Iews,
A banish'd Play that tedious Years had mourn'd,
Blest with your favour, by your Smiles return'd,
Writ and design'd for this Immortal Grace,
E're my then happier
Earl of Essex.
Favourite took place;But tho' the Younger first the Blessing had,
This brings no less Devotion that has stay'd:
The grateful Peasant thus before he's stor'd,
Gives his first Fruits of Plenty to his Lord.
Since this had never liv'd but for your sake,
'Tis just I give you what your self did make:
For the Great Cyrus being but a Child,
And in his Cradle destin'd to be kill'd,
Your Highness his Divine Panthea now,
Has rais'd him both to Empire and to You.
The God of Love, who in the Scene departs,
Bequeaths to You his Quiver and his Darts,
And, what is more, his Title to all Hearts.
Whilst at your Feet, the mighty Monarch lays
His conquer'd Crowns, as humbly I the Bays.
Happy was He that Presence to ingage,
That chear'd the World, and brought to Life the Stage,
Where the sad Muses, since they lost their Queen,
Ne'er till that Day did tune their Songs agen.
The ravish'd Crowds ador'd You as You rode,
Like Spring in April coming first abroad.
My humble Muse, then, that did groveling lye,
Soar'd like an Eagle through the Vaulted Sky,
[Page] Forgot the Disappointments that she had,
Rav'd with fierce Joy, and ran with Pleasure mad:
Two Labours of her Brain,
Queen of Scots.
this Play the third,Through Spite and Envy were the Stage debarr'd,
Lady Iane Grey.
Cast and ne'er Try'd, Condemn'd and never Heard.
Thus droop'd your Poet, saw his Laurels stain'd,
Or robb'd by Others who more favour gain'd;
But time he hopes, and Pity in your Breast,
Will bring'em both to Life, as this is blest.
Your Royal Highness's most humble, most devoted, and most obedient Servant, J. Banks.
PROLOGUE TO HER Royal Highness.
WHen all that we thought great and good was gone,
And the whole World did in that Deluge drown,
When mourning Cupids flagg'd their tender Wings,
And the sad Muses broke their warbling Strings;
When she was fled that shin'd with Pity here,
What cou'd revive the drooping Theatre!—
But from the Phoenix Ashes in their Spice,
Loe, I behold another Goddess rise▪
All Blessings that with her▪ great Princess, flew,
Can never be restor'd us, but in You.
The Dove in the glad [...] was not so kind,
Who brought the Olive, and reviv'd Mankind.
The Laurels fading now behind our Scene,
Like Virgil's Grotto, shall be ever green.
Let conquering William send abroad his Darts,
Secure for him you rule his Peoples Hearts.
And his soft Pledge only her self withdrew,
Whilst all her Miracles succeed in You:
Then let's to Heav'n in loudest Anthems sing
That such bright Hopes we have, and such a King.
Dramatis Personae.
- Cyrus the Great. Mr. Betterton.
- Cyaxares, King of Media. Mr. Smith.
- Hystaspes, Kinsman to Cyrus. Mr. Kynaston.
- Craesus, King of Lydia. Mr. Bowman.
- Abradatas, King of Susa. Mr. Hudson.
- Artabasus, Friend to Cyaxares. Mr. Thurmond.
- Thomyris, Queen of Scythia. Mrs. Bowtell:
- Panthea, her Daughter. Mrs. Barry.
- Lausaria, Daughter to Craesus. Mrs. Bracegirdle.
- Officers, Guards, Women, and Attendance.
Scene the Camp near Babylon.
Cyrus the Great.
Actus Primus. Scaena Prima.
The Scene a wide spacious Land, ruinous and almost cover'd with dead Bodies, suppos'd to be after a great Battel, wherein Cyrus had Overthrown Croesus.
Enter Cyaxares, Artabasus, Officers and Attendants.
[...]yax.
STAND.
Arta.
Stand—'Tis the King's Pleasure each Commander
Draw up his Men, and close upon this Heath.
Cyax.
How far have we to Cyr [...]'s Camp from hence?
And how far distant do th' Assyrians lie?
Where stands this great and mighty Babylon,
The Mistress of the World, the glorious City?
Whose proud, ambitious Arms have still inclos'd
The greatest Emperors that ever were?
So Proud, so Vain, and Awful was she once,
She almost reach'd the Heavens with her Tow'rs.
Art.
Just from th' ascent of that small rising Hill,
And but a few Miles distant, you may see
The three great Miracles of all the Earth;
Nearest in view your Faithful Valiant Medians,
With all the rest of your Confed'rates lie,
Compos'd of fierce Hyrcanian Horse,
Armenian Foot, and brave Cadusian Archers.
The Troop of Cyrus own Immortal Guards,
The Persian Homotyms, each nobly Born,
Valiant and Wise enough to be a General—
These are ordain'd to hold the World in Chains,
With Cyrus, God-like Cyrus at their Head.
Cyax.
[Page 2]Cyrus! Thou speak'st as if thou ne'er hadst knewn
Astyages, or wert thy self no Mede—
Answer me not, but as you did, go on.
Arta.
Distant from Cyrus's Camp, some twenty Furlongs,
And just as many from the Imperial Town,
Lies the great Army of th' Assyrian King,
Fill'd up with such a multitude of Nations,
You'd think that all the Living of the World
Were there assembl'd to defie the Gods,
Not fight with Cyrus—
Betwixt these Armies, as the Prize of all,
Stands the bright Virgin Queen, rich Babylon,
Incouraging the Soldiers on each side,
As if she said, that she and all the World,
Were, till this great decision, set at Stake,
To come in Triumph to the Victor's Arms.
Offic.
Her Sp [...]res and Temples so with Beauty shine,
Did not the Smoak which from both Armies rise,
Eclipse the Light, you might with wonder see
She than the Sun wou'd make a brighter Day.
Cyax.
A brave Reward, more worth than is the danger!
But I unmanly come to share the Spoil,
Without the hazarding of one poor Battel;
All's done already, no more Crowns to win,
Those that have scap'd, are all for shelter run
Under the Wings of this huge Armies Body—
This is the Field whose sad remains can tell
Of Craesus's late and dreadful Overthrow—
Behold the Triumph of unstable Fortune!
Are these the Men that made such mighty noise!
How they lie low, cut off like wither'd Corn,
Where proudly once they flourish'd, and grew up.
Craesus the Rich, the Happy, and the Wise,
His Scale of Fortune now that lies so low,
Gives Cyrus leave to mount and touch the Sky.
Arta.
A fatal Glory fires ambitious Man,
That is for ever with destruction gotten,
Bright Ruine is the gilding of his Doys,
And humbl'd Nations with his height must fall.
Our Eyes no other Objects can behold,
But near and distant Plains all harras'd o'er,
And great and beauteous Palaces unveil'd.
Cyax.
No Corn does here inrich the bloody Field,
Nor Grass adorn the Meads with wanton Green;
The Trees, the Earth's tall Sons, are all cut off,
All Places mourn where Cyrus Horse has trod.
Offic.
The poor and plunder'd Peasants peep abroad
[Page 3] With piteous Eyes and Hands lift up to Heav'n,
To see their Labour turn'd to dismal Spoil,
Arta.
So Shipwrack'd Passengers cast on the Shore,
That but a few past moments saw themselves
Rich in a Calm, watching the Tides decrease,
Pick up small pieces of their scatter'd Wealth,
Which the relenting Waves left on the Sands—
The utmost Corners of the World have heard him,
And frighted at the Trumpet of his Fame,
Have straight obey'd.—All Mortal Eyes look up,
Nay, God's themselves with Envy now look down
Upon the growth of this prodigious Man,
Wond'ring as they behold such monstrous Greatness,
How they so lavishly decreed.
Cyax.
No more, get thee to Cyrus back,
Do, and forget what late thou wert, when first
I moulded thee from humble Earth, and plac'd
Thee o'er the Heads of twenty thousand Great Ones;
And thou for this, e're Cyrus dawn, declin'd
Thy Royal Master, left me in a time,
When he, with all his Train of early Hopes
Cou'd scarcely comprehend the meane [...] Star,
Dropt from the Sphere where all my [...] are written.
Arta.
O pardon, Royal Sir, my Love to Cyrus
Is but what you out of excess may spare;
It runs to him in narrow, shallow Streams,
But never ceases to o'erflow the Fountain.
Cyax.
Ah! Artabasus, wert not thou to blame,
To counsel me to give the Reins to Cyrus,
Pleas'd me with Hopes, and fed my longing Ears
With cunning Tales, of this ambitious Boy,
And when my self wou'd fain have lead my Armies,
Made me lie down in Sloth, yielding to him
These Hands, these Feet, my Legions, and my Strength,
And left me then a weak and limbless Body,
Drench'd in Delights, and drown'd in studied Pleasures.
Bane to my Bliss, and my Renown for ever!
How canst thou answer this?—
Arta.
If you will hear—
Cyax.
Why Father, great Astyages, did not
Thy Martial Ghost affright me in this Slumber?
Call to my Mind the Deeds that thou hast done,
When Young, and scarcely risen from my Cradle,
Thou leadst me round the Frontiers of the Globe,
And brought me to a Nation blest by Heav'n,
Elysium sure it was, a Land of Wonders,
Whose Leaves and Trees still blossom'd like the Spring,
[Page 4] And Fields were clad with everlasting Green;
Its Streams ran Chrystal, and its Sands were Gold.
This Orient Miracle shone like a Gemm
Sate in the golden Circle of the World,
So swarm'd on by the fairest of the Living;
As if't had been indeed that happy Place
Where Souls are blest with an Eternal Being:
For there no Want was found, but all Increase
Sprung from the great and unknown Deity.
Through this Immortal Land we pierc'd our Arms,
Climbing the lofty Hills that rear'd the City,
And from their Temple built of shining Gold,
Bore all the holy Vessels of their God,
And took Five hundred thousand Slaves away.
Thunder and Lightning, Darkness seems to cover the Field.
Heark, heark—A horrid Thunder sounds at distance.
Arta.
Now here it answers with a Force as dreadful—
A sudden Darkness seems to spread the Field—
There you may see that cloudy Curtain drawn,
Whilst Lightning rushes from the parting Heav'ns,
And to my wond'ring Eyes discovers Swarms
Of hellish Insects flying in the Air.
Cyax.
The Gods are sportive sure, and seem to mock
At what bold Cyrus has perform'd below.
Arta.
The Scene of Horrour yet discloses further—
My Sight deceives me if I do not see
Spirits descend into their Humane Forms
Again, and the dead Bodies slain by Cyrus
Begin to move.
Cyax.
Something does tread the Ground—
Look, Artabasus, see, what monstrous things
Betwixt a Mortal and a Devil's Shape,
Are those?
Arta.
I see distinctly now, and I'll
Release you from your Wonder—These are Witches,
Or Wizards else, that all this Land is fam'd for—
What Nation is there but has oft been told
Strange Tales of the Chaldean Sorcerers.
When they wou'd know th' Event of things on Earth,
Like ravenous Vultures haunting bloody Battels,
They still attend the Fortune of the Field,
When they may exercise their loathsome Charms
And hateful Practices upon the Dead.
With sulph'rous Herbs, and devillish Incantations.
[Page 5] They wrack their quiet Spirits in the Shades,
Driving their Souls back to their Flesh again,
And force 'em to reveal what's writ below,
What Heav'n had bound up in the Book of Fate.
Th' Infernal Gods are master'd by their Po [...]er,
Or else perswaded by some Piety
That pleases them; deny these Wretches nothing.
[Dance of Wizards.
Witches SONG.
1 Witch.
Sisters, Whilst I thus wave my Wand,
Charming the Ground on which we stand;
Invoke the Spirit of this Slain,
Its Body to inform again:
Some of Deucalion's Seeds I've found,
That rais'd Mankind when all was drown'd.
2 Witch.
Mummy with Cats Blood did I boil,
I'll chafe his Temples with the Oil.
3 Witch.
To fume his Nostrils, lo, I bring
A Feather from the Phoenix Wing.
4 Witch.
I'll wash his Ioints with Liquor brought
From Aeson's Bath, which Wonders wrought.
CHORUS.
He stirs, he stirs; Rise and foretell
This list'ning Monarch's Fate from Hell.
Cyax.
Behold—Look yonder—Is not that a Man,
That rises from amongst the Heaps of slain,
And with an awful March comes steady towards us?
A dead Carkass of one of the slain rises, and comes to them upon the Stage.
Arta.
Fear't not, my Lord—See, it wou'd speak.
Dead Cark.
From the dark Region of Eternal Night,
Where numerous Souls in mingled Tortures live,
And fry like Atomes in the Sun-beams Heat;
Alternately from Flames and then to Frost;
First dipp'd into a liquid Fire, and thence
Whole Shoals are plung'd into a Deep of Ice:
Whilst Pluto's great Divan in Council sit,
T'invent new Plagues to practise on the Damn'd.
From thence, as I stood gazing on the Lake,
Waiting my Passage to that place of Horrour,
[Page 6] A Summons from the Fiery King was sent
By Charon brought, wherein I was commanded
By Power on Earth, which that in Hell controll'd,
That I shou'd straight glide back into the World,
Quick as pent Light disclos'd, it self disperses,
And re-assumes this Corpse yet uninterr'd,
Till Cyaxares Ears had reach'd my Charge,
What of thy Fates decreed, which I shall speak,
And Pluto dictate—This the Oracle.
In vain's thy vast Ambition and thy Envy,
A Genius yet more great shall conquer thine,
And when thy Rashnes [...] leads thee next to fight,
To Cyrus Glories thou shalt add thy Life,
And leave thy Empires, and thy Darling Crowns,
To be possess'd by him whom Fate adores,
Whom, for a time, Heav'n, Hell, and all the World
Obey—I am recall'd,—my Task is done,
And subtil Fiends come thronging to the Light
To drive me into Torments back again.
[Falls down again.
Cyax.
Ha! Art thou fall'n! Stay, speak, who sent thee, Soldier?
What greater Devil lurking here on Earth
Made the black God obey his threatning Summons,
And charm'd the Powers of Hell to my Destruction?
Arta.
A meer cold Clod, a bloody mangl'd Coarse.
Cyax.
Here, take this hellish Carkass,
And throw it to wild Beasts to be devour'd—
What, hast thou Hell invok'd too on thy side!
Can Cyrus trust his helping Gods no more!
So little do I fear thee now, false Persian,
That, stoodst thou guarded like the King of Furies,
Ten thousand glaring Spirits round about thee,
With burning Tridents, and hot Scourges arm'd,
To hurry me from Earth like Mortal damn'd,
I'd through 'em all to meet thee, daring Boy.
Arta.
Recall your Temper, Sir, and blame not Cyrus,
Who, bating his Ambition, still is Virtuous.
His Soul, pure as the first created Mortals,
Who in the Worlds prime Innocence began,
'Ere Lust and Power defac'd the tender Image,
And crept into the Frailties of Mankind—
This was perform'd by some Magician's Art,
At the Command of the Assyrian Monarch,
Who, since his late Defeat, basely and cowardly,
Is forc'd to have recourse to Hellish Tricks,
And in his sinking State catches at Air,
Grasps any thing to save him from o'erwhelming.
[Page 7] The Gods will guard you through an Host of Devils,
Then as Hell's Malice only this esteem.
[Noises of singing within.
Cyax.
Whence comes this Sound of Musick, and of Voices?
