The ambitious slave, or, A generous revenge a tragedy acted at the Theatre Royal / written by E. Settle.

The ambitious slave, or, A generous revenge a tragedy acted at the Theatre Royal / written by E. Settle.

Table of contents

Title page

To the Honoured John Bright Eſq

PROLOGUE,

ACTORS Names.

THE Ambitious Slave; OR, A Generous Revenge.

ACT I. SCENE I.

ACT. II. SCENE. I.

ACT. III. SCENE. I.

ACT. IV. SCENE. I.

ACT V.

EPILOGUE,

§

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THE Ambitious Slave: OR, A Generous Revenge, A TRAGEDY, Acted at the THEATRE ROYAL.

Written by E. SETTLE.

Tantane Irae.

LONDON, Printed for A. Roper, and E. Wilkinſon, at the Black-Boy in Fleetſtreet, 1694.

To the Honoured John Bright Eſq

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SIR,

WHen this Ʋnfortunate Play implores Your Patronage, it is an Humble Addreſſor to You, even for that common Engliſh Humanity, as the Reception of a perſecuted Refugee, hunted out of the World, and now a Shelterer under Your Hoſpitable Roof. And if Your Good Graces ſhall vouchſafe it that kind Entertainment, I Beſeech You to look upon it as a forlorn Brat, turned out abroad under the Curſe of thoſe Sour Grapes, the Faults and Misfortunes of the unhappy Author. And really, under that Prejudice that lours upon me; I may truly ſay, could I pretend to never ſo great an Intereſt in the Muſes, as that I am far from; I Plant but at a North-Wall, rear that Fruitleſs Nurſery, where I am certain to be Chill'd and Blaſted: So miſerable it is to live, where not one Beam ſmiles.

[Page]And indeed, a Poet, under a hard Name, groans beneath a perfect Turkiſh Subjection, where Sentence and Execution are ſo wholly Arbitrary, that the Black Robe, and the Bowſtring are ſent him, without Proceſs or Tryal.

But the happier Favourite Quils, (Lord!) What Wonders can they perform! Can Write as the Famous Witherington Fought, upon their very Stumps. For,

The Lucky have whole Days, and thoſe they chuſe.

Th' Unlucky have but Hours, and thoſe they loſe.

—As a Poetick Oracle tells us.

Poetry is ſo much the Creature of Favour, that 'tis not the Oar, but the Stamp that ſets the value. A Darling Muſe ſhall make Medals of what an Abdicated Scribler ſhall hardly paſs for Counters.

But to leave this Melancholy Theme, the ſeverity of this poor Plays Fortune, and change to a cheerfuller Cauſe; 'tis now Lodged in the hands of Mercy; for 'tis Dedicated to Worth and Goodneſs; Titles, ſo properly Your own; that to a Natural Candour, Sweetneſs of Temper, prideleſs Familiarity, and all that Generous [Page] Diſpoſition of Mind, that warms where You Favour, and charms where You Converſe; You have the Additional Acquiſitions and Improvements of the moſt Generous Education too, as no ſmall Superſtructure upon ſo ample a Foundation. You challenge that bountiful Literature, a Feather not in every Gentlemans Creſt, that we may trace Your Rich Fountain up to the Banks of Cham, as nurtur'd and cheriſh'd no leſs by the Beams of an Alma Mater, than Your own ſmiling Genius; Inſomuch that ſo truly accompliſht, You are equally furniſht as well for the Courtier as the Country Gentleman.

And, faith, Sir, now I have named an Engliſh Gentleman, he that with all the true Qualifications of Gentility, lives like Your ſelf, above the World, Attendance and Dependance the Cowlean Curſe far from his Door, a plentiful Eſtate his fair Field Argent, and a Bravery of Spirit to enrich that fair Coat, may be truly ſaid to be more a Prince than he that fills a Throne: whilſt free and uncontrould, within his own ſmaller Province of Command, he Reigns more Abſolute, than the prouder Crowned Head in all his Realms and Territories, that larger Canton of the Globe; who beſides his Cares and Fatigues [Page] (a pain You feel not) weilds but a ſhackled Scepter, under a bounded Dominion, and limited Sovereignty.

But whatever ample Theme Your Merit furniſhes me, I dare not be too bold upon that ſubject: for Panegyricks are only acceptable Gueſts where there's Pride and Vanity to welcome and receive them. But ſo extraordinary a Modeſty ſhines in You, that inſtead of attempting the Panegyriſt, I muſt rather check the Publication of thoſe fair Truths, though never ſo juſtly Your due, as knowing that You can eaſier deſerve Encomiums than hear them; under which ſilencing Command upon me, I can only conclude with ſubſcribing my ſelf

Sir,

Your moſt Obedient, And Moſt Devoted Servant E. SETTLE.

PROLOGUE,

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Spoken by Mrs. Knight.