[Captain goes off.
Am I awake! Is't real Artabasus
That we have seen, or that we now do hear?
[Captain re-enters.
Capt.
The brave Hystaspes, Sir, is just arriv'd,
With Presents from his Royal Master Cyrus
To Cyaxares his Imperial Unkle.
Enter to them Hystaspes, with Panthea, Women, and Attendants.
SONG.1.
Heark how the Trumpet and the Drums,
With dismal Voice proclaim she comes,
Whilst we that Victory despise,
Where Valour blushes at the Prize.
2.
The Royal Captive now appears,
A Beauty sinking under Showers of Tears.
Love's Queen in Chains, fetter'd are all her Charms,
And useless lie her little Heroes Arms.
3.
And yet the Conquerour shall yield,
And give up all the Trophies of the Field;
Shall kiss that Sceptre, which the World does sway,
And at his Captive's Feet his Laurels lay.
How pleasing is the Pain a Lover feels,
Glad to [...]e chain'd to Beauty's Chariot Wheels.
CHORUS.
Such is the Force of Love! the Great, the Brave,
All must submit, sometime put on the Slave.
Cyax.
Blest Sight! and happy Cyrus much more blest,
That in thy boundless Prodigality,
Canst throw away so rich, Immense Delights,
And scatter Pleasures as the Gods do Blessings.
[Panthea and her Maids weep.
[Hystaspes kneels.
Hyst.
[Page 8]The Great, the Valiant, and the faithful Cyrus,
The Light of Empires, and the World's great Soul,
To whom all Nations bend, bids me to kneel
To his dear Uncle, Father, Master Cyaxares,
And as an earnest of succeeding Glories,
Lay here the Queen of Beauty at your Feet.
Not Crowns nor Kingdoms does he send by me,
Those he reserves with all Religious Duty
To plant himself about your Royal Temples,
And with his own Victorious Hands to give you
More Laurels, and more heaps of Monarchs Riches,
Then e're adorn'd the Shrines of Deities;
And her whose so much celebrated Charms
Made all the World, and Cyrus Ears in Love,
Yet wou'd not your brave Nephew trust his Eyes
With the least sight of what they so much long'd for,
Lest they shou'd Rivals prove to Cyaxares.
Cyax.
Are these, O Love, Rewards of Victory!
Or the blest Consorts of the Gods themselves,
By some more aw'd Divinity brought thence,
Leaving th' Immortals mourning Widowers—
But what is she that shines above the rest,
As Cynthia does amongst her Starry Train,
Shedding more precious Essence from her Eyes
Then Phoebus wantonly each Morning draws
From Beds of Violets, or the Dew of Roses—
Speak thou more fair than finest thought can form,
Or but thy self, the Sun did ever see.
Hyst.
God's! Was Hystaspes born to be your hatred!
Is it her Griefs, or what, that makes this change
Within my Bosom? I wou'd no call it Love—
O Cyrus, had'st thou view'd these dangerous Beauties,
Thou hadst not mark'd thy Friend out to be wretched.
Cyax.
What, not a Word t'inrich thy humble Creature?
There is no Goddess that can speak like thee—
Thy Griefs keep concord with thy Virgins Songs,
Who, to thy Sorrows, set their warbling Notes,
Whilst thou add'st Tea [...]s to ev'ry Syllable,
And with thy Sighs, gives the sad Tunes the Time;
Or was not this the Musick of the Spheres,
Never before made known to mortal sence,
And thou the Goddess of that happy Place.
Hyst.
Sir, she's Panthea.
The fam'd fair Daughter of the Scythian Queen.
Panth.
O! yes, tell all my Woes too if thou canst,
And tell' em with a Grace, that I may sooth
My many Sorrows to a little rest.
[Page 9] For I shall never say 'em in an Age.
I have a thousand swelling in my Soul,
Strugling at once, and rushing to get foremost,
So I can speak of neither, but at last
Call to my Aid my Sex's feeble temper,
And draw the [...] Vapour into Tears.
Cyax.
Divine Panthea—
Panth.
Call me what I am,
Tell me not what I was—I was Panthea,
Panthea rich in Friends, blest as their Hopes,
Prais'd and belov'd, or I was grosly flatter'd,
Who, from the fondness of my Parent's Arms,
(Hanging still round my Childish Infancy)
Found no false Change, no waining of my Joys,
But ev'ry day increas'd my Happiness;
And the same Stars that smil'd upon my Birth
Seem'd still to tempt, and draw all Eyes to me;
All Knees, all Hearts did bend where e'er I came,
And blest me as their Goddess, or the Spring;
And till this day, of all my Age accurst,
I never knew what a worse Moment was.
Hyst.
O thou art lost, undone Hystaspes quite,
The Glory of the Battel owes to thee,
But this bright Victim makes the Victor blush—
Yet to revenge me on my self, and Crime,
If Cyrus will not grant her Liberty,
I'll do't my self, with forfeit of my Life.
Cyax.
Go on, go on, thou charming Creature, do,
Each Word leaves Bliss and Wonder in my Soul.
Panth.
But oh! now to repeat the Summ of all,
That which methinks shou'd strike the Hearers dead.
When my full Joys had ripen'd for Enjoyment,
And I wrap'd up in harmless Extasie,
To such a height I saw no ground below,
And thought the Glass of that blest Hour wou'd ne'er
Be run, I mean (Gods, give me leave to say it)
As my dear Mother in the Temple gave me
A happy Bride, in shew to Abradatus,
The Brave, and most Heroick King of Susa—
Scarce had the Priests the Holy Rites perform'd,
When straight the Trumpets call'd, and Battel join'd,
Cyrus approaching with a fatal Charge
On Craesus, and the Forces of our Army;
Then was my Love snatch'd from my Virgin Arms
To his Command, and I ran breathless on the Walls
To see my Abradatus Fight, and Conquer;
But soon, methought, I saw him round inclos'd
[Page 10] With Enemies, which sight to snatch'd my Senses,
That on a sudden follow'd by my Women,
I found me in our Camp, not knowing how
I went, nor waking from that wretched Slumber,
Till I was brought a Prisoner to Hystaspes.
Cyax.
Ah sweet Panthea! if thy Sorrows move so,
What canst thou do, dispersing Smiles around thee?
But oh the thoughts! I'll tear 'em from my Breast,
Pull out the Seeds just rooting in my Heart,
And die rather than live with the disgrace—
Down, down, thou fair infectious Charm of Beauty,
Down to thy first Abyss from whence thou camest,
Where Light lay hid, when all things were a Chaos,
Thou cheat of Sence, and blinder of all Eyes—
Cyrus is boasting now of his design,
That laid these Nets of Beauty in my march,
To stop my fair and quick return to Glory—
Away thou sweet destroyer of my Fame—
Hystaspes, haste with thy fair Charmer hence;
Go tell thy Master all that thou hast seen
Of Cyaxares; tell him that Panthe [...]
Shou'd be esteem'd as Heav'n and Heav'nly Joys,
Not to be tasted by a Man, and live,
Therefore I give her to the Stars, from whence
She came—Bid Cyrus do the like—Begone,
Quickly, least I shou'd wish to look again.
Pan.
Ten thousand Glories crown your Head for this.
May this brave Action make your Name and Bliss
Renown'd on Earth, as is the God of War,
And when in Heav'n, a bright shining Star.
Hyst.
I am amaz'd—Can this be real, Sir?
I dare not tell the King of your refusal.
Cyax.
Do it, I charge thee, and inform him too,
That Cyaxares comes to meet him straight,
With Courage awful as Astyages,
When Cyrus, but a pratling Boy, admir'd him,
Look'd from the Ground, ador'd his Majesty,
And fear'd him like a God—Go from my Eyes—
Remove those gay bright Syrens that forerun
A Storm.
Hyst.
Come Madam.
Panth.
To kind Death, I hope—
Brave Cyaxares.
Cyax.
O speak no more—Thou conqu'ring Beauty go—
There lies your Path—We must take several ways;
If you look back, my ling'ring [...] stays.
[Exeunt severally. Exeunt Omnes.
Finis Actus Primi.
Actus Secundus, Scaena Prima.
Cyrus discovered upon his Throne in Triumph amongst his Captains and Soldiers. Craesus bound ready for Execution.
Cyr.
ENough—These splendid Vanities I loath,
[Sounds of Triumphs.
The boast of Fools, and Pageanty of Cowards;
It sits too heavy on your Cyrus Arms—
O let me rise, and let 'em loose, my Soldiers,
To throw about your Necks, and thus embrace
My Valiant Friends, and all my brave Confed'rates,
By whose sole Aid (Gods be my Witnesses)
I own it with a Pride, I have restor'd
The World to its dear antient Liberty,
Freed Captiv'd Nations from their Tyrant's Yoaks,
And plac'd 'em on the Necks of barb'rous Kings,
Trod down the Walls of fam'd Semiramis,
That founded first this Asian Monarchy;
Made my Commands in one quick Moment spread
Like Thunder terrible through all the City.
But let's no more afflict this Monarch's Spirit,
But grant him that which ev'ry gallant Soul
In vast distress requires—a speedy Death—
Away with him, and having plac'd him on
The Fuel, let it blaze, a just Reward
For him that has so long set all the World
In Flames—Quick, take him hence—
[As they are carrying off Craesus to Execution, Cyrus calls him back.
Craes.
O Solon! Solon! Solon!
Cyr.
Stay, bring him back, say, What does Craesus mean?
I did expect thou shouldst have ask'd thy Life,
And thou in scorn of me call'st loud for Solon—
Can Solon save thee from the Wrath of Cyrus?
Craes.
No, 'tis too late, but that which made me call
On Solon was, to my remembrance came
The Sentence of that Wise and Learned Teacher,
Which I till now contemn'd, 'Twas in the midst
Of all my Glories, Children, Friends, and Riches,
Thinking my self, no God cou'd be more happy,
[Page 12] I sent for Solon to resolve this Question—
Tell me, said I, who is the happiest Man
On Earth: but Solon answer'd, there was none,
None cou'd be truly happy whilst he liv'd.
I ask'd him then, who 'twas he thought was happiest,
Expecting that he shou'd have said, 'twas Craesus;
But he reply'd, the happiest Man he thought
Was Tellus, once a Citizen of Athens,
A Man that had no mean nor mighty Fortune;
His Wife not fair, nor homely, but belov'd,
And virtuous, and his Children all obedient,
Who, like the first Man, liv'd in Paradice,
And never press'd the Strangers luscious Fruits,
Nor drank but what his own full Vines did yield;
Fed on the Flesh of his own teeming Flocks,
And wore no Cloaths but what their Backs afforded;
In his own Pale grew all his Sustenance,
And in his Bosom all the World's content.
Cyr.
How brook you then your fall'n and lost Estate?
Methinks with brave Contempt you bear your Chains,
And Craesus looks as if he spurn'd his Fate.
Craes.
So much my Mind does soar above my Fortune,
That I behold with greater scorn these Bonds,
Than thou born up with the World's flattering Wings
Look'st down on me that am thy Slave—Yet in
Despite of all thou canst, I'm Craesus still.
Cyr.
'Tis bravely said, and spoken like a King—
I have been told, that in thy spring of Glory
Thou didst consult the Delphick Oracle,
And kneel'd before the God days numberless,
Made rich Apollo's Shrines with such vast Presents,
As did excel what the Earth's Bowels hold,
Might make a Ransom wou'd restore the World,
Were't threatn'd to be ruin'd by the Gods.
Craes.
All this, nay more, the God did heap upon me,
My Children, Friends, and Kingdoms so increas'd,
That Europe cou'd not bound my spreading Empire,
Nor Asian Cities number out my Wealth.
Cyr.
The God was grateful to thee for a while:
But by what wonderful neglect of thine
Hast thou since lost the Merit of his Bounty?
Craes.
I'll tell thee all with a prodigious Patience—
Having at length tir'd out th' relenting God
With my unwear'd steps, ne'er ceasing Pray'rs,
This Answer I receiv'd from the bright Altar—
Craesus no more—Let Craesus know himself,
And he to his Life's end, shall happy be.—
[Page 13] These Words so much exalted my frail Mind,
That then, methought, I reign'd not amongst Men,
But rul'd the Sky, and saw the Stars below me;
My Wealth, my Friends were numberless as Sands,
Still no Storm grew upon my smiling Days;
No Cross, nor Rub lay in my smooth State's way,
No Vision was so calm as was my Life;
Elisium envy'd my strange Bliss, and wonder'd.
Cyr.
Now by the Gods, thy Blessings were so rare,
So very sensible thy Losses move,
That my stout Heart begins to pity thee.
Craes.
Look to thy self, thy Fortunes reach their highest,
Mine touch the Ground, and can no lower be;
I from this Hour begin to know my self,
And from that Knowledge I renew my Joys—
But as I told thee, so my Life continu'd
In its still smiling Form and Flattery,
Till thou, swift Harbinger of Death and Ruine,
Hast let the Ocean in on Craesus Glories,
And left him poor, bereft of all, but what thou seest.
Cyr.
Despair not, Craesus, thou art still the same;
What Solon and the Gods have said is true,
And Cyrus, as a Servant of the Oracle,
Obeys thy Fortune, and absolves thy Doom—
Unbind him straight, unbind those sacred Hands,
Set fire with speed to the vast Fun'ral Pile
That was design'd to burn the pious King,
And Sacrifice thereon a hundred Heads
Of Oxen, dedicated to the Gods;
Augment the Flames with rich Arabian Gumms,
With Pearls, and Spice sent from the Kings of India—
My Laurels, Standards, and my Crowns shall burn,
T' atone the Gods, rather than one dear Hair
Of Virtue perish—Come, then to my Arms,
And shew me how to be a King indeed,
Solon taught thee, and thou shalt teach thy Cyrus.
Craes.
O mighty Prince! Thou much more God than Man!
My emulating Soul flaggs at thy Sight,
The Genius of the World must bow to thine;
And all the Virtues of Mankind together
Make but dimm Light before thy beauteous Presence.
Cyr.
Your Children, and your Wives receive again,
With all those Kindoms you by Right were born to.
Sardis, wherein lies heap'd, both yours, and most
Of A [...]ia's Wealth, I'll save from Death, and Plunder;
Only for Ransom some few Summs extract,
To reward my Soldiers, and divert their Hopes
[Page 14] From Expectations of so great a Ruine;
Then Craesus dwell for ever in my Breast.
Craes.
My Thanks are too too great to be express'd,
I can no more then h [...]ard 'em in my Thoughts,
And pay you Blessings as I wou'd Apollo.
May Craesus meet the Death that was prepar'd,
When he for Love of Empire, Wife or Children,
Forsakes his Prince, and leaves to follow Cyrus.
Enter Lausaria attended.
Laus.
Where's this Divine, this Miracle of Virtue;
This Rival to the Merciful above?
Shew me the Face of this exalted Man,
Who stood betwixt the Vengeance of the Gods,
And from the dreadful Pile of flaming Ruine,
Has snatch'd a King, and sav'd my Father's Life;
Let me ado [...]e the Ground his Steps have bless'd,
And kiss the Feet of the Immortal Cyrus.
Craes.
Great Prince, my Daughter, and your meanest Handmaid,
Cyr.
How, Craesus! Now by th' sacred Sun she's fair—
Rise, or I blush at this unseemly Posture.
Laus.