TO Gain your favourable ſmile to Day,

What a hard Task has our Unhappy Play.

After ſo Rich a Feaſt of Wit before,

Our Courſer Fare, we fear's a Treat too Poor.

Yet let's Conſider, half our fears to Eaſe,

What Conſtitutions▪ 'tis we have to pleaſe,

You, who when ſome bright Celia you ave injoy'd,

How have we ſeen you Surfeited and Cloy'd

With the poſſeſſion of thoſe fairer Charms,

Run to ſome Little Paltry Dowdies Arms?

Change, dear ſweet Change!

There you run on ſo Faſt, Siege, Battle, Storm:

Cou'd you your feats of War like thoſe of Love perform,

All ſo many Young headlong Alexanders,

You'd make a Swinging Nurſery for Flanders,

That brisk, bold, puſhing Race! Lord what a Dance

Wou'd ſuch a ſet of Heroes make in France.

Ah Sirs, ſo very Fickle in your Kiſſes,

Wou'd you treat Poets as you do your Miſſes,

Let Wit and Love your Equal Graces ſhare;

Our humble Scribler then need ne'er Deſpair.

Ah no!—

A Poet may, perhaps, once in an Age,

Have the good fortune your kind hearts t'engage.

They gain your favours ſlow, but then they laſt.

Your kind Embrace they win and hold as faſt.

With us, our Sex alone, to your diſgrace

Falſe Men, you're every day for a new Face.

Your Volatile Mercury is all in Love

We are the Mourning Turtles of the Grove:

You're thoſe wild Strays, and fly ſo all at Rovers,

You're Beaus, Wits, Courtiers, every thing but Lovers;

Youth, Beauty, Virtue, all will do no good:

You're Conſtant every where, but where you ſhou'd.

ACTORS Names.

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KIng of Perſia,

Mr. Bowman.

Tygranes, his Brother,

Mr. Verbruggen.

Orontes, King of Scythia,

Mr. Powell.

Briomar, his Confident,

Mr. Freeman.

Mirvan a Perſian Eunuch,

Mrs. Rogers.

Amorin, a Perſian Lord.

Mr. Sybars.

WOMEN.

Herminia, an Indian Princeſs, afterwards Queen of Perſia.

Mrs. Knight.

Clariſmunda, the King of Perſia's Siſter.

Mrs. Bracegirdle.

Celeſtina, a Beautiful Scythian of unknown Birth.

Mrs. Barry.

Roſalin, her Confident. Attendants, Guards, &c.

Mrs. Leigh.

SCENE the Frontiers of Perſia.

THE Ambitious Slave; OR, A Generous Revenge.

[Page]

ACT I. SCENE I.

Tygranes, Herminia, and Attendants &c.

Ty.

WELL, Madam, I have play'd the faithfull Advocate,

Have woo'd and won the Worlds divineſt Beauty;

And with the glorious Prize return'd Triumumphant,

I bring her to an envyed Brothers Arms.

But (Oh) the fatall Embaſſy! to crown

His Joys I've Martyrd mine.

Herm.

Unkind Tygranes,

Theſe too ungratefull ſounds I muſt not hear.

Tygr.

Not hear me! Is the Voice of Truth ſo frightfull!

Or ſtart your Ears at what your Eyes have done?

Oh cruell Brother, in Fates blackeſt hour

With thy commiſſion'd Love I went th' unhappy

Diſcoverer of that beauteous Coaſt of Paradice.

Yes, thou Fair Treaſury of Heav'n, I landed

Upon the Golden ſhore; Survey'd that All

Celeſtiall Fair, ineſtimable Brightneſs,

And laded back with the whole freighted Mine,

To plant this Jewell in a Brothers Crown,

[Page]I make him Lord, Lord of more Wealth, more Bliſs

Then ſhowring Heav'n e're pour'd on kneeling Man;

And my poor ſelf the miſerableſt Wretch

That Ruine tumbled, or Deſpair e're ſwallowd.

Herm.

Oh generous Prince, if all my bluſhing ſhame,

My aking heart, and bleeding Soul, for Thy

Poor ſuff'ring pains can be prevailing Orators,

Recall thy baniſht Peace.

Tygr.

My Peace!

Herm.

Thy Peace.

Let my imploring Pity beg it of thee:

Be thy great ſelf, and let ſurmounting Reaſon

Put out this hopeleſs Fire. Droop not, but wait

A fairer Fate: The Guardian Gods of Virtue

Bid thee look up and hope; thoſe great Rewarders

Of ever cheriſht Honour, have no doubt

Reſerv'd ſome worthyer Beauty for thy Arms.

Tygr.

A ſecond Wound, where thoſe bright Eyes have kill'd!

No; fair Deſtroyer, do not flatter Death.

Herm.

Cruell Tygranes, ceaſe this fatal Language.

I ſicken at the ſound: Commanding Honour

Has ſeald my Ears, and I dare hear no more.

Tygr.

Commanding Honour then ſhall be obey'd,

And you ſhall hear no more.

Yes, fair Commiſſioner of Fate, thou dear

All Angel Forme, I will repine no more.

Since I was born to wear thee to my Grave,

I but perform the Work of my Creation,

And 'tis my Glory to fulfill my Deſtiny.

Trumpets.

But hark, the King! Now, Madam, Love and Empire

Come ſuppliant to your Feet; Cyrus proud Heir,

And fair Herminia's prouder ſlave, comes bleſt

With all the Joys of a poſſeſſing Lover,

To circle that fair Brow with Perſia's Diadem.

Enter King attended.

King

Welcome fair Star, deſcending Brightneſs welcome.

But oh— Thus kneeling let me meet the mighty Bliſs.

Kneel! Is that all! For every common Bleſſing

We pay that Gratitude. But when Heav'n gives Heav'n,

The bleſt Receiver with his bending Homage

And proſtrate Soul makes but too poor Acknowledgment.

Tygr.

Oh King; we Two divide the Stars; thine All

aſide.

The ſmiling, all the blaſting Planets mine.

[Page]King

But whilſt my Raviſht Soul at theſe dear feet,

All buiſy in the Count of thouſand Vows,

My Souls long hoarded ſum, to Soverain Love,

Their mighty Tribute pay, endebted Honor

Demands ſome payment too. My dear Tygranes,

Thou Champion of my Love, thou uſhering Phoſphor

To all my riſing Bliſs, my more then Brother,

Friend, All—oh let theſe gratefull Arms receive thee

Embraces.

But ha! what do I ſee! methinks I view

A Cloud hang on thy Brow.

Tygr.

A Cloud, my King,

Would be a Bleſſing here: Indeed I want one.

For I have ſtood too near too near that Sun,

From the bright Beams of whoſe too fatal Fires

Oh for a Cloud, dark as my Grave, to ſhrowd me.

King.

How, my Tygranes! Have Herminia's Eyes

Brought me a Rivall home!

Tygr.

A Rivall! No. Rivall's a Title for

Aſpiring Gazers, Beauties bolder Homagers;

Where kindled Hope, and warm Ambition burn;

A Name too towring for the loſt Tygranes.

King.

In this ſurprizing Language—

Tygr.

I have profan'd

Your Royall Ear; but the offending Criminall

(Pardon his Firſt Laſt Fault) ſhall Sin no more.

Here take this dazling Beauty to your Arms,

Take her adorn'd with all Loves thouſand Charms;

Myriads of Bliſſes ſtar your happy Nights

Thick as the Galaxy; and Angel Quires

Salute your ſmiling Days.

Herm.

Virtue like Thine!

aſide

Tygr.

And now if my ſmall Services deſerve it,

And this young Arm may be that bold Petitioner,

Grant me the Glory in your Royall Cauſe,

Againſt your Honours and your Kingdoms Foes

To wield a Sword. Yes ſend me to the Wars,

The walks of Death, and Scenes of Deſolation;

Far, far from Courts; that I may live remov'd

From thoſe deſtroying Eyes. For, oh, my King,

I would not ſtay within that dangerous Air

Where the leaſt Rebell Murmur may but riſe

To envy your fair Bliſs.

King.

I am all Confuſion!

Tygr.

So dear, ſo ſacred your Divine Felicity,

I wou'd not blot my Soul but with a Thought

[Page]My King can be too bleſt.

Herm.

Oh Prince

Thy generous Goodneſs loads me with that ſhame

As fires my glowing Cheeks. But if thy heart

Thy poor loſt Heart has play'd th' unhappy Fugitive

Into that barren Starving Feild of Love,

By all my Hopes I'le drop a tear to Heav'n

To call the wanderer home.

Tygr.

A Tear!

Herm.

A Tear, Tygranes,

Shed from that melting pity, till the Gods

Soften'd to Mercy a kind Ear encline,

And grant thee peace or elſe deny me mine.

King.

Thou Miracle of Truth, and Life of Honour,

There's ſomething in this moving Tale of pity,

Breaths with ſo ſweet an Accent, that if ought

Leſs then reſigning the Divine Herminia

Cou'd bleſs thy ſoft Deſires, my bounding Soul

Shou'd leap all Bars to crown thy tendereſt Wiſhes.

Tygr.

This is too kind.

King.

But ſince a Sword, a Sword

Is all the Boon thy modeſt Prayers can ask,

And Love can give no more;

Thou ſhalt have thy Deſire. Yes, my Tygranes,

I have a Cauſe that wants an Arm like Thine.

For in thy Abſence I have loſt a Battle.

Perſia's proud Foe, th' inſulting Scythian Tyrant

Wears my loſt Honour on his conquering Sword.

Nor is this all, I have loſt a Siſter too.