Here let me fix—You shou'd be thus ador'd,
Thou Blessing of all Eyes, thou Heavenly Wonder—
Indeed I ne'er did see a God till now—
Where have I liv'd?—The Mountain, Cottage Girl,
That in her homely Life ne'er saw a Man
Above the Keeper of the neighb'ring Herds,
Cou'd not approach you with such Joy and Terrour,
As I do now; so much you do excell
The little World that I have still been bred in.
Cyr.
Thou pretty'st Innocence as ever talk'd,
Look back upon thy self, disperse these Clouds,
These sorrowful Looks that hide from thine own Eyes
Their Brightness, and thy near-approaching Joy.
To morrow is the Day, no longer then to morrow
Gives all thy Wishes and Revenge a Crown.
When Balthazar's last Stake, and hated Life
I'll sacrifice t'ppease the fairest injur'd,
And thy dumb Brother's Ghost shall from Elisium
Rise in a Form Divine, and bless thy Beauties.
[Enter Officer.
Offic.
Hystaspes is return'd, and brings with him
The Newes of Cyaxares his approach.
Laus.
Go on; whilst I retire to pray,
Lausaria's Guardian-Deity you are;
But turn: Oh turn that awful Look away,
My Eyes cannot endure the pointed Ray;
Spare it to conquer Balthazar in Fight,
For Beauty trembles at the strange Delight;
And if a Virgins Wish can prosper thee,
[Page 15] That hateful Tyrant shall thy Victim be:
If not, and there's a God greater than Iove,
Save, save, (that God) his precious Life and Love.
[Ex. Laus. attended.
Cyr.
Craesus, let nothing be refus'd that may
Increase her Welcome as becomes thy Daughter,
And the Fair Guest of Cyrus.
Now all prepare to meet my Royal Unkle.
Enter to them Hystaspes, Panthea, and Women.
When comes the Royal Cyaxares?
Hyst.
To his worst of Rage abandon'd,
And in proud Envy of your growing Conquests,
He bad me, in Contempt of your rich Kindness,
Return the mighty Present with my self;
Said he, I will be with the haughty Cyrus
'Ere thou canst bring my Message to the Boy.
Cyr.
What, did he scorn the Proffer of my Duty,
Return the Presents which I sent him, say'st thou?
O Gods! it cannot be; thou dost abuse my Unkle.
Hyst.
Sir, all that I have said—
Cyr.
No more, Hystaspes.
By my immortal Fame, and sacred Crowns,
None but thy self had told me so, and liv'd—
Ha! what do I behold! More Wonders still!—
What Lady's that? What weeping Lady's that?
Hyst.
Panthea, Sir.
Cyr.
Panthea, Sir—What, what, Panthea?
Hyst.
Thomyris Daughter, the brave Scythian Queen,
And the fair Captive whom you did command
Me to present to Cyaxares, yet
I fear to tell he did refuse her too.
Cyr.
Refuse her, say'st thou! Gods, did he refuse her!
Was I so lavish, say? What Right had I
To give the Wealth of all the World away?
Nay, what wou'd bankrupt all the Gods in Heav'n.
The Sun, the Moon, and Stars may be eclips'd,
But her bright Beauty is enough alone,
Without their feeble Aid to light the Globe,
And make eternal Day—
Hyst.
Sir—
Cyr.
Thus Prodigal like,
Not thinking of the Vastness of the Gift,
I threw away at once my whole Estate,
And ne'er repented till too late I see
The mighty Summ spread large before my Eyes—
Thou should'st have plaid the faithful Steward, and,
Restrain'd thy Master's wild destroying Bounty.
Hyst.
O pardon, mighty Sir, who cou'd but hear
Your dread Commands, and not obey you straight.
Cyr.
[Page 16]What shall I say? Tell me, Hystaspes, do
All you that know the secret Paths to Love,
The way to win a Woman's Smile direct me—
In Fights you oft have took me from amidst
My Enemies unhors'd, and bore me from the Danger,
Breathless upon the Arms of Victory,
But now y'ave left me to my worst of Foes,
So awful, so divinely formidable,
That your proud Cyrus Heart (mark that, my Soldiers)
Which never stoop'd to fear what Man cou'd do,
Nay, what the Gods through Miracles have wrought,
Lies panting now, and gasping at the Danger.
Hyst.
Madam—
Cyr.
Hold off thy sacrilegious Hands,
Shrines and their Deities may be approach'd
More near—Goddess, Divinity—Bright Ven [...]s.
Is there a Name in Heav'n th'art worshipp'd by,
O tell me that, and teach my Tongue to say it,
That I may call thee what the Gods have nam'd thee.
Panth.
O Cyrus! you forget your self, and me;
I'm no such thing, no Creature to be prais'd,
A Wretch forsaken of the World, and Heav'n,
Your Prisoner, you shou'd pity, not admire me.
Cyr.
O say not so—Forsaken say'st thou! No,
Rather the World and Heav'n are left by thee—
Is there a Mar. that dares not call thee Queen?
What wou'dst thou have, or be, more than thou art?
Say but the Word, and thy Commands shall fly
Quick as the Lightning from thy killing Eyes,
And Cyrus is thy Slave to execute.
Panth.
I have no Power, no Charms but Grief about me,
That may move Pity, but can ne'er cause Love.
All this wild Passion but disturbs your self,
And cannot make a wretched Creature happy.
You sent me late a Slave to be abus'd:
But this is worse than when I was refus'd.
Cyr.
Pardon, thou Saint, a Man in Love untaught,
I have been us'd in Battels from my Youth,
Bred from my Birth like Lions in their Fierceness,
Free as the Light, and uncontroll'd as Air,
And never met a charming F [...]e like Thee,
Yet at thy Sight I can forget my Fury,
Moulded like Wax, made soft before the Sun,
And all my Passion, like a Storm quite spent,
Lies hush'd, and silent as an Evenings Breeze.
Panth.
Hold, mighty Cyrus, spare my tortur'd Bosom.
Play not the Tyrant with so great Misfortunes,
And talk to me of Murde [...]s, Massacres,
[Page 17] Wracks, and Eternal Death—Talk any thing
But tell me not of that which kills my Soul,
Calls to my Mind to view the mighty space
'Twixt me and Joy: For nothing yet can prove
So great a Misery to me as Love.
Cyr.
O let me catch that Sigh before it goes—
'Tis gone, 'tis gone, and each officious Wind
Strove who shou'd first convey the rich Perfume,
And hoard it with the Treasure of the Spring,
Thence to disperse, and brood o'er tender Blossoms,
And add new Scents to ev'ry fragrant Flower—
O give me leave to kiss this beauteous Hand—
Here has Arabia all its Sweets confin'd,
Rich as from thence, we Southern Breezes find,
When Trees of Spice had gently fann'd the Wind.
Hyst.
Awake Hystaspes from this horrid Slumber—
Shall I see ravish'd from me all my Right,
And dare not speak—By Heav'n I'll climb the danger,
Though he stood arm'd at my next daring Word,
To throw me from the Precipice, I'll do't—
May Heav'n give fetter'd Globes to Cyrus Wish,
Crown you with Love, as you are crown'd with Conquest.
May all bright Beauties else adore your Charms,
And stoop to him that gives the World a Law,
But this fair Prisoner, give me leave to ask
Her who by Conquest is your Soldier's Prize.
Hystaspes begs the sharer of your Blood;
If that's too great a Fame for him to Challenge,
Thus I implore it as your humblest Vassal.
Cyr.
O Gods! He's Jealous, Jealous on my Life—
O thou most mighty Iove, hadst thou at once
Shot Thunder in my Ears, and Lighten'd in
My Eyes, I had not seen and heard more Horror—
Dear Craesus,—Craesus, give me Patience—
Am I thus soon so mean a thing become!
That he that is my Slave durst here presume
Before my Face to own so proud a Guilt,
And mix his haughty Love with mine—Traytor—
Craes.
Hold gallant Cyrus, Craesus bids thee hold.
Cyr.
O Craesus say, Cou'd Solon suffer this?
Is there a Rule in all Philosophy
To teach me Patience now?—O tell it me—
Pant.
Cyr [...]s no more.
In vain are all this Rage and Jealousies—
Farewel▪ I'll shut this Captive from your Eyes,
Prison and Absence will be both your Cures:
I am no more his Prisoner now but yours:
Cyr.
A Prisoner: ha! Conduct her to my Tent.
Adorn'd with Asia's Jewels, let her shine,
Serv'd like the Parthian Queen, ador'd and kneel'd to
By all her moving En [...]pire about her.
And on the Globe where now my Eagle stands,
Let Love be plac'd, and with its awful Banners
Spread her Commands thro' all the shining Camp,
And let an hundred thousand Hero's Hearts
Be Sacrific'd each Morning to her rising—
Panth.
Hold Cyrus: Cease this unwelcome strife.
What tho' y'have in your Power my Death or Life,
Know I am bound in faster Bonds, a Wi [...]e,
Cou'd I but Cyrus Fame have lov'd before,
When I had seen him, shou'd have lov'd him more
Yet there are greater Chains than all beside,
I am both by Virtue and by Passion ty'd.
When I on Cyrus look I must admire;
But for my Lord I barn with nobler Fire:
And Two I must confess are Gods to me,
Which are my Abradator first, and thee.
[Exit Panthea attended.
[Drums and Trumpets within.
Enter to them an Officer.
The News?
Offic.
Great Cyaxares is arriv'd.
Cyr.
'Tis well—Have you inclos'd the way he comes,
With Persian Homotyms, and Median Horse?
Offic.
Most migh [...]y Cyrus 'tis already done.
Cyr.
His Drums and Trumpets answer you more loud,
And as he passes thro' your noble Ranks,
With welcome Shouts receive my loving Uncle—
[Exeunt Cyrus, Craesus, Hystaspes. Manment the Guards. The Scene opens, and discovers a way rank'd with Soldiers, and after a Warlike sound, and Shouts, Cyrus and Cyaxares meet. Cyrus offers to embrace Cyaxares, but he refuses—They come forward on the Stage.
My honour'd Unkle, Royal Cyaxares!—ha!
How long have you been absent from these Arms!—
Ha! What is this I [...]ee! when I expect
A kind return of my true Hearts salute;
You bend your Head, and look another way,
And sigh as if my Eyes were Bassalisks,
Or Breath shot Venome—Ha! what means my Unkle!
Cyax.
The meaning is too plain, 'tis Shame, and Coward—
Do you not see 'em written in my Forehead?
What means this Pomp, these Shouts, these heaps of Trophies,
These crowds of Conquer'd Kings, and mighty Slain,
And I but a poor idle gazer on?
[Page 19] 'Tis that, 'tis that has swallow'd up my Fame,
Branded the Son of great Astyages,
Made me the talk of all the World;
A senceless Block for Cyrus Foot to tread on,
And mount the Throne of all the Universe—
Ingrateful Cyrus!
Cyr.
Hold—O cease dear Uncle—
Let not o [...]r Passions here be made a sport
To common Eyes—we pray you wou'd withdraw—
'Tis Cyaxares Pleasure we shou'd be
Alone—so Unkle, let's sit down together,
And I will hear with Patience if I can.
[Exeunt, Praeter, Cyrus and Cyax.
Speak, and I'll glew my Ears to ev'ry Word
Your voice shall utter.
Cyax.
God's that I were Dumb!
That ever I shou'd speak, when what I say
Recounts my loss, and my eternal Shame,
With Cyrus false Ingratitude.
Cyr.
Still, still
You touch the same harsh String—Tell't out,—
What is't that hangs upon your troubled Brow?
Cyax.
O this it is
The Man that I have nourish'd in my Bosom,
Safe guarded from an Host of private Foes,
That sought his Life with great Astyages.
Led by the dictates of Prophetick Dreams,
Which now to Cyaxares proves most true;
That thou, I say, should'st like a subtile Serpent,
Wind thy self round my guardless Breast,
Then watch thy time, and Poyson thy Preserver.
Cyr.
Go on, go on—I hear you patiently.
Cyax.
Nay, give me leave to put it to thy Conscience,
And answer me as thou believ'st it true.
Cyr.
I will.
Cyax.
Did I not save thee in thy Cradle?
No sooner had Mandana brought thee to
The World (who then I think was innocent)
But by Astyages Command thou wert
Deliver'd to be slain by Harpagus—
Have you not heard this oft for truth?
Cyr.
I have.
Cyax.
Have you not heard too how I ventur'd 'twixt
My Father's Wrath and Pity, to preserve
Thy Life by awing Harpagus, who caus'd thee
At my request, in private to be Nurst,
Telling the King that thou wert surely dead.
Cyr.
This I have oft been told too.
Cya [...].
Did I not,
[Page 20] When thou hadst pass'd the Years of Infancy,
Oft put into my Fathers [...]ruel Mind
The sence of his most foul unnat'ral Crime
In killing thee so long that he [...],
And wish'd a thousand times the [...] wert alive
Again—This opportunity I took
To tell the King of the deceipt, and beg'd
The Life of Harpagus—Then [...]treight wert thou
Sent for to Court, and this thou well rememberst.
Cyr.
I do.
Cyax.
This did I, though 'twas Prophecy'd
That thou shou'dst quite subvert the Median Empire,
And fill the Throne of great Astyages▪—
Then did I not, after my Father's Death,
And when I reign'd alone, keep thee still by me,
Taught thee the use of Arms, to chace the Boar,
To hurl thy little Dart, and wound the Panther;
And when the fiery Beast wou'd turn upon thee,
I then wou'd interpose a violent stroak,
And taught thee how to give a mortal Blow,
Leaving the Savage gasping at thy Feet;
And this thou art well witness of thy self.
Cyr.
All this, and more you bring to my remembrance.
Cyax.
Is't possible, thou hast not then forgot!
Is this a kind return for all my Love!
Who first began the War with Balthazar?
Was't not my self twice beat him in set Battels
Until thou wert of Years, when for thy Fame
I sent thee with the flower of all my Strength
To prosecute my Victories, and thou
Whole tedious Years hast kept the War on foot,
Using my Subjects till they have forgot
Their Countries Gods, their Fashions, and their King,
And worship nothing but the Sun and thee—
Pity me Gods; for sure I am become
But the poor Shadow of the thing I was.
Cyr.
O Unkle, hold: For I can hear no more.
What wicked Man has poison'd thus your Ear?
Your words, though they are most unjust, and I
Am guiltless, yet they're Daggers to my Soul
When spoken with unkindness—ah why droops
My Royal Uncle, hanging down your Head,
Throbbing that noble Heart, as if the weight
Of all the Miseries on Earth depress'd it?
Snatch me ye Gods this Moment into Nothing,
If I your Cyrus am the least to blame
In what you have accus'd me.
Cyax.
Well, I've done.
Cyr.
[Page 21]Have I worn out my Youth, at home, your Subject,
In War your General; deny'd my self
The soft Retirements of the Court, in which
Your meanest Para [...]ite enjoys more Pleasure—
H [...]re not my Courriers found you in the Height
O [...] Banquet [...]ing, inform'd you of the Dangers
That I had pass'd in ev'ry dreadful Fight,
Which only the Relation of 'em made
Your trembling Courtiers spill their brimming Bowls,
And with the Palsie life 'em to their Mouths.
Cyax.
No more, my Cyrus.
Cyr.
And have I not augmented all the Kingdoms
Of great Astyages, with Hazard of
My own—What Crown, what Treasure have I gain'd
Of which I did not make you first a Proffer?
Do I a Secret keep, or hide from you?
Or hoard that Wealth of which you shall not share?
Is it for this I have so ill deserv'd
My Unkle's Envy, and unjust Suspicion!
Cyax.
Enough, my Cyrus.
Cyr.
Will you then embrace me?
Cyax.
I will.
Cyr.
And let me kiss your Cheek?
Cyax.
Thou shalt—
O Cyrus! Thou hast conquer'd me, my Cyrus—
I can no longer hold but must forgive thee.
See, see, these Tears that sprung from Tydes of Crief,
Are now augmented to a Sea of Joy.
Hide 'em for shame, Oh, hide 'em in thy Bosom!
Come, I will chide no more—may I be thought
[They both rise up.
A Coward, led in Triumph by my Foes,
And put t'an ignominious Death when I
Again reflect unkindly on my Cyrus.
Thou art my Son, this Moment I adopt thee,
And I will die the sooner to make Room
For thee.
Cyr.
O my dear Father, say not so—
To morrow brings the Empire of the World,
I see it plain, and dazling Victory
Flies like an Eagle circling round your Head,
To shew our Way o'er Hills of slain Assyrians,
And under falling Clouds of Scythian Darts,
Which from ou [...] Shields we'll throw like scatter'd Hail,
Whilst with one Voice, around the conquer'd Field,
The Dying praise us, and the Living yield.
[Exeunt Omnes.
Finis Actus Secundi.
Actus Tertius. Scaena Prima.
Enter Cyrus with Guards; Cyaxares, with Hystaspes meeting him.
Cyax.
I'VE a Request to beg of you, my Cyrus.
Cyr.
What, is't my Royal Unkle? speak, yet not,
'Tis granted 'ere 'tis nam'd.
Cyax.
'Tis that you wou'd forgive the brave Hystaspes,
And here restore him to your wonted Favours.
Cyr.
O 'tis the thing that I with Joy intended,
And now he's doubly fix'd—Rise, my Hystaspes,
My Soldier, rise, my Kinsman, my Right Arm;
For that was ne'er so near me in the Fight,
Nor push'd it on so fiercely—O my Friend!
Dost think I have forgot my valiant Leader?
But above all at the Surprize of Sardis,
When thou wert follow'd by the Homotyms,
Led by thy brave Example, all dismounted
Your fiery Coursers, and with Scaling-Ladders
Climb'd up the Walls, and shouted on the Top,
In spite of Showres of Flints, and Clouds of Arrows;
The [...] leap'd into the Street, and there you fought,
Till you had op'd the Gates amidst the Guards,
And clear'd my Way through Clusters to the Town—
This, this with Joy I do remember still.
Hyst.
Your Royal Grace extends too far above
The Merits of Hystaspes—O I grieve
When I look back on my Offence to you,
The bravest Master, and the best of Kings—
Cyr.
No more, Hystaspes, welcome to thy Prince,
More dear to him than penitent Children are
To Parents, or than Martyrs to the Gods,
And like them too I will reward thee—
Hyst.
O I know y'are liberal,
Can disperse Crowns and Sceptres as you please,
And make a Monarch of the Man you favour;
But Pardon's the rich, only thing I beg,
And is from Cyrlls more than I can merit.
Cyr.
Enough, Hystaspes; thou shalt see I love thee,
W [...]en I bestow upon thee such a Treasure.
[Page 23] That all Mankind shall wish to be thy Rivals—
Craesus, thy Ear—send for thy Daughter straight—
I promis'd thee that I wou'd chuse a Husband
For her, and I will do it—Such a Husband,
That thou shalt bless the happy Moment when
Thy Wife brought such a Daughter to the World
To be so well bestow'd—Go fetch her, Craesus.
Craes.
O happy Girl, Lausaria! he does
Intend sure to bestow himself upon her.
[Exit Craesus.
Hyst.
O Gods! I dream—Can there be such a Thought!
Has he resolv'd to give Panthea to me!
Cyr.
Prepare, Hystaspes, now to meet such Joys,
Which if thy Sences are not all Immortal,
Thou art not able to sustain—Behold—
Re-Enter Craesus leading Lausaria attended.
Behold the brightest Star that gilds the World,
And makes that Bosom Heav'n where e'er she shines.
Hyst.
Is this the Prize of all my flatt'ring Hopes!
Now I perceive the Gulf that lies before me,
Yet I run on, and cannot stop my self;
This Mortal Disobedience stabs me quite.
Laus.
Now all you gentle Powers that pity Love,
And thou, Diana, from the Stars look down,
Behold the bashful Virgin of thy Train—
I see my Life or Death writ in those Eyes,
There is no Mean betwixt my Heav'n or Hell,
I'm to be rais'd this Moment to the Skies,
Or flung into the bottom of Despair.
Cyr.
Assist me, Iove; and all you that disperse
Rich Blessings from the Skies—Lend me your Aid;
Extend my liberal Hands; for I'm to make
Two Mortals now so infinitely happy,
As will amaze your Godheads all to see,
And make you wish to be translated here—
Give me thy Hand, thou soft, thou lovely Virgin—
Ha! why, what makes thou tremble, start, and blush!
And now look pale? This Combat of thy Beauty's
Adorns thy Cheeks with double Victories,
Whilst both in Competition strive to paint
A Colour there to set at Enmity
The Lilly and the Ro [...]e—Draw near, Hystaspes—
Laus.
O Gods, your Help! what does he mean to do!
Cyr,
Give me your Hand—what now? what means the Man?
Give me your Hand, I say—I did expect
You shou'd have flewn like Lightning to my Arms,
And snatch'd her from me, so unmannerly
[Page 24] Thy Raptures should have been— [...]—
Why holds Lausaria back?—You both draw back.
Hyst.
Your Pardon, Royal Sir, if my Offence
Be not too great to challenge any Mercy.
I do confess the Wonder of the Bliss ha; stunn'd me;
The Joy's too great, too mighty for my Sense,
And therefore to approach it as I ought,
O give me time to study how to bear it.
Cyr.
Away; I've heard too much—I'll talk with you
Anon—What means La [...]saria? Ri [...]e, my Charge.
Laus.
Ah, why d'you kill with such a Look of Anger?
Now your strange Beauties are so awful grown,
That they're above all Mortals to behold
Without a Dread—O stay the Lightning in
Your Eyes—What will become of brave Hystaspes,
If you let loose to Action all your Frowns,
And execute the Terrour of your Looks!
Pour 'em on me, 'twas I the Grace deny'd:
For lo, I think so meanly of my self,
That I can live to be refus'd by him.
Cyr.
Rise, or you press my yielding Heart to Death—
This hurls me on the more to thy Revenge—
Guards, seize that Traytour, drive him from my Presence;
To Exile let him go, and not be seen
So near as Asia does her spreading Empire bound.
Laus.
O let me beg you wou'd recall your Doom.
Cyax.
Nephew.
Craes.
O Cyrus!
Mighty Prince, but hear us.
Cyr.
Keep off, and give me Breath, you stifle me—
Why, Unkle, Craesus, King of Lydia, I've decreed it,
And none amongst the Stars shall 'ere revoke—
Away with him—A thousand Basilisks
Are in his Eyes.
Hyst.
With haste I will obey you.
Thus on my Knees I take your gentle Doom; I go
To Banishment, and if my wand'ring Steps
Direct me where to do you some poor Service,
I'll do't with hazard of this hated Life—
Ten thousand Victories, nay more,
Immortal Crowns, and Eve [...]lasting Laurels
Adorn the Head of the most God like Cyrus.
[Exit Hystaspes.
Craes.
He's gone, and see the King looks discontent,
Cyax.
Why, Nephew, Cyrus, you are mov'd.
Laus.
O Cyrus!
Cyr.
What says the bright the wrong'd Lausaria?
Laus.
Why have you banish'd from your sight Hystaspes?
[Page 25] I'll tell you then, how rashly you have done.
The Sun and Moon might in our Heav'n appear,
And both at once disperse their Rival Lights,
E're our two Loves cou'd join; and shou'd Hystaspes hope,
Yet you your self forbid the scornful Hymen.
Since it must out, I'll tell it, if my Sighs,
Mixt with Ten Thousand Blushes, give me leave—
I love (Heav'ns!) This poor Daughter to a Captive Prince,
Owns it with Pride that she does love the Man,
Of all the World, the greatest, bravest Soul
As e'er the Gods put in a mortal Body.
Cyr.
Alas! What's this I hear!
Laus.
Now judge by what I've said, if I cou'd e'er
Descend to love another—I have done—
O look not on me, I am all on Fire,
Burnt up with Blushes which these Tears inrage.
This mortal Secret you have wrack'd from me
Will kill Lausaria:
Craes.
Unhappy Girl.
Laus.
Give me a Vail: And now the World farewel.
Cyr.
What means the bright, the wrong'd Lausaria?
Why dost thou hide thy Charming Face from Cyrus?
Laus.
'Tis just, after a Confidence so new,
It shou'd for ever thus be shut from you.
My Blushes to all Eyes may be unknown,
But oh! I ne'er can shrowd 'em from my own.
Olympus is too low. I want beside
The Sun to be Eclips'd, my Shame to hide.
Cold Cydnus, make thy Icy Stream my Urn,
To drown my Flames, and quench me now I b [...]rn.
[Exit Laus.
Cyax.
What, does not this start Pity from your Eyes
And Heart?
Cyr.
Tell me, instruct me what to do—
O Cyaxares, lend me thy dear Breast,
T' unload my Griefs, and learn thy precious Council—
Run for Hystaspes quick, if not too late,
Tell him his Prince repeals his Banishment,
Will take him to his gentle Arms again—
Excuse, dear Unkle, these unruly Passions,
[Exit Officer.
And oh, my Friends, forgive your Cyrus Frailties.
[Sound of a Trumpet.
Enter to them Artabasus.
What means this Trumpet's formal sound?—The News?
Arta.
It is a Herauld from th' Assyrian Camp,
That says, the Scythian Queen, the brave Thomyris,
With Abradatas, the young Susan King,
[Page 26] Attend to ask a moments Parley with you.
Cyr.
Then we shall [...]ee this wonder of her S [...]x—
Craesus, thou knowst her—Is she then so Brave,
So Great, and Valiant as the World [...] her?
Craes.
She is indeed a Woman of such Spirit
As you have heard of Iuno, of such Honour,
Such haughty Valour, and [...] Masculine,
That she's well call'd, the Miracle of Women;
But then, like bold [...]
With ev'ry Vice of the [...],
And monstrous of her Sex; Yet A [...]radatas
Is truly Valiant, Brave, and Virtuous—
But heark, she comes,—this Trumpet speaks her Entrance.
Enter to them Thomyris, Abradatus, Women and Attendance, in State, [...] Guards.
Cyr.
She is indeed of admirable Presence.
Thom.
There cannot be a Wonder on the Earth
So Great as Cyrus is: If thou art he,
Or is't some God, or Mars himself I see;
For sure these Eyes were never bless'd before
With such a sight—What's Balthazar, and all
The Princes of the Globe compar'd to him [...]
Now, I no more admire his mighty Fortune,
That Godlike Mein and Presence is enough
T' enslave great Kings, and awe the barb'rous World—
I need not ask who is the famous Cyrus?
Something which makes great Souls so near ally'd,
Tells me you are that excellent brave Man.
Cyr.
I am that most unworthy Cyrus—
What wou'd the Great, th' most famous in the World
The Scythian Queen?
Thom.
Hea [...] me, Divinest King—
Curse me, you Powers, and languish all my Fame,
Now I behold the gallant Cyrus Person,
If e'er injustly I become your Foe.
Nay, I'll forget the Murder of my Son,
And say his Death was my misfortune only—
You have a Virgin that's Panthea call'd,
The Mourning, longing Wife of this young Prince,
Whom (e're the Priest had said his binding Pray'r)
The Gods, to shew the most incertain State
Of human things, snatch'd from his Nuptial Arms,
And bore her from him by a Storm of Fate,
Ev'n in a time when they did think to join
Fast as their Wishes—She your Prisoner is.
[Page 27] All Places save, and priviledge the Fair;
Beauty is even held in War most sacred,
And Cyrus cannot stoop to do a thing
That is not brave.
Cyr.
Go on, bright Queen.
Thomy.
Long hearing of thy vast and proud Successe;
O'er all Mankind. In pity of the World,
I drew a force of Forty Thousand Men,
From my own yet unconquer'd Land to aid
Thy [...] Enemies this Army we'll withdraw;
And with brave Cyrus make immortal League,
If he'll restore the sad Panthea to us.
Cyr.
Now blest be all those Deities that saw
The solemn Rites performing 'gainst their Wills,
And would not let the Hymeneal Torch
Be light—Ask you me, whom piteous Heaven
Sent by a Miracle to my Protection!
Demand my Crowns, my everlasting Fame,
My shining Trophies, and my Victories:
For they are not so dear, nor half so sacred,
Nor look so bright in all the World's esteem.
Abra.
O I am ruin'd—Hell is in my Bosom—
Panthea's lost, undone, inconstant, ha!
She loves him too perhaps—O thought-like Death!
Curse on this feeble Arm that cou'd nor guard her,
Nor had the Courage to assault my Breast.
Cyax.
It is apparent that the Gods were all
Displeas'd, and meant those Nuptials shou'd not be,
When at the very Altar, like a Dove
From the fierce Vultures Claws they rescu'd her.
Abra.
O King of an Immortal Fame!
Dread Cyrus, thou art Great, above the World:
There is no thought a Woman here can fix
Thy Soul, that soars and ranges like the Sun,
Behold me from thy Power, like awful Iove,
And O! restore me to my Heav'n of Love,
Pity my Youth, and give Panthe [...] to me;
O give her to my Soul, and I will add
To the bright Queens, Ten Thousand Valiant Archers,
And vow my self thy true Confederate—
Think not 'tis Fear that makes me stoop so low
To beg of Thee, but mighty Love that must
Be still obey'd; else I cou'd meet thee daring
At [...]th' Head of all thy Army, shouting loud
To animate the Courage of their Leader:
And O Panthea! were Panthea but
The Victor's Prize, the blessed Hopes shou'd aid me
[Page 28] To kill this great Disturber of the World.
Thom.
Spoke like thy self, my [...],
Thou hast a Scythian's Courage in thy Breast—
Intreat no more; for Cyrus dare not hold her.
The Gods and Thomyris have decreed▪
To fetch Panthea back in Triumph from him—
To morrow I will meet thee in the Front
Of Battel, where it shall be then recorded
To thy eternal Shame and Infamy,
A Woman conquer'd thee.
Cyr.
Proud Queen, retreat least we profane the Truce,
The nicest Law of Arms can ne'er indure
Such daring Provocations.
Enter Panthea attended.
Panth.
My Abradatas.
Soul of my Love, and Lord of my Desires,
Am I so blest to see thee once again!
To embrace thee once before I die,
Save me from Fears, from Prison, and from Harms,
And lock me safe within these tender Arms.
Abra.
O my Panthea! Let me hold thee fast,
Hoard all my numberless and breathless Kisses,
On thy soft Cheeks at once: For something tells me,
This Pleasure is too great and rich to last—
O stir not from me.
Panth.
No, we'll never part—
Our Loves shall here incorp'rate us like Air;
Not Swords, nor Death, shall any way divide us.
Now 'tis beyond the Power of Jealousie,
Or Iove himself this Gordion to untie.