Tygr.

And with that Siſter, Sir, the nobleſt Martyr

Tyrannick Sword e're butcher'd, poor Orſanes

That Royall Syrian, our unhappy Friend,

By Wars rough chance the barbarous Scythian's Priſoner;

By his inhumane Rivall Jaylors Rage,

In his cold bloud ſent t' his untimely Grave.

My Dear wrong'd Siſter, thou too wretched Mourner,

The Lord of all thy Vows that bloudy ſacrifice,

So loud thy Ruines, and ſo deep thy Wounds,

That bleeding Perſia groans for thy Revenge.

Thine, Thine's a Cauſe—

King.

Reſerv'd for brave Tygranes;

For Thee, young Worthy; thy Illuſtrious Arme

Sh [...]ll lead my fighting Legions to the Field.

Waſh thou the Perſian Stains, and Scourge that Tyrant;

Whilſt Clariſmunda's Wrongs edge thy keen ſteel,

[Page]With mine and Heav'ns Commiſſion'd Vengeance ſtrike.

Tygr.

Ye Gods I ask no more.

King.

Yes; go my Souldier,

Go where Fame calls. But thus, far far from Courts

Whilſt to rough Wars a Rivall I remove,

Think how I ſend thee to a Lawrell Grove,

To plume in Honour, whilſt I bluſh in Love.

Exeunt

SCENE, changes to a Pavilion.

Enter Briomer, meeting Celeſtina and Roſalin.

Briom.

Good morrow my Sweet enemy; the Smiles

Of a kind Morn gay as your Eyes Salute You.

I come my pretty one, t' inquire the Health

Of that bright Excellence, the fair Clariſmunda.

Say is your Princeſs waking?

Celeſt.

Is ſhe ſleeping

Had been a properer Queſtion to her Miſeries.

Briom.

Then, Madam, in my Royall Maſters name

Sycthia's proud Monarch, but her humbleſt Suppliant —

Celeſt.

Her Tyrant, thou woud'ſt ſay: be honeſt fawning Paraſite

And give thy proud Barbarian Lord his Titles.

Briom.

Her Tyrant then; if that hard Name befits

Her humble Kneeling Slave.

Celeſt.

Hard name! Can there

Be names too hard for brave Orſanes Murderer!

What though that Royall Beauty, and her dear

Illuſtrious Lover by th' unhappy Fortune

Of a loſt Battle wore the Tyrants Chains.

Could his too Barbarous Rage deſcend to that

Low-Spirited Murder to remove a Rivall

By ſuch a ſhamefull Blow? unparalled Infamy —

Brim.

'Tis true I own, wild Rage and wilder Love

Have play'd the Savage. But t'atone his Crime

Has not the ſenſe of his Deteſted ſhame

Touch'd his Relenting Soul ſo near, till kill'd

Even by the wounds of his own bleeding Sacrifice

He Dies where he 'has deſtroy'd, ſo dies —But ſhe

Deaf to his Wound and blind to her own Happineſs,

By what infatuating Female Folly,

Her own caprichious Frenzy beſt can tell,

Diſdains his Love, and all his offer'd Diadems,

And ſtrangly flies that only Bed of Honour

Where her dryed Tears, and her huſh't Wrongs may ſleep

[Page]In a long Halcion Reſt of endleſs Glory.

Celeſt.

Well, talking Sir, if her too deep Reſentments,

And tender Senſe of her dead Lovers Bloud

Pours down this Scorn on his unpardon'd murderer;

Scythian, what then? Art. Thou, thou bold impeacher,

A Judge of Honour; Is Imperial Vengeance

A Depth for every groveling Fool to fathom?

Briom.

How Celeſtina, thou'rt a Scythian Born,

And dar'ſt thou plead a Cauſe againſt thy King!

Have Clariſmunda's Smiles, her darling Minion,

Brib'd thee this partiall Advocate for Cruelty?

Cel.

Againſt my King! Againſt the World an Advocate

In Beauties Quarell, Beauty that commands

When Kings but kneel: that more then Soveriagn power,

That holds the Scales of Crowns.

Briom.

Well Celeſtina, thou correctſt my Fault.

But to perform my Kings Commiſſion; (that

I hope's my Province) in his name I beg

Thy powerfull Intreſt with thy Angry Princeſs

To gain him his Admiſſion to her Feet.

Tell her 'tis his laſt Prayer: Nor dares he uſe

A Conquerours Right to gain him his Acceſs.

Love has diſarm'd that power; and now no more

Then her Petitioning Slave, th' Approach to thoſe

Offended Eyes is only on his Knees.

Celeſt.

Well Scythian, tell him my prevailing Eloquence

Shall gain him his Requeſt.

Exit Briomar.

So Roſalin, Thou look'ſt as thoud'ſt ſurvey me.