Nay, Cyrus is too Brave, too Good to see
Such faithful Lovers languish any longer.
Cyr.
O I am struck!—A thousand Stings dart all
At once their pointed Venom in my Eyes,
And now I feel 'em in my Breast— [...]ell me,
What is't besides the mortal stroke of Love
That pains your Cyr [...]s thus? See how they grasp—
'Tis that, 'tis that—assist me [...]—
Say quickly, Friends, what shall be done to part 'em—
Speak, will you see me rack'd?—My Soul's between
Each close Embrace,
And will not, cannot, bear it any longer—
Prince, from this fatal Extasie retire,
This sight will mortal be to one of us.
Abra.
[Page 29]Thou shalt not stirr—I will not move without her,
But leave Ten thousand Limbs, if I'd so many,
Hack'd off and hew'd from this unhappy Body,
But I will bear her hence—O my Panthea!—
Oh Mother! let me lose this hated Life:
[...] let me dye before I part with her.
Panth.
Think not of Death, my Abradatas, loe,
The Gallant Monarch melts, and says it too;
Our Lives shall be immortal as our Loves.
Thom.
Cyrus has reach'd the utmost brink of Greatness—
The Gods no longer will dispute thy Fate,
Since they have punish'd thee with lawless Love;
A cursed Charm that slumbers all thy Virtues,
That thou shalt never more awake to Glory—
Retire, my Son, from Beauty run to day,
And, by the Gods, Panthea shall be thine
To morrow, when we only shall encounter
With the starv'd Genius, weary Fame of Cyrus.
My Women shall be foremost in the Fight,
And, with their naked Breasts and Arms display'd,
Shall lead this once brave Man a Captive-Slave,
This empty Form of his departed Greatness.
Panth.
O Royal Mother!
Why d'you mistake? You wrong the God-like Cyrus.
O give him gentle Words, mild as the Sound
Of Pray'rs and Sighs in Sacrifices us'd;
Speak t'him, approach him as indeed you ought,
As Conqu'rour of the World, and you shall see
No God can be so lavish, nor so kind.
Abra.
My dear Panthea, why d'you thus proceed?
Unless you wish to make me worse than Woman—
Hold, while I've Resolution in my Breast,
And all thy Heav'n of Charms will let me go;
By those, thy self I swear, the greatest Oath
That I can take, to morrow I will bring
Thy Abradatas to thee, live or dead.
Panth.
No, say not so—Thus kneel with thy Panthea,
My Hand close lock'd in thine, my Abradatas,
And send our Tears and our Requests together—
Look, Mighty Conqu'rour, cast your Eyes beneath,
[Both kneel.
And may your Arms, and Fame increase in Wars,
As you to Love, are pityful and kind.
Abra.
Now, God-like Cyrus, from thy Rage look down,
By all those Virtues that have made thee shine,
And gain'd the Name of the Immortal Cyrus.
Oh, stoop to see what mighty Love can do,
That humbles thus thy generous Enemy,
[Page 30] And makes a Suppliant of thy mortall'st Foe—
Since you have felt the Rage of Jealous Love,
The Fire that burns unruly in your Breast,
Pity me then, and give Panthea to me:
O give her to these Arms!
Panth.
Mighty Cyrus,
Give Abradatas to my thousand Wishes,
And Oh, restore his lov'd Panthea to him!
Cyr.
They kneel—She kneels—
See, see, my valiant Friends,
Do not my Eyes shed Blood?—They shou'd, they shou'd,
For all the Torments that I feel within.
This is the sharpest Stroak that ever touch'd
My Virtue here—Rise, Goddess—In this Posture
Thou art more cruel to thy Cyrus far
Than he can be to thee.
Panth.
Here we will grow,
Thus ever fix'd, thus rooted as you see us,
Till from the noblest Breath of all the World,
We hear the Sentence of our Death or Life.
Cyr.
Oh Friends! I feel a War within my Breast.
The horrid Sound of Fights, and parting Ghosts
Are all but Musick to my tortur'd Sence—
Yet fain I'd get the Vict'ry o'er my self;
But Oh, I can't! and find I am too weak—
By all the Gods it is beyond a Mortal—
Ha! Part 'em, or the Sight will kill
Your General—And Oh, my Fellow-Soldiers!
Stay whilst this dreadful Moment I retire,
And having rais'd Panthea from the Ground,
Send my triumphant Rival back; for this
Is more than all the Wounds e'er had in Fight,
And I can fly from nothing but this Sight.
[Exit Cyrus.
Abra.
Now, now I curse my Tameness, and these Knees,
That made me stoop so low to beg ev'n thee—
Away, Panthea, wish me not to stay;
Go to thy Gaoler back, and load his Head
With Curses, whilst thy Abradatas shall
Prepare to fight, and pour 'em all upon him.
Thom.
Go, we must leave thee in thy Prison again,
But in the Morning thou shalt rise from thence,
Bright as the Sun that revels in his Chariot,
And see thy self as free—Go, whilst we stay,
Revenge grows tame, and we forget thy Wrongs.
Panth.
Then must we part! Yet I'm to blame—Begone,
Go, whilst my Woman's Soul can give thee leave,
And all the Blessings of a Love that's chaste,
[Page 31] A faithful, tender Wife's kind Thoughts attend thee.
Abra.
O my Panthea!
Panth.
And to inspire thee more, call to thy Mind
Our Infant Loves, the soft, and precious Vows
That we have oft ex [...]hang'd Nights without Number,
As were the Stars our Witnesses, till all
Those petty, lesser Knots were quite unravell'd,
And made one Nuptial Bond—I've done—Farewell—
But Oh, regard—Regard that precious Life,
By which both live, and all the Gods protect thee,
Abra.
The Thoughts of thee shall still enrich my Mind
With all the Pleasures that are yet to come,
And those that are like Visions slid away;
How oft we've tyr'd the Watchings of the Moon,
Till the pale Empress of the Night grew weary,
And sate to rest behind a silken Cloud.
Thom.
Have done, or I must act the Part of Cyrus,
And tear you from each others Arms.
Abra.
This Kiss, and then we part—Farewell—It comes,
Methinks already the fierce Storm begins,
And bears thee from me o'er a thousand Billows.
Panth.
Thee, like a Rock, I fain wou'd hold but cannot.
But Oh! rough Horrour like a desperate Sea,
Throws me from off Love's Fortress and from thee.
Abra.
Weep not, my Soul—Who knows but that 'ere long,
Our weary'd Barks may meet, the Storm o'er-blown.
Trust till to morrow what the Gods can do.
[Exeunt Thomyris, Abradatas, and their Attendants, at one Door; and Panthea weeping with her Maids, at another. Manent Cyaxares, Craesus, Artabasus, and Guards.
Cyax.
Let a strong Guard attend the Scythian Queen,
Till she is safe arriv'd within her Camp.
Re-Enter Cyrus.
Cyr.
Tell me, kind Unkle, tell thy Cyrus quickly,
How bore the sad Panthea her Departure?
Cyax.
As silent as the Day gives way to Night,
And patient as the Spirit of a Saint
Dying, and leaving all the World behind him.
Cyr.
Run, Artabasus, run, and kneel before her,
Tell her, what Kingdom in the World can buy
One Smile, or Tear on Abradatas thrown,
And't shall be hers—The Sea's, nor Craesus Hoard,
Holds not the Wealth that I will bid for either;
My Life, nay say Ten thousand Lives are her;—
Tell what thou canst invent—Tell her what not—
[Page 32] Say more than if thou wert in Love, thou then
Cou'dst say—Yet hold, I will not trust thy self alone—
Come all with me—You, Unkle, are a Father,
Speak as you wou'd do to your only Daughter;
Drop all the Sweetness of a Parent's Tongue—
Craesus is wise, and has been taught to speak,
Thy Eloquence has clear'd the Delphick Riddles,
O charm my Goddess as thou charm'st the God—
Craes.
Else may I fall a Sacrifice to Cyrus—
Cyax.
Rejoice, my Cyrus, doubt not thy Success;
That needs must move, which tortures all our Pity.
Cyr.
'Tis she must pity, you forgive my Passion—
Lend me a Dagger one of you, or kill me;
Come, who is Noble level here thy Dart,
And reach this wanton Cupid in my Heart:
Death from my meanest Vassal I will stand,
Or fall by any but a Woman's Hand;
For Love still plays the Tyrant with the Great,
Lets Fools and Cowards prosper in their State,
And only makes the Brave Unfortunate.
[Exeunt Omnes.
Finis Actus Tertii.
Actus Quartus, Scaena Prima.
Scene draws, and discovers Cyrus, and Cyaxares; They come forwards.
Cyr.
YET more! Have I not said enough, dear Unkle?
And have you not already seen and heard
With blushing, too much of your Cyrus Frailties?
Cyax.
Tell me, my Cyrus, when you have disclos'd
The heavy Load that lies upon your Soul,
I'll pour a Balm into't shall give you Ease—
These Strugglings of the Nobler Passions shew
The most Heroick Mind that ever was.
Cyr.
O Cyaxares! I'm all Guilt, all Stain,
Ev'n I that rid the foremost in the World,
And knew how Dear, how Great, and how Esteem'd
A Thing my hard-got Honour was—yet that,
And all are drown'd within a Sea of Love, [...]
My Empires, Crowns quite ruin'd by the Fair,
That gilded o'er the deep deluding Danger,
[Page 33] Then tempted me to split—O all my fame,
My matchless Glories with my self are sunk,
In the false footing of a Woman's smile.
Cyax.
You are Impartial to a fault, my Cyrus.
Whose Love is guided by the Rays of Vertue—
The Crime is not so great to be in Love;
The Gods themselves have often felt its Power,
Witness the many scapes of Iupiter.
And the Wise Men have all confess'd, that once
In his whole Life the bravest, greatest Man
May stoop to Love—
Nay, Solon has confess'd,
That he himself was once a Slave to Love.
Cyr.
Solon! had Solon that to lose as I have?
Had he the business of the World to fill
His thoughts, and chace away all soft Idea's?
Books might have fashion'd his tame Soul to Love,
But mine shou'd have been hardened wrought by War;
Proof as the Anvil 'gainst the Cyclop's Hammers;
And Glory in my Breast shou'd have Eclips'd
The Rays of Beauty—How I hate my self!
Achilles, when a Boy, did never handle
And ply the Distaff with such Female Skill.
Cyax.
Still you run on, are too severe a Judge
Ev'n to your self, your Honour is too nice,
And Dictates to you with a ridged Breath,
This noble caution o're your looser Passions,
Shews yet a greater Conquest o're your Mind,
Than if you ne're had felt what Love had bin;
'Tis Mortal-like to be the Aim of Vice,
But it is God-like to resist its Fury.
Cyr.
Teach me, dear Unkle, teach me how to do so:
I feel my Vertue now begins to tire,
And Love Plays all the Tyrant in my Soul,
When I begin to wish the Pain away,
O then I wish the pleasant grief to keep.
Enter to them Hystaspes.
Hyst.
Thus low Hystaspes falls beneath your Feet,
And comes to know his Monarch's joyful Doom.
Cyr.
Welcome, Hystaspes, once more to my Arms,
And from this time for ever to my Breast;
No Love, nor Jealousie shall henceforth throw
Suspitions 'twixt my Friend and me.
Hyst.
Then 'tis
Above the Malice of Fiends in Hell,
[Page 34] To Shock me from the state I now remain in
Bless'd be the Gods that have again Install'd me
In the Immortal Throne of Cyrus's Favour—
But oh! forgive, forgive your Soldier's Crimes,
Led by his Frailties.
Cyr.
Thou art good Hystaspes;
'Tis thou hast cause to blame thy Cyrus's Temper,
When like a Man infected, mad in Love,
I threw at random; hurt my dearest Friends;
So rag'd I with the wild Promethean Fire;
But I will quench it, quench it ev'ry Spark,
And the bright Venus then, that glitter'd in
My Eyes, I will behold hurtless as shadows,
Or as Iove's Bird the Eagle does the Sun.
Hyst.
O my lov'd Lord, persue your gallant Hopes,
She shall be yours by all the Powers above;
My self shall hold your Hymen's Torch—O Sir
She's too Divine for all the World but you.
Cyr.
No more, Hystaspes—There is something in
Thy Face that shews thou art not yet well pleas'd—
Tell me—why look'st thou still upon us with
A troubled Brow?
Hyst.
I came from such a sight
Wou'd strike Compassion from obdurate Rocks,
And make soft Pity flow from Hearts of Steel,
The Courage of your Soldiers flags to tell it.
Cyr.
Out with it, tho', let it be ne're so dreadful.
Hyst.
The Fair, th' unhappy, Innocent Lausaria
Is grown distracted by a violent Grief;
Her Wits, her Pretious Senses quite are gone;
The Ornaments of so much Beauty fled!
Fled to the Gods that gave them, and, no doubt,
E're long will draw the lovely Body after.
Cyax.
Ha! what say'st thou?
Cyr.
Can this be true, Hystaspes?
Cyax.
The Cause?
Hyst.
Do you not guess it, since she own'd
A Passion for the Great, and Famous Cyrus?
The sad occasion was, alas! that she
Too lightly had reveal'd her Love to you:
For from your Presence, she no sooner was
Convey'd to her Appartment, but her Anger,
Which first adorn'd her Face with blushing Red,
Streight snatch'd the Roses from her Cheeks, and left
A Pale, and Trembling Colour in their stead—
Mountains and Hills come cover me she said; [...]
No, no, Eternal Darkness shroud my Head,
He mocks me—Hide me from his scornful Eyes.
Cyr.
Hold, hold, Hystaspes give me strength to hear thee;
Thou pour'st ill News too fast upon my Soul—
So—But go on.
Hyst.
This for some Minutes held her,
Till from the Fatal Extasie, she rose,
And strugling to recal her wandring Senses,
Look'd round about her, Wild and Beautiful.
But oh! (thou rash Minerva to permit it)
She let her Words at random so disperse,
That we too soon the Fatal Meaning knew,
Through all their dark and ridled Sense.
Cyr.
Pry'thee, what said she?—Say, did she not Curse me?
Hyst.
Thus she wou'd talk—
Where's Cyrus, where? Has he not heard I love him—
Curs'd be the Wretch that first disclos'd my flame,
See where she's hurld, and has no rest below,
A Thousand Souls of Chast and Modest Virgins
Arm at her sight, and drive me from the Shades;
Then must I back into the World again!
O there is Cyrus, and Panthea too,
He Loves her, and she Loves him not again!
Ha! There th' art punish'd false deluding Man,
Thou art—Revenge me, O Panthea, on him—
But see, my Cyrus weeps, O pity him—
Cruel Panthea! cruellest of thy Sex!
What merciless Panther gave thy Mother Suck,
That bred in thee such Monstruous Savage Nature,
As not t'adore so excellent a Man?
Enter to them Craesus weeping.
Crae.
O Cyrus, I perceive the Gods ordain
Thy Friends and Foes to fall alike by thee,
By all their Ruins to adorn thy Triumph
Pity the Man whose breath thou didst restore,
Pity my Daughter on whose future state
That Life depends—Go in, and see what Wrack,
What wild destruction thy still Conquering Genius,
In Love as well as War, has made amongst
Lausariar's Beauties.
Cyr.
When, when ye Gods will all these mischiefs cease,
Or grow to such a Bulk will sink me quite!—
Chide me not, Craesus, chide not the unhappy,
Convey me to her streight, and strive
[Page 36] With me to Charm the cruel Deities,
And save the greatest miracle of Love.
[Exeunt Cyrus and Craesus.
Cyax.
Why, why ye Gods, has Cyrus so deserv'd!
That almost at the Race's end of Glory,
Worse than Pandora's Plagues is sent amongst us?
Beauty thou subtile spoyler of the World,
Man were a God-head were it not for thee,
And there was never Hero yet below
That rais'd the Jealous Envy of the Gods,
But this, this never failing Curse was sent
To ruin all his Fame, and blast his Glories—
Hystaspes, when does Balthazar intend
To give us Battel?
Hyst.
Early this next Morning;
I understood it by a Slave of mine,
That fled at my Command some few days since,
And dewlt a Spy within the Enemies Camp.
He's now return'd, and tells me both the number,
Order, and strength of this so potent Army,
He likewise says, that next their multitudes
They put their chiefest Hopes and Confidence
In brave Thomyris, and her Scythian Bowmen.
Relying thus on his unweildy Forces,
And fed with lyes of Soothsayers, he remains
Close in his Tent, Carrouses, Feasts, and Revels,
Scorning the Gods, the Fates, and thinks them poor,
And all besides his boasted Power but mean.
Cyax.
Wou'd it were now, Hystaspes, wou'd the Fight
Were now beginning, and the Trumpets call
Did Rouze fond Cyrus from these Painted Dreams,
The danger wou'd be less to find him so
Inclos'd, than in his Tents besieg'd with Love,
His Breast lay'd open to the poysonous Darts
Of Cruel Beauty.
Hyst.
O the Happy time!
Thy Rage soft Tyranous Love shall then have End,
When Cyrus kindles once again the Heat
That first inspir'd his Noble Breast with Glory.
Cyax.
I hear sudden noise of Clashing Swords—
[Noise of Fighting within.
Look out, Hystaspes, go and see the matter.
[As Histaspes is going off, enter in haste Artabasus with his Sword Drawn.
Arta.
Where's Cyrus? where's the King?—Great Cyaxares,
Pity the bravest Valour in the World—
Haste, Sir, and save the Gallant Abradatas,
With great and most unequal odds opprest—
Haste for the sakes of all your bravest Men:
[...]or at so dear a Rate he sells his Life,
[Page 37] That with's own Hand already he has slain
Strange Numbers of the stoutest Ranks, whose Valour
Pusht 'em first on to meet his daring Blows.
Cyax.
What madness forc'd him thus to his Destruction!
Arta.
His desperate Love led him so boldly on;
For with a Troop, compos'd of all his best
And stoutest Men, he straight broke through our Camp,
Who stood more Wondring at their madness, than
Afraid—And though of all his Valiant Followers
Scarce ten remain alive besides himself,
Yet still he ventures on, and calls for Cyrus—
But hark, they this way come—
Cyax.
Follow Hystaspes—
[As Cyaxares, and the rest are going off, Enters Abradatas fighting against a great many, Cyaxares and the rest joyn against him and his followers.
Brave Abradatas yield, whilst you are safe.
Abra.
Yield! By the Gods that hated Breath I scorn—
The Spirits of my murder'd Friends around me
Still guard me from the Thoughts of such a Baseness—
Do'st think I undertook so brave a Deed
With the least thought of Living, or of Yielding!
No, Fight I will till ev'ry Sinew fail me:
And when my Arms can lift a Sword no longer,
I'll stretch 'em forth to all your Cymeters;
Now to be parted from my Bleeding Body,
Before I'll suffer 'em to be tamely bound—
Come all—Quick, make an End of me—Ye Gods!
Wou'd I had Cyrus now but in thy Place;
Thus wou'd I do, thus use my hated Rival.
Hyst.
Kill, kill the raging Prince, if he'l be still
Thus Obstinate.
Cyax.
I charge you ev'ry Man
To save him, and with speed take him alive.
[They Fight, Cyaxares in the Skirmish is mortally Wounded, Abradatas is taken Prisoner, and Disarm'd.
Abra.
Base Villains! Choak'd I am with Multitudes—
O that I want the Fierceness of a Lyon
To chace this Herd of Slaves and Cowards from me.
Hyst.
What ail you, Sir? O Cursed sight, you Bleed!
Cyax.
I fear I've bin too rash—
And feel I'm wounded in my Mortal'st part.
Re-enter to them Cyrus in haste.
Hyst.
The Gods forbid—O Sir, retir [...] and view not
This sad Mischance.
Cyr.
[Page 38]Ha!
Craes.
Hystaspes, how came this to pass?
Cyr.
Blast me, you Vitious Planets of my Birth;
Fall on me all the wrath of Heav'n at once,
Can this be true what here my Eyes behold—
My Unkle wounded! 'Tis not much, I hope?
Cyax.
Yes, 'tis to Death, and by my fleeting Soul
I am not sorry for't—But why grieve you?
I now shall tug the Reins of Rule no more,
And you shall drive the Chariot of the World
Alone—My life that stood so long i'th' way
Dividing all the while Ambition with thee,
Shall share with thee, and of thy Hopes no more.
Cyr.
Fetch my Physitians—Run for Artists straight,
A Kingdom shall be his that Cures his Hurt.
Cyax.
Stir not, I charge you—'Tis beyond all Art
To save my Life—I've but a Moment's Breath
To speak, yet whilst that lasts, it's thine, my Cyrus;
And likewise all that's mine I give to thee;
Commit my only Daughter to thy Care,
She's young, and may in time grow up thy Wife.
Cyr.
Curst Abradatas—Curst-be all the Fates
That led thee thus to Triumph still upon me,
First in my Love, and now in Cyaxares;
But by the Gods—By my wrong'd Self I Swear
I will be tame no longer, but will sweep thee,
Like a fierce Whirlwind from the Face of Cyrus,
Wert thou the Mynion of the spiteful Stars;
Yes, though ten Thousand Cupids on their Knees,
And Venus weeping Eyes shou'd beg to save thee.
Abra.
I kill'd him bravely, by the Gods I did,
Kill'd him as I wou'd thee, hadst thou bin there.
Cyr.
Away with him to speedy Death, I charge you.
Cyax.
Hold, Cyrus, hold, the Gallant Prince says true;
Let me not be the cause of his hard Fate,
It was my Fortune, and the Chance of War.
Cyr.
Torture me not with the Request; I vow
It is the only thing I cannot grant you.
Cyax.
You must—O my Dear Cyrus; I have bin
To blame, my Envy of thy gallant Deeds
Brought me to meet the Death I have deserv'd;
Had I but pleas'd my self to hear thee prosper,
And Treasur'd thy Exploits within my Breast,
As a kind Unkle shou'd have done to Cyrus,
O then I had bin happier.
Persia, and Media now shall be but one;
Far greater than Astyages thou art,
Cyrus farewel—Kiss me, and then I go.
[dyes.
Cyr.
He's fled, the kindest, dearest, bravest Man
That ever blest the World, is gone—Dry up
Your Tears, and hide your Sorrows in your Breasts.
'Tis poor and mean to spend our griefs like Women;
Ten Thousand Deaths are all too little for thee,
[To Abrad.
No, thou shalt live, and grow in study'd Torments;
I'll carry thee where-e're I go, to be
The sport of my Revenge, and ev'ry Day
Thou shalt be brought i'th' midst of all thy Pains
To hear thee houl before me—Go with him
To Tortures, Chains, Imprisonment—Away.
Enter to them Running, and Weeping, Panthea attended, as Abradatas is carrying off.
Panth.
Hold, whither is my Abradatas going?—
Brave Cyrus stay, real your dread Commands—
Ah! where d'ye hurry my dear Prince so fast?
[To the Guards.
Still Abradatas will you be thus rash?
Adventuring through a Thousand threatning Deaths,
To come to this accursed Place to meet
Your certain Ruin; Cruel as you are,
More Cruel to your self and me than Cyrus far.
Cyr.
Still does she come to brave my little Power,
And chain my weak Resolves—She knows her strength,
By all the Gods she does, and dares me to't—
Keep 'em asunder, part 'em whilst I'm in
The mind—Perhaps anon I may forget
I bid you—Do, and part 'em now for ever.
Abra.
You urge in vain, the Tyrant must b'obey'd—
Farewel, our Loves shall shine amongst the Stars,
And make Immortal Lights that never shall
Be quench'd—There we will Rule, and guide the Planets,
Causing 'em ev'ry one to shed their worst,
And mortal'st Venom on his Cursed Head.
Panth.
Ah no, you wrong the brave and God-like Cyrus,
He is more mild than tender Mothers are;
The Spring is not so sweet that flows from Winter,
As are the Passions of that Brave rough Man—
Look thou Immortal; great on Earth as Iove
[Kneels.
Can you behold me kneel, and hear me beg,.
In vain, who once you said was Beautiful, and lov'd?
Cyr.
Panthea rise, I cannot see you bend—
There's something in those Eyes wou'd cheat me still,
Although I know their kindness is not meant
[Page 40] To me—No, no, these Prayers and T [...]ars are all
My Rivals still—Behold there's one cou'd [...]speak
If it had Life, but that is slain by thee—
[Shews the body of Cy [...]x.
See, see, the silent everlasting Cause
Of Abradatas Fate.
Panth.
Ah me, the sight
Is dreadful, but you must forget it—
He kill'd him fairly in his Life's defence,
And you may add a little too for Love—
The gallant Cyrus wou'd have done as much,
Had he bin urg'd, or had the like Occasion.
Cyr.
Away Panthea, hence, thou plead'st against
Thy self, and hast recall'd each wandering Spark
That stray'd without my Breast, and fann'd 'em to
A Flame, that if thou talk'st, will ne're be quench'd—
Away with him, I say—Death to you all
That disobey a Moment—
Abrad.
I Court that Death, and cannot wish to live
A life so mean that's in thy power to give;
But ah, Panthea!
Panth.
Stay, for we must live
Or dye together Cyrus, take thy Choice—
Give me thy Hand, my Love—Thus we will grow,
[Panthea runs and takes Abrad. by the hand.
Joyning our selves together thus—Thus fix'd,
By great Diana's Soul, immoveable—
So mingle not our Souls, nor beams of sight so twist
As are these Hands united—Why d'ye stay?—
Come bear him to his Fate—By Constancy,
I vow this Hand shall go along with him,
Not all your Torments, Pincers, nor Devices
Shall wrench these Knots asunder; no, unless
You cut this off, so you may part our Bodies,
But then my Spirits shall retire that moment,
Flying to th' part that's nearest to my Love,
And my lost Hand shall hold him still thus fast,
And Perish with him as the Body wou'd.
Craes.
Behold, do not the Gods look down, and wonder?
Cyr.
What shall I do? Craesus advise me straight.
Craes.
I am beyond all Sence, the Miracle
Has almost struck me dumb—Yet you had best
Begone—Retire, Sir, from this melting Object;
O never interrupt such Happiness,
But send these rare and faithful Lovers home,
To be the Wonder of all Worlds to come.
Cyr.
O how shall I begin! Craesus, I'll do it,
I am resolv'd, yet cannot though I wou'd;
[Page 41] When I have gain'd the highest Victory o're
My mind, then straight I feel my climbing Love
Ascends by stealth, and reaching to the top,
Pulls all my slippery Resolutions down—
Assist me Gods, and guide my sickly Virtue.
Enter to them Lausaria Distracted, drest like a Cupid, with a Bow and Quiver, follow'd by her Women.
Laus.
Ye daring Mortals, wou'd ye hinder me?—
Let me alone, I say—Prepare my Chariot;
Go fetch me Boreas straight, and bid him bring me
A gentle Wind to spread my fiery Wings,
Then I'll ride faster than the Fleeting Air,
Or Raceing Clouds—The Stars shall be my Guides,
And in a Moment I will reach the Gods.
Craes.
O Dismal sight!
Laus.
—My Father weeps: If tears cou'd quench thee!
I. SONG.
O Take him gently from the Pile,
And lay him here to rest,
And I will [...]corch for him the while;
If he must burn, then burn him in my Breast,
For there is Fire, there is shame
Enough to set the World on flame.
Craes.
Hear me Lausaria, thou hadst once a Brother
Doom'd by the Gods to want the gift of Speech,
And yet his Dumbness could not so afflict me,
As these wild words torment thy Father's Soul.
Laus.
This Bow and Quiver were a wanton Cupid's;
I watch'd the Boy, as he lay down to sleep,
And stole his Amunition from his side;
And now I've got 'em, I will be reveng'd
On all mankind, on all the Sex at once,
And shoot Love's Plague into their Breasts—Stand fair.
II. SONG.
I Am arm'd, and delare
For a Vigerous War;
By my Bow and my Quiver I swear
Not a Rebel [...]0 Love will I spare,
This Shaft I will draw to the Head,
And shoot the great Persian, shoot him dead.
The Tyrani shall die, there's one will deny him,
Let him Court her with Crowns she shall fly him,
This Shaft I will draw to the Head,
And shoot the great Archer dead.
Cyr.
Her Sence is out of Tune, her Wits not well,
But yet, alas! her Tongue is Charming still.
Laus.
Here is a Dart by Limping Vulcan made,
Tip'd with the Clippings of a red hot Star;
The same that Venus, when she robb'd her Son,
Chose from the rest to shoot Adonis with;
I'll burn you ev'ry one, till you indure
Worse Pains than I—Ha! Cyrus there—Have at thee—
I think I've struck thee, Cruel Flint, I have.
[She shoots and hits Cyrus.
Cyr.
Thou hast indeed, and touch'd me to the quick;
I thank the Gods there wanted but this sight
To rouze my slumbering Vertue—Sweet Lausaria,
Th'ast pierc'd my rocky Heart, and see it melts.
[Cyrus Weeps.
Laus.
Ha! have I hurt him! Curst was I to do so—
Look how the Blood runs trickling down his Face—
Help, help Panthea, Abradatas help—
Can you behold that Bleeding brave good Man,
And not bestow one Sigh, or Tear between you,
Indeed you are to blame—I cou'd shed Rivers,
And with my sighs disturb the endless Ocean.
[Weeps.
Craes.
Poor Girl! She tires her self with her Wild Thoughts—
When will her roving Fancy get some rest?
Laus.
Go, go; you are a pair of Constant Fools,
[To Panthea, &c.
You are not fit to dwell amongst Mankind—
Get you to Wilds, to Fountains, and the Woods,
There graft your Follies on the Barks of Trees,
And write sad Songs upon th'unconstant Sands,
Which are as false as are the Hearts of Men:
Or get you to the Eccho, Owl, and Magpye;
They say, they once were Mortals like your selves—
Dye like a pair of faithful silly Lovers,
Dye, dye, and get you to Elizium,
There be the things you dream of; there be such
[Page 43] As are your selves—Go, get you to Elizium;
And I will follow you so soon as e're
I can—Hey hoe!—I have a mind to sleen—
Craes.
Come, lead her gently to her Bed.
Laus.
Well let me make my Will, since Love must dye,
And leave to every one a Legacy:
This Dart I give—
To those that are Ambitious of a Name,
And fall in Love with such a Jilt as Fame;
This tipt with Gold to Sages on the Bench
Who have—
One Eye for Bribery, t'other for a Wench.