If thou haſt read me round, which think'ſt thou beſt

My Face or Pride becomes me? Or doſt think

That the kind Clariſmunda's Royall Smiles

Have rais'd me higher than my Beauty merits,

Or my Ambition covets!

Roſal.

Truly neither.

If Beauty can deſerve, perhaps, that Face

Has a fair Title; and for thy Ambition;

I durſt defy all the once bold Aſpirers

That battayl'd Heaven to match thee.

Celeſt.

Truth, thou draw'ſt

So near the Life, that thou might'ſt play my Painter.

Roſ.

'Tis not thy Beauty, (that's the gift of Chance)

Nor is't thy Towring Pride (for that's but woman)

No, Celeſtina, 'tis thy wondrous Fortune

That takes up my amazement.

[Page]Celeſt.

That, ſuch wonder!

Roſ.

With Thy courſe Veins, an humble low born Creature,

That hardly ownſt a Mother, or a Name—

(You ſee I love plain-dealing)

Cel.

Yes, I find ſo.

Roſ.

With nothing but a Face, all the whole Patrimony

Thy little unknown Father had to leave thee,

Perk't up the Darling Favourite of a Princeſs.

Cel.

A Princeſs Favourite; Ay, and a Kings too,

If Fortune play me fair. I'm not the Firſt

Of my ſoft Sex, perhaps with Birth as mean

As Celeſtina's and a ſtock of Charms

Not more then mine, has baited Hooks for Monarchs,

For Monarchs Girle, Imperiall Slaves, my Roſalin;

Whilſt the fair Hand of the poor Spawn of Cottages

Has ſtruck a Royall Game, and troll'd out Princes.

Roſ.

'Tis true, ſuch Gameſters there have been; and, faith,

'Tis pity but Thy Hooks ſhould be ſo baited.

For if thoſe Eyes were born to catch a King,

Not the fair proudeſt She, that carthborn Flutterer,

Rig'd up in Ermine, and trick't out with Title,

That ever betray'd Monarch, or ſold Kingdom,

Could bear her upſtart power with half thy Vanity.

Celeſt.

Why Earth-born Flutterer! ſtill thou grateſt hard

On that mean Shame my Birth.—Why muſt this Beauty

Be a baſe Cottage Brat!—They talk of Fairies

That ſnatch the ſleeping Infant from the Cradle,

And leave a witleſs Baſtard of their own

For the poor Cheated Mother.—And who knows

Inſtead of ſome courſe half-ſould Fairy Changeling,

The kinder Hand of ſome diviner Genius

In my poor Cradle made a Nobler Change?

And in my Sooty Mothers Raven neſt

Hatch'd a fair Eagles Egg!

Roſ.

Why, truly, ſome

Such wondrous Change might be. For (give thy due)

Thou haſt thoſe tow'ring hopes, wou'd out-ſoar Eagles.

Cel.

And I have reaſon for thoſe towring Hopes.

For by a famous Reverend Scythian Sybil,

Even in my Infant Dawn, my Beauties Nonage,

Nay in my Native ſhade, I have been told

Theſe Eyes the Soveraign Arbiters of Fate

Are born to Conquer Kings and Ruin Kingdoms.

Roſ.

A very large Prediction! But art ſure

Thy Witches Oracle ſpoke Truth?

[Page]Cel.

Truth Girle!

Roſ.

Art ſure her Prophecying Devills are honeſt?

Cel.

Yes, dear kind Heaven I hope ſo —

Oh Loves ſoft Fires, my Eyes, my ſnares, my Charms,

Lodge but ſome doating Monarch in theſe Arms,

To mount me a Court-Star, fill my fair Seat,

The Fear of Slaves, and Envy of the Great,

Round my bright Sphear my rapid Gloryes hurld,

In Powers proud Orb to drive the truckling World;

But This one Bleſſing let my Prayers implore,

And curſe me Heaven, if ere I ask thee more.

Exeunt.

Finis Actus Primi.

ACT. II. SCENE. I.

A Pavilion Royal. Diſcovers Clarismunda ſeated attended by Celeſtina and Roſalin.

Clar.

ORſanes, Oh that ever bleeding Martyr!

Murder ſo black! enough to ſhame the World,

And blot the Bluſhing Skies. Yet why, oh why

Is Suff'ring Virtue that neglect of Heav'n,

Not the leaſt care of ſhielding Providence

Steps in to guard, nor one juſt Bolt t' avenge it.

But can my Sighs or Prayers recall his Breath!

Ah no; th'irrevocable Doom's gone forth,

And poſting Angells ſpeed in vain to catch it.

Enter Orontes.

Oront.

If trembling Adoration may preſume

T'approach ſo near; and theſe unhallow'd Knees

May humbly bend to the Eternall Throne

To beg down Beſſings on that ſacred Brow.

Claris.

Thou wiſh me Bleſſings. Fool, why doſt thou loſe

That ineffectuall prayer, thou who haſt entaild

That laſting ſhame, and load of Curſes on me;

That diſtant Bleſſings and remoter Peace

[Page]Stand thoſe wide Worlds remov'd from Clarismunda

That bliſs and I muſt never meet again.

Oront.

That I have ſin'd againſt that Heav'nly-Fair,

Committed that dire deed of Execration,

That not the whole deteſting World alone,

But the whole Bluſhing Hoſt above the Stars

Confront my Impious Guilt; That I've don this,

Tormenting Conſcience with ten thouſand Horrours

Haunts all my ſleepleſs nights.

Clar.

A ſleepleſs night? And is that all thy puniſhment?

Each puny Crime

May wound as deep as that. But can'ſt thou think

Orſanes Blood, and all my wrongs demand no more.

Oront.

Thy wrongs demand

All all fates Bloodieſt Shafts, the heavieſt Load

That ere cruſht Guilt, or ſtruck confuſion dead,

This ſingle Criminal Head deſerves 'em all.

Unleſs a kind Reprieving Mercy dawn

From thoſe fair Twins of Life.

Claris.

Mercy to Thee,

Thy Crimes, thou dire Deſtroyer! Can thy baſeneſs

Dare lodge ſo vile a Thought of Clariſmunda!

The Sacred Blood of the immortall Cyrus,

That tame forgiving Fool.

Oront.

Alas dear Madam! —

Clar.

No King, I have a Lucrecian Soul within me:

With more then all her Wrongs, my Hope, Peace, Life,

All raviſh't by thy worſe then Tarquin Cruelty.

And if perhaps I have out-liv'd her Fall,

'Tis onely to outact her Vengeance. She

Poor Martyr dyed too ſoon. Her cloſing Eyes

Shut out that charming ſcene, the rowzing Thunder

Hung o're her puniſht Raviſhers head: ſhe dyed

Before her dear Revenge. But I would live

For mine (if thou darſt let me live,) live Tyrant

To wake the arming World for thy Deſtruction.

Oront.

Oh hold my fair Accuſer, think, oh, think

When my mad Rage and all my brutall Fires

Walk'd forth with that too hideous Arme of Death

Twas onely Love that ſtruck the barbarous Blow.

Claris.

Love!

Oront.

All commanding all reſiſtleſs Love.

Alas, I ſaw the cruell Clariſmunda

Deaf to my ſighs and pray'rs; my happy Rivall

With all the Pride of an inſulting Conquerour

[Page]Even in his Chains my Tyrant, the bleſt Lord

Of Clarismunda's Heart: Think how I ſaw

The flaming Sword, and my ſeal'd Gates of Paradice.

And if my burning Love and boyling Envy

Swell'd my Deſpair too high, impute th' Effects

To a too powerfull Cauſe. Alas, I cut

Th' excluding Barr betwixt my Heav'n and Me.

Claris.

Yet hold—This Inſolence outſins thy firſt black Guilt.

What tho th' Injuſtice of our partiall Deſtiny

Threw the unhappy Champion of our Cauſe,

By Warrs rough Chance a Captive in thy Pow'r;

Dares thy Barbarity make Love, great Love,

A Plea for Murther? Could that noble Paſſion

Transforme thee to a Ruffian? Had'ſt thou been

That Godlike thing a Lover, thoud'ſt have ſeen

Thy happy Rivall with more generous Envy:

And in thy glorious Indignation free'd him

From his vile Chains; bid him diſpute his Title

To Clariſmunda's Heart with his drawn ſword.

Had he ſo faln, and his triumphant Conquerour

Staind with his warm warm Blood—thus hadſt thou woed me—

But in cold Murder, his poor naked Throat

Given up to Butchers Hands, thy Slaves and Hangmen!

Shame of a Throne, thou eternall Brand of Empire!

Oront.

And is this all my Love muſt ever hope!

Claris.

Hope wretched King; why does thy tireſome Folly

Force my repeated Scorne both of thy Crown and Thee

Thus often to pronounce the fatall never?

Oront.

Never!

Claris.

Shoud this degenerate Breaſt deſcend ſo low

Bu [...] to Dream Kindneſs to Orſanes Murderer;

I'de tear my Traytour Heart up by the Roots,

But for ſo poor a Thought. Love thee! Yes, King,

If to owe thee Curſes more then Plagues can pay thee

Thy dying Groans more Muſick to my ſoul,

Then all the Quires of Heaven, be Love, I love thee,

Oront.

Well, Madam, you have ſworn my ſeal'd Deſtruction;

And rather then a Doom from that fair Mouth

Should want the Weight of Fate, with my own Hand,

I'le ayd my Labouring Deſtiny. Go, Briomar,

Draw out ten Thouſand Horſe, and in their Head,

Bear that relentl [...]ſs Beauty back to Perſia,

A Preſentt' her avenging Brothers Arms.