This Wicked one that at the Pulpit Drives
To Priests, who Love good Livings, hate good Lives,
And send you all to Heaven by your Wives;
This Matrimonial Dart, that shames the Giver,
To Marry'd Folks, the worst of all my Quiver,
My Wealth to Poets, thrift to Eldest Sons,
My Truth to Courtiers, Chastity to Nuns.
My Wantonness I do bequeath in Plenty,
To all the Women in the World of Twenty,
My Eyes to Alchymists, my Brains to Schools,
Scorn to the Brave, and all my Love to Fools.
[Exit.
Craes.
What say you now? How feel you now your self?
Cyr.
Just like a Man fast ty'd upon the Rack,
When, feeling the fierce pain too great to bear,
Starts up and stretching every Nerve about him,
Expands his Joynts, and loosens all his Bands,
As threads of Flax are driv'n before the Flame—
Now mighty Love, I will despise the Nets,
And like the hunted Deer, rush through the Thicket
That once I fear'd, and hung by ev'ry Bough—
Craes.
—Bravely resolv'd and like the Godlike Cyrus.
Cyr.
—Hence, hence my Torment—All fond thoughts of Love
Away, and vanish into slender Air,
And from this time, let Pity and Revenge
Fill up my tortured Bosom in its stead—
Release the Prince—Panthea, take the Man
You Love—Quick, not one word of thanks, for I
Deserve none—But be sure you Charm him, hold him
Till he's Immortal made in your Embraces—
Haste, Abradatas—Thou shalt dearly pay
For all the Pleasures of this long'd for Night—
To Morrow I will Summon thee like Fate
Soft slumbering in Panthea's Arms.
Abra. And I,
[Page 44] Arm'd with the Thoughts, will meet thee like a God,
Fir'd with each Kisses heat, that thou shalt blush
To see what Beauties happiest Man can do.
Cyr.
Ye Gods! To Morrow! Did I say to Morrow?
To day, this hour, a Moment is too long—
He goes just now to ravish all those Beauties,
To ransack so much Joys, compar'd to which
Heav'ns store is all but nigardly compos'd—
Away, away—I'll overtake thee else,
Swift as the Winds that drive behind thy Back.
Re-enter to them Craesus.
Craes.
O Cyrus, your sad Craesus Daughter's Dead.
Cyr.
Dead is she then. Poor Innocent Lausaria!
But hold, I have more griefs to spend for thee
Hereafter—
Panth.
These sad Disasters make me move but flow,
And stir unwillingly to meet my Joys—
I go, but still to pray for Cyrus Life—
Thou generous, great, unhappy Man, farewell.
Cyr.
Farewell—And sinee the Gods have so decreed,
May this Divorce so happy be to prove
The last of meetings, and the End of Love.
[Exe [...]nt severally.
Finis Actus Quarti.
Actus Quintus, SCENA Prima.
Enter Thomyris, Women, Guards, and Soldiers.
Thom
COme, my brave Friends, I see you are resolv'd
To follow me, and share your Queens worst Fate.
Remember first who 'tis you go to fight with,
Cyrus, a braver Man indeed not lives;
But likewise call to mind your selves, a Nation
That all mankind has look'd upon with wonder,
Envying your State that never yet was Conquer'd;
But oh my Son! We drop the Precious Minutes—
My Spargepyses did last night appear
With the curst Dagger, sticking in his Breast,
(In the same manner as your Eyes beheld him,
When Cyrus sent the Royal Body home,)
[Page 45] Let Balthazar still drown in Luxury,
Devour'd by Cycophants, undone by Harlots,
Whilst with your Aid I act such mighty things,
As never Woman yet perform'd, nor Man
Cou'd do.
Enter to them Abradatas, and Panthea, Hystaspes, and Guards.
Panth.
O Sacred joy!—Cou'd I have thought once more
To kneel before you, and have in these Arms
The kindest Mother, and the best of Queens?
Abrad.
O blest Panthea's Mother, Godlike Thomyris!
Thomy.
Rise, dear Children,
Bend only to the Gods, and not to me,
To that Ambitious, happy God, who wrested
This gallant Action from my feeble Arm,
And only wou'd ingross the glorious Deed.
Panth.
That God was Cyrus; who, alas! Tormented
With Jealousy, the worst of all Loves Tortures,
Besides the dismal sight of Cyaxares,
Dying before his Eyes, slain by the Hand
Of Abradatas, whom of all mankind
It was expected, he the least should pardon;
Yet notwithstanding all those fierce assaults
On his brave mind, to his eternal Fame,
He has restor'd Panthea to her wishes,
And a lov'd Rival to his Mistress Arms.
Abrad.
But we forget how soon th' assault begins,
Spite, and ambitious Rage have lent him Wings,
With which w'are to expect him at our Backs,
Rushing to overtake us with more speed,
Than falling Torrents, or the swiftest Tyde.
Hyst.
With Balthazar he now intends to fight—
Love that so long mis-led his Warlike Genius,
And turn'd him from the Path of his ripe Glory,
Having at length o'recome this worst of Foes,
This Moment he intends to end the War,
And with quick Marches rouze up the Assyrians—
I hear him coming: For on this large Plain
Betwixt both Camps, he forms his mighty Battel.
[Cyr. Trumpets within.
Thomy.
Now, now methinks I feel the noble Fire
That first inspir'd our Amazonian Chief,
When like a Star, shot from our Northern Sphere,
Her Courage ev'ry where like light display'd,
And gave the World a wonder to all Ages—
[Page 46] Does not this news inspire you Country Men?
Kindle a Flame through all your Frozen Sinews,
Which the Sun Beams cou'd never do to Scythia—
Go, Abradatas, mount thy dreadful Chariot,
Arm'd like the God of Thunder, Iove himself,
Send from the Rage his Lightning, and his Bolts:
Let the wild Steeds the wing'd Winds out-fly,
And the sharp hooks like Death [...]ow all before thee,
Whilst their carv'd Limbs, and mangled Bodies drop,
Like Fields of Corn before the Reapers Hand.
Hyst.
I have Commands to wait you to the Camp,
Thence to return with all the faithfulst speed,
And meet my Master in Bellonias Arms.
Abrad.
Away, let's rouze the sleepy Balt [...]az [...]r,
Fierce as a Lyon, waking to revenge.
Panth.
Come, Abradatas, see what Love has for thee,
Which take as Presents from Panthea's hand;
Trophies far Richer then Vlysses strove for,
And when I've seen my Mars in his Thron'd Chariot,
Return I will, and in my Closet kneel,
And never rise till thou Victorious be,
Thinking of nothing but the Gods, and thee.
Abrad.
Prepare my Soldiers—Hear you what he says?
Panthea calls, Panthea is the Word.
[Exeunt.
As they are going off, enter on the other side, Cyrus, Craesus, Artabasus, Soldiers, Guards, Sound of a March.
Cyr.
Something, my fellow Soldiers, I would say—
The Gods have often prov'd by your success
That in your Breasts Divinities are stamp'd
With all their Heav'nly Courages inspir'd;
The Sword is not so used to cut and slaughter,
When guided by some sure, and mighty Arm,
As you to fight and overcome—I will
Not boast, nor talk what I have done;
But let me tell you, I am Cyrus still,
Cyrus, that will not prize this worthless Life,
Nor yet refuse to put it in the Scale,
Weighed with the danger of the meanest Soldier,
But follow you as well as lead you on,
There is but this one Battel
That parts us from the Empire of the World—
Who wou'd not venture his last drop of Blood,
[Page 47] When this sole Action makes us All, or Nothing;
This over, we'll to Babylon retire,
Whence as the Hill of all the World, you may
Behold your several stately Provinces,
And I the only Man that e'er look'd down
Upon so many gallant Heroes at
One time, and blest an Army made of Kings.
Craes.
Haste, for I long to face this Cursed Tyrant,
'Till he has let out from the Heart of Craesus
The Father's Blood, and stab'd the Daughter's Image
Here in my heart—She calls on me to go
And end my Miseries where they first had being.
Cyr.
O Craesus wound her not again, she's here,
The weight hangs heavier on me than thou seest—
Father—For henceforth thou shalt ever be so,
Let's have no thought to Day but of Revenge,
Deaf to the Charms of Grief, and more remorseless
Than Winds, or hideous Storms, or groaning Earthquakes,
Hide the least Species of our swelling Griefs,
As Streams are Coated in a Frosty Night—
But after Conquest, like a sudden Thaw,
We'll melt into a Deluge, and the World
Shall drown in tears—The Gods shall wonder at our Sorrows—
And for thy Daughter Babylon shall Mourn,
And nod its Spiring Pinacles to th' ground.
No more shall gaudy Worship fill the Town,
The Temples with their awful Shrines and Gods
Shall cast their Crowns and Golden Habits off,
And in exchange wear Rags and Ashes on
Their Heads—Then she shall have a Monument
Shall stop the Sun to cast his wondering Eye,
Astonish'd at the height, the vastness, and
The Richness of it—My Treasure, nay the Worlds
Huge Mass shall all be melted to an Urn,
And the proud Greatness of Massolus Tomb,
With those vast Pyramids by Hebrew Slaves
Built to the Skye, shall all be Dwarfs beneath it—
This shall the Gods and I bequeath to thy Lausaria.
Craes.
On then, thou Glorious Conqueror—
Fate like a Cloud hangs o're th' Assyrians heads,
The God whom all the World with dread admires,
The Hebrews Worship, and th' Egyptians fear,
Has call'd thee by a Miracle to be
The King of this Great Empire, and the World.
Cyr.
If the wise God shew ought of me, declare it.
Craes.
Last Night the Drunken Ba [...]thazar Carous'd
[Page 48] With all his vicious Concubines about him,
And Beardless Minions, far more lewd than Women;
Then in a Pride he took the Holy Treasure
Brought from the wondrous Fane of Solomon,
And in the Sacred Cups made impure Healths
Go round, and drank to th' Immortality
Of their proud King, who had in spight of Heav'n,
And its scorn'd Power committed such a Rape
Upon the Richest Shrine of all the World.
Cyr.
What but the wrath of Heaven, and dreadful Ruine
Cou'd follow such a Sacriledge!
Craes.
This horrid Deed drew awful Thunder from
Th' impatient hand of the wrong'd Deity,
Whilst straight a dreadful Clap was hear'd, and Lightning
With a fierce Rage struck through their guilty Eyes,
And on a sudden snatch'd away the Flames
That gave the Tapers light, then in thick Darkness
The horrid sounds of dying groans ascended,
And dismal Voices pierc'd the trembling Earth,
Whilst straight a yet more strange and dreadful Scene disclos'd [...]
A Bloody Hand appear'd upon the Wall,
With a bright Bracelet set with flaming Stars,
Dazeling the Eyes of all th' astonish'd Crowd,
Then with a Finger which distill'd warm Gore,
The God wrote Words in Characters of Hebrew,
Which by a Wise Religious Captive of
That Nation, was Interpreted of Cyrus,
That you should be the Assertor of his God,
Who gave Assyria to the Medes and Persians.
Cyr.
O my dark Soul! Is there a Mighty God!
(As sure there must) in whose admir'd Belief
My Mother's Breasts ne're Nurs'd my Infancy,
Whose Being was before all Beings else,
Who is the Source, Beginning, and the End
Of all, yet has no Source, Original,
Nor Ending, but art that of which is all
Compos'd, and yet art still the same, and not
The less, nor greater—If then such thou art,
O help me, guide me by thy Sacred Power
To be the Man this Miracle has meant.
Enter to them Hystaspes, and Guards.
Hystasp.
Make ready, Sir, th' Assyrians are approaching,
Pusht on at length by your indulgent Fate,
[Page 49] To a desparing Courage—Fierce Thomyris
And Balthazar are joyn'd—And Abradatas
Sits in his Chariots, midst a thousand Deaths;
He, with five hundred of those hooked Waggons
Protects the Right Wing of the Tyrant's Army,
And Thomyris with all her of Strength the Left—
But Oh! Had you then seen Panthea's Courage,
You cou'd not blame the Fates to be divided,
How to bestow this mighty Victory;
Whether to her, as Challeng'd by such Virtue,
Or Crown your Brave, and still Triumphant Brow.
Cyr.
What sayst—My Soul stands listning at my Ears,
And fain I wou'd hear something of Panthea.
Hyst.
Fierce Abradatas she her self saw mounted,
Clad in an Armour far more Rich and Noble,
Than that which Vulcan made the God of War,
Which the Skill'd Workman hammer'd from pure Gold,
And ev'ry joint with Diamond Stars had nail'd.
'Twere long to tell you how much breath she sigh'd,
The thousand Tears she shed for grief, and joy;
'Till the shril Trumpets call'd him swift away,
O Then she rais'd he [...] tender voice more Charming,
And more provoking than the Wars loud Musick;
Clasp'd her soft Hands about the guilded Spokes,
And kiss'd the Chariot Wheels;
The fiery Steeds, as if then slash'd with Lightning,
Upon a sudden started from her hold,
Swift as an Arrow from a Scythian Bow,
And left her senseless, clinging to the ground.
Cyr.
Enough, th'ast said too much—Sound, Sound a Charge,
I'll shut my loitering Soul close in her Home,
That she shall never have the power to send
[Charge sounds.
One Truant Thought abroad, not the least glance,
Or secret with af [...]er forbidden Love.
Craes.
Lead us to Victory that the Gods have shewn thee.
Cyr.
Yes Craesus, yes—We come, dear slaughter'd Unkle,
To give an Army to thy Funeral Pomp—
See, see, thy Daughter's Spirit, like Iove's Eagle,
Sails o're our heads with Lawrels in her Beak—
Now, now's the Sign to draw your Conquering Swords,
Cy'axares, and Lausaria are the Words.
[Exeunt O [...]nes.
[Page 50] Scene draws, and discovers a great Battle between both Armies: Cyrus, Balthazar, and Thomyris seen Fighting at their Heads. Battle over, a Retreat is sounded, Scene shuts, and then Enter Cyrus, Craesus, and Guards.
Cyr.
Now, Craesus, the Assyrian War is over
And Ba [...]th [...]zar is Slain—Thou seest him drop,
Whilst his Blasphemous Soul burst by my side,—
His Spirit groan'd, and gave a horrid fi [...]ght—
This was the bloodiest Battle to our Foes,
That e'er my Sword yet won.
Re-enter Artabasus.
Arta.
Greatest of Kings,
Immortal may'st thou live, and ever Reign—
More than two hundred thousand of your Foes
Lie breathless in the Field—None but a few
With the bold Scythians make a quick Retreat.
Re-enter and Hystaspes.
Craes.
Kings, Senates, and the World obey thee, Cyrus;
For lo the Gods did never at a time
Heap so much Greatness on one Man before.
Cyr.
What is become of Valiant Abradatas?
Hyst.
Something to his misfortune we must owe:
For with a Drove of hooked Chariots which
He led, he first began a dreadful Slaughter,
'Till the fierce Steeds, stung with the pointed Darts,
Started, recoil'd, and overthrew their Guiders,
Then, like a Whirlwind, broke through their own Ranks,
And where 'twas thickest, mow'd a dismal passage,
That the sad spaces midst their numbers look'd
Like empty Ridings through a Forrest cut,
So Abradatas is by all Men thought
From his fierce Chariot to be hurl'd and torn.
Craes.
[Page 51]But the Brave Scythian Queen retreating fights [...]
And whilst the Homotyms are eager in
Pursuit, as a Stout Lyon that is hunted,
Turns eager on the nearest of his Foes,
And tears 'em piece meal, then retreats again;
So in their flight, the Scythians send huge showers
Of Mortal Arrows on the Conquerours Faces.