Claris.

Ay, King, do This—

Oront.

Yes, go, dear charming Death.

[Page]Bring the whole ſummond Force of Heav'n and Earth

To hunt down this Babarian.

Too cruell Vengeance, at Thy Tyrant call,

All thy arm'd ſhafts on this doom'd Head muſt fall;

And Humble kneeling Love ſhall bear e'm all.

But dear remorſleſs Fair; if all the pangs

Of my poor bleeding Heart—

Claris.

All the old Hatefull Theme. No more: no more.

Remember, King, I have Your ſacred Promiſe

To ſend me back to my avenging Brothers.

Oront.

True; I have promiſed, and the dread Command

Of Clariſmunda, though at no leſs price

Then my Souls Death, ſhall be obey'd. Go; Briomar,

Performe your Charge; conduct that fair Inexorable

T' her Royall Brothers Arms — But tell thoſe Brothers—

Yes, lay my bluſhes and my ſhame before e'm;

And tell the injur'd Majeſty of Perſia,

My ſoul unman'd, and all my Reaſon drownd,

I did that ſhamefull Deed. But tell e'm too,

The Brute offended, but the King repents.

Tell e'm inſtead of all their Arm'd Revenge,

Death, Fire, and Sword, ſack Towns, and burning Citys

Kind Hymens Torch preſents a gentler Fire.

Claris.

No more, vain talking Frenzy—

Oront.

Yes, beauteous Cruelty,

Tell e'm that Mighty Love—

Claris.

That Mightier Vengeance—

Oront.

With all the Eloquence of immortall Truth—

Claris.

With all the Horrours of Eternall ſhame—

Oront.

For Mercy, Mercy, call.

Claris.

For Blood, for Blood.

Oront.

For Blood than, ſince no leſs then Blood muſt pay.

Go, Briomar, that Voice of Death obey.

Arme▪ Arme the World againſt this hated Head:

And forge the Bolts to ſtrike this Monſter dead.

Go, Fairy Treaſure, Vaniſhing Brightneſs, go.

But Clarismunda,

If Thou muſt kill, why the poor Perſian ſwords,

Why arming Worlds, and angry Heav'n againſt me.

No, fairer Deity; weil'd thy own bright Vengeance:

Thy Eyes the Gods Expence of Thunder ſave,

And lend me from their Darts a nobler Grave.

Exuent all but Celeſtina and Roſalin.

Celeſt.

Now Roſalin, what thinkſt thou of my Sybill,

My Scythian Propheteſs!

[Page]Roſal.

Think!

Celeſt.

Doſt not ſee

We are moving to a fairer Feild of Fortune,

The Court of Perſia, Beauties bright Meridian!

How looks her kind prediction now? Do's not

My Royall Conqueſt wear a promiſing Face?

Roſal.

Fantom and Phrenzy.

Celeſt

Spight and Envy! No;

Thou ſnarling Infidell, th' Oraculous Truth

Had Heav'n in't, and I muſt, and will beleive her.

Roſal.

Well, if your Faith's ſo ſtrong, beleive, and proſper.

Celeſt.

Yes Roſalin, and to confirme that Faith

Sleeping this night I ſaw the ſweeteſt Viſion.

Methoughts, a glittring Troop danced all around me,

Clapt their gay Wings, and in one ecchoing Voice,

Stupendious Words, that lightend as they ſpoke,

Saluted me with

Hayle thou Beauteous Miracle,

Go on, thou Royall Conquerour; ſo conquer

Till Poets make thee their Eternall Song;

And wanton Painters like the bold Prometheus,

When they'd give Souls to ſhadows, from thy Heav'ns

Shall Steal th'immortall Fires.

Ros.

By Love all Rapture!

Cel.

No ſooner was the gaudy Viſion vaniſh't,

But ſtraight I dreamt of that fair Grecian Dame

That drew the Swords of the Contending Univerſe,

The glorious ſubject of a ten years War;

And the no leſs immortall Cleopatra,

Her bleeding Antony, and perſuing Caeſar,

With burning Troys, and Worlds for Beauty loſt.

Roſ.

Well, Celeſtina, if no leſs Originals

Then Egypts Cleopatra, or Greek Helens,

Are thoſe fair Eyes your golden Dreams muſt copy,

In that bleſt day expect my duteous Homage

Amongſt your kneeling ſlaves.

Cel.

Yes, that bleſt Day!

Now to the Court, that Lottery of Beauty,

Where all the Fair for the great Prize put in,

And boldly ſtake their All to loſe or win.

And whilſt one Hand at an unhappy Fling

Draws but a Blank, the other draws her King.

With the ſame Hope for the ſame Lot I [...]le go,

And try if there's a Monarch for my Throw.

Exeunt.

[Page] Scene changes to a Pallace.

Enter Tygranes.

Tygr.