Cyr.
My self will haste with the Cadusian Archers,
And gaul their backs with much more dreadful Flights.
Craes.
Mingle not Sir, in the unruly Chace—
We beg you wou'd retire into the Camp,
Your Wounds, and Labour ask some quick relief.
Cyr.
Fly then, Hystaspes, to the Homotyms,
Bid 'em their vain and eager Chace give o're;
In the mean time, you valiant Craesus may
Wheel round about 'em with your Lydian Horse,
And beat 'em in their Front.
Craes.
It shall be done—
Expect my Death, or the brave Queen a Prisoner.
Cyr.
Attend me but at Distance for a Moment.
[Exeunt Cr [...]sus and Hystaspes.
What is it to rule the World,
To hold the wealth, and sumpter of the Earth,
And find it all but Dreams of Happiness,
As I do?
[Going off, Lausaria's Ghost rises to [...]im.
What object does my flattering Eyes present!
The Lydian Princess, ha, it is! tis she,
Or else some Star, the darling of the Sky,
Dropt from the Gods, and Pattern'd in her Likeness!—
But ha! if this shoud prove a Dream,
Thou look'st quite thro' me, speak, if thou art Lausaria!
Ghost.
O Cyrus, I am come from far to blame thee,
To chide my Love, and stand 'twixt him and Ruin.
Cyr.
Thou art alive then! ha! and thou canst talk too—
O sacred joy!—Who told me thou wert dead?
—Thou look'st thin, pale and wan,
Give me thy cold fair hand in mine, and let me lead thee
From the cold Mansion of the Grave;
To a warm [...]oom in Cyrus Breast for ever.
Where is thy hand?—Ha! Thou art fled, and hid
As in a [...] thou dazelest every Sense,
And mak's [...] [...]hy Cyrus giddy to behold thee.
Ghost▪
Ah! Cyrus,
Thou may'st as well grasp Water, or fleet Air,
[Page 52] As think of touching my Immortal Shadow—
I am the wandering Spirit of Lausaria,
That still dotes on thee in her Solitude;
So well, that when thou think'st but of Panthea,
By secret Charms thou call'st me from my quiet,
And givest my Soul no rest below, nor Peace above.
Cyr.
A cold and sudden damp sits on me round,
Thy Eyes run pointed with thy wrongs, and shoot
Quite through my Heart, as thy keen Spirit with horrour
Pierces the ground, and glances through the Air—
Thou strikest a terrour trembling in my Blood,
And I with torture find thou art a thing
Immortal—
Speak, awful Shade, what brings thee from thy Rest?
Ghost.
When I had pass'd the Lake that leads to Bliss,
(Bliss so unjustly term'd by Mortals here,)
To those dull Shades, Elizium fondly call'd,
Where the sad Scene gives mournful Lovers Souls
A Melancholly Prospect of Delight;
I heard the Powers of Hell
Call for the Fates to cut thy thread before 'em—
What shall be done, said they, with this Great Man,
This Barbarous Hunter of the World, and Love?
Let us ordain that by a Woman's Hand
His blood be in a fatal moment spilt,
So to Revenge the Sex's wrongs at once—
Haste from the Field—Beware th' inrag'd Thomyris—
Come, follow me, I'll shew thee such a Sight
Shall Cure thy Breast of all Love's Wounds for ever.
Hold, stay, and take my Ghost along with thee.
Ghost.
O Live, I charge you—
Live happy as a God on Earth, live ever;
Each drop of Blood you drain from that brave Breast,
You double all the Pangs upon my Soul—
O think that on your Joys depend my Bliss,
Your Torment is my Hell, your Happiness
My blest Elisium—Follow me, I Charm you,
By all the pity once you pay'd my Love,
By all the Love you owe my Memory.
Cyr.
Lead then the way, thou brightest Angel Guide,
Conduct me quickly to thy blest Abode.
Ghost.
The Minute's come—This way, thou gallant Cyrus.
Cyr.
I follow thee, and if my Body proves too heavy,
I'll throw it off, and mount all Soul to reach thee.
Scene Draws, and discovers Panthea with her Women weeping o're the mangled Body of Abradatas, whose Limbs she had seemingly fix'd to his Body, a Dagger in her hand.
Panth.
I charge you live—Live to excuse my Fault,
And sooth the sorrows of the sad Thomyris;
The Story of our Deaths told from your Mouths,
May from her tender Eyes draw floods of Tears,
But the sad Object would have kill'd her quite—
Likewise relate the dismal Scene to Cyrus;
Tell it with all the pity that in grief
Can be express'd—Be sure t'adorn our Ends
As sumptuously with Sorrow as you can—
But oh! you need not—Tell 'em as they were,
And your sad tun'd Description will surpass
All Fiction, Painting, or dumb shew of Horrour
That ever Ears yet heard, or Eyes beheld—
Wom.
O cast that Weapon from you—
Panth.
Vex me not—
What, can't I be obey'd in Death—Now, now,
My dearest Partner of my Soul, I come:
Look back as thou art in the Milky Road to Bliss,
And take thy lov'd Panthea with thee.
Wom.
Still you advance that dreadful Weapon.
Panth.
No more—These Hands and Feet which the sharp Scythes
Mow'd from thy lovely Body, I have try'd
A thousand times to joyn 'em with my Kisses,
But 'tis in vain—O you Immortal Powers!
Cannot these Lips so Deify'd, restore
One hour of Life—See what Idolaters
You are, false Men!—You Lying Prophets say
A Kiss, a Sigh, a Tear from those you Love,
Can fetch you from the Grave to Life again,
And make a God of the least Doting Swain.
But I have groan'd ten thousand Sighs and Wishes,
And bath'd his Body all, all o're in Tears,
Yet find 'em all too little; one small drop
Of Rain is worth an Ocean of these Pearls;
That gives the sweets that from the Roses flow,
And makes the Violets and the Lillies grow.
[Page 54] Yet I cannot restore one Finger back
To Life, unless my heart's warm blood can do it.
Panthea Stabs her self, and just as she gave the Wound Cyrus Enters, led in by the Ghost, the Ghost vanisheth.
Cyr.
Ah! cruel, spiteful—yet thou lovely Spirit
Coud'st thou not bring me one half moment sooner?
Give me this Dagger, and I'll plunge it in my Breast,
Wipe off the stain of thy most precious Blood,
And reak it in my own; revenge thy wrongs,
And please Lausaria's Ghost, whose shadow haunts me—
Panth.
This Weapon I'll not part with—
This Glorious Relique here that sets me free;
Thus I will hold it, brandish'd up on high,
And die with the lov'd Passport in my Hand—
Live, happy, Cyrus, may these ills forewarn thee
To shun the fatal Deed of crossing Love,
Love that will ne'er be stop'd, but have its Course,
Or overflow to drowning with the least resistance.
Cyr.
O forgive me, blest Panthea;
And the same time thou leav'st thy lovely Body,
Forgive my passion too, and carry with thee
My Pardon to be Seal'd by all the Gods,
And by the Soul of thy departed Love,
And tell him how I took his hand in mine,
Wash'd with thy Tears, and bath'd in my Repentance,
And put it to my eager Lips, and ask'd
His pardon thus—Ha! Horror! Worse than Horror.
[Cyrus taking Abradata's hand, offering to put it to his mouth, it comes from the Body; Panthea places it again.]
Panth.
What have you done? Why touch you him so rudely?
Give me this Hand back to my Lips again—
These marvellous Limbs with industry I sought
Amidst an hundred heaps of mangl'd Bodies,
And pick'd and cull'd 'em, as is sifted Gold
Parted from loads of common Dross;
And plac'd each torn-off Member in its proper state,
Just as you see—Forbear again to touch him,
[Page 55] For they are ev'ry one alike dismember'd,
Mow'd by the Hooks of his own dreadful Chariot,
Fierce as the Horses wildest rage cou'd g [...]iude 'em—
I feel Death's giddy vapour in my Eyes,
And covers all my Senses on a suddain—
Lay me—O lay me gently by my Lord.
[Dies.
Cyr.
Die all that's good—die Sacred Love and Friendship.
Let none presume to say that Virtue lives,
That Beauty gilds the World, now she is dead.
Enter to Cyrus, Thomyris, Women and Soldiers, as persu'd.
Thom.
There, there's the dreadful summ of all our Woes;
Look there, my Friends—What, Cyrus Mourning o're 'em!
Run, run, with speed, and snatch his hated Life—
Quick, e're your Foes that have you in the Chase,
Prevent you—Hold—And shall 'a dye by Slaves!—
There is some Pity to his Vertue due.
Cyr.
Ha! Am I then surpriz'd—I was to blame—
Though I abhor to live, yet loth I am
To dye by Treachery, and Cowards Hands.
Thom.
Look, Cyrus, look, I am thy Mortallest Foe—
Thou dwell'st o're the sad Ruines t [...]ere, which I
Look on with Horrour, at so great a distance—
Do, glut thy self—Call likewise to thy Mind,
My Spargepyses Blood, and think the Fates
Are gentle still—Bend, bend your Bows,
Draw every one a Dart up to the Head,
And send a thousand winged Deaths to seize him—
Yet hold—My self the glorious deed will do.
Cyr.
Thou dar'st not, sure!—Naught but thy VVomans Spleen
Cou'd be Seducer to such base Revenge.
Thom.
Talkest thou!—Now to thy Heart this pointed Justice.
[As she is ready to shoot at him, Lausaria's Ghost rises up betwixt them, and stands before Cyrus, and Faces Thomyris.
Hah! sure there is something there controls my Hand?
Or I am lost in a wild Maze of Fancy—
What shining Form is that so fills my Eye!
Cyrus, thy Guardian Genius 'tis protects thee,
That with her tender Wings Roosts o're thy Head,
And with a Look shoots awful Brightness through me,
[Page 56] And Fetters every thing that's brave within me—
My Sinews slack, and Nature at this Sight
Shrinks back to her first feeble Infancy.
Sold.
You stand amaz'd—Let's kill him whilst we may.
Thom.
Hold, Villains—What, through her Immortal Body!
Your Darts would all turn Heads against your selves;
You might as soon touch the bright shining Sun,
Or fix your Arrows in the Marble Skye—
Loose, loose your Strings, and let fall all your Bows,
And to appease that Goddess, Worship him,
That all the World is destin'd to Obey.
Re-enter Craesus, Hystaspes, Gobrias, and Artabasus, shouting, Ghost vanishes.
Craes.
He lives, is safe; thanks to the Immortal Powers.
Cyr.
I charge you on your Lives, none touch the Queen,
And hurt no man but such as shall resist.
Thom.
'Twas never known, that any Scythian yet
Did yield his Person, or his Weapon up.
Then, Cyrus, since great Baltbazar is slain,
And all our Lives too mean to adorn thy Triumph:
O give, without denyal, to these Tears,
Panthea's and her Ahradata's Bodies:
Then undisturb'd, let us forsake this place,
Of all the World the fatallest to Thomyris.
Cyr.
'Tis granted, and you may with safety go—
Cyrus can do no less to such a Queen,
Whose brave and generous Pity sav'd his Life—
But begs that you would make the Town your way;
My Crowns, my happiness, and Life to me
Is not so dear as what you carry with you—
There you shall see what mourning Babylon
Can do; the Fires, the Temples, and the Urns
That shall adorn these Lovers Funerals;
Cyprus, instead of Lawrel, Wreaths shall bind
The Conquerours Brows, and Groans instead of Shouts
shall fill the Streets, the Houses Lamentations;
All the vast City shall indead appear,
But one wide spatious Room fill'd full of Sorrow.
Thomy.
No, no, cover the Bodies from their Eyes,
Then in a Mourning Chariot place the Bridgroom,
And his pale Bride so leaning on his Cheek—
Cyrus, farewell—And may'st thou live to be
Unconquer'd still, and great as Creetan Iove—
[Page 57] Beat a dead March—Let Trumpets hoarsest sound
Fright Birds of softer Musick from the Air,
And naught be heard but Horrour and despair.
[Exeunt Thomyris, and all her Party, bearing away the Bodies of Panthea, and Abradatas. Dead March Sounds.
Hyst.
Live happy as a God, and o're past miseries
Rejoyce—Fate is your slave, and puts and End
To all your toyls this day—The conquered Globe
Has not that Monster now that from its Chains
Durst stir to interrupt your sacred Bliss—
Go, for new Pleasures Court you ev'ry where,
And having spread your Laws o're all the Earth,
And settl'd first the Business of the World,
Think then to make your Median Kingdoms happy,
And there in Person wed the fair Mandana,
Whose Youth and Beauty shall like buds increase,
Still grow upon you, and with fresher Charms
Supply your Soul, and make your joys Immortal.
Cyr.
Come, Fellow Souldiers, let's to Babylon,
Empress of Nations, and great Queen of Cities—
Make haste, my Friends, and share the World with me,
All shall have some—Amongst the meanest here
I'll throw Rewards they shall not live to spend,
And scatter Provinces as thick as Drachma's—
First with Lausaria's Funerals we'll begin;
Three Days with strictest Mourning shall be kept,
And all things else forgotten for that time;
These Hands her fragrant Funeral Pile shall burn,
And Princes shall Officiate at her Urn—
I Invite you all to come and weep with me,
O're this rare Miracle of Constancy;
Let the loud War to gentler Griefs remove,
And mourn with us the Tragedy of Love.
[Exeunt Omnes.
EPILOGUE, Spoken by the Boy and Girl, by way of Dialogue.
Curtain falls.
Girl.
HOLD, hold, is the Play done?
Boy.
Ay, pretty Rogue.
Girl.
What a New PLAY without an Epilogue?
Boy.
Lausaria's dead, Panthea too is slain,
And wou'd you have dead Bodies rise again?
That were indeed a very pretty Fact,
You had enough of that in the First Act.
Girl.
Why, what d' you make of Mr. Betterton?
Boy.
The Curtain's dropt, and he is glad he's gone;
The Poet too, has loaded him so sore,
He scare has breath enough for one word more.
Since most of the Old Actors then are kill'd,
And the Great Hero has forsook the Field;
What if we did; to cover such a Blot,
Address our selves toth' Audience?
Girl.
That's well thought,
And since we must say something, pray begin,
You to the Ladies, I the Gentlemen.
Boy.
Ladies, if you will to our PLAY be kind,
May every one, their dear last Wishes find;
[Page] May Virgins those enjoy they value best,
And Wives their Husbands kindness to the last.
At Bassert may your Good Luck so continue,
And win the Gamester's Heart, as well as Guiney.
Girl.
And Gentlemen, if you will like our PLAY,
May this good Fate attend you ev'ry day.
Let no rude Boreas, from his Boisterous Cell,
Prophane the Curl that on your Wigg sits well.
Nor [...]brush the Sacred Powder from the Cloaths
Of two such Sights of dainty dapl'd Beaux.
May nothing bring you out of humour hither,
Nor Hackney-Coach be wanting in wet weather.
Boy.
Ladies, w'are almost sure of your good Natures,
'Twere Cruel to deny such Little Creatures.
Girl.
And if the Men mislike, or make a puther,
Boy.
Evads we'll fit 'em for't one way or other.
'Tis a wise Child that knows its Father, Sirs
For ought we know, we may be some of yours,
Wee'll come and lay our selves before your Doors.
FINIS.