What art thou Love, that thus out liv'ſt Deſpair?

Oh thou, whoſe too ſtrong vital Pulſes beat

When hope thy Life is dead. Too fair Herminia,

Tho' loſt, for ever loſt, thy haunting Form

Array'd with all thy Charms glides dazling by,

Whilſt my devouring Soul leaps forth to meet thee

And graſps at fleeting Ayr. Too dear Herminia,

Yes, I will love thee ſtill—But (oh) ſo love thee,

Love thy bright Glory, thy unenvyed Happineſs,

Thy Monarchs Arms, and all thy Nuptiall Bliſſes,

My whole unmurmuring Souls divineſt Muſick.

Enter Meſſenger.

Meſs.

Sir, ſome Officers wait your Command.

Enter Officers.

Tygr.

Admit e'm. Well, my Warriours

How fare my valiant Hearts?

Offi.

Tough as our Arms,

And cheerfull as our Cauſe!

Tygr.

Thou ſpeakſt my Souldier—

1. Offi.

As all our Veins, and all our Lives ſhall ſpeak.

2. Offi.

Already, Sir, Your great Allies have joyn'd us;

A noble Train of War. From Weſtern Nile

To Eaſtern Indus Streams, united Aſia,

Brings her proud Banners to your Royall Standard.

By this good Sword, and this old Arm, I think

More gallant Troops, nor more reſolv'd Battalions,

A fairer Front of the bold Sons of Glory

Ne'er ſhook the Earth beneath them.

1. Offi.

And great Sir,

May I preſume to add one bold Word more.

To cheer our Hearts after our laſt loſt Battle

And edg our Swords for a new fairer Game,

Perſia fought then, but Clariſmunda now.

Tygr.

Yes, my kind Souldier, in your laſt loſt Game

A weaker Quarrell, and a fainter Arm,

Only Powers wanton Luxury, Ambition,

Fought then; But a Diviner Cauſe, wrong'd Honour,

And Sacred Vengeance now.

[Page] Enter King and Herminia, Mirvan, Amorin, Guards, &c.

King.

My beſt Tygranes

Life of my Cauſe, thou Eldeſt Son of War,

And boldeſt Heir of Fame; my waiting Armyes

Call thy Commanding Arm to lead 'em forth to Glory.

Tygr.

As far as humane Strength can puſh for Glory

This Arm ſhall lead; and Sir to joyn that Arm

I hope the Great Deciding Powers, that hold

The Fate of War and turn the Scales of Battle,

Have one kind Lawrell for the poor Tygranes.

For 'tis but Juſtice, Heav'n; one Smiling Day

For all the melancholly niggard Portion

Your unkind Stars have dealt me. And for all

The Maſſy Favours you have heap'd upon me,

Great Sir permit my bending Duty fall

Thus low to take up the fair Load of Honour.

King

Riſe, my Tygranes, This too humble Gratitude

Orepays the Gift I make.

Tygr.

Orepays! No! Sir.

You've lodg'd in this Young Arm a Truſt ſo glorious—

King

And thou'lt diſcharge it with a Faith more glorious.

Tygr.

I hope indeed I ſhall. This I dare promiſe;

I go ſo ke [...]n for War, ſo arm'd for Battle,

My Cauſe ſo Precious and my Life ſo worthleſs,

That the Great Game of Death was never play'd

By a leſs ſhaking Hand.

King.

So ſpeak the Souls

Of our Great Race, the tranſmigrating Fires

That warm thy noble Breaſt.

Tygr.

But Sir before I go, take my Laſt Prayer:

May all the Sweets of ever fragrant Love

Heap your full Jo [...]s. 'Twixt that fair Heaven and You

Eternall Jo Peans ſing before you:

Smiles wake Your Morns, and Angells lull your Sleeps.

King.

This is too kind Tygranes,

Tygr.

And when in my Rough Toyls and heavyer Marches

Amidſt the Shriller Louder Voice of War

Some ſofter Trump of Fame ſhall ſweetly Chant

In my pleaſs'd Ears how fair Herminia loves:

How that all Nuptiall Truth, all Bridall Sweetneſs

With all the Riot o unmeaſur'd bliſſes

Crowns the dear Love of her embracing Lord;

When I ſhall hear that dear that bleſſed Sound,

[Page]With open Arms I'le meet the darling Joy,

And claſp it as the Mrs. of my Soul—

Thus I may love Herminia—

Herm.

Love me Prince!

Yes ſuch a Love Tygranes—Oh thou matchleſs

Originall of Virtue! Love like Thine

How ſhall I e're return. Go then, brave Warriour,

Go where bright Honour calls, and when thy Sword

Thro grappling Dangers hews thy path to Glory,

Be thou Herminia's Champion and I Thine.

For oh Tygranes to adorn that brow

And pull down Victory on that bleſt Head,

I'le borrow from the Arms of my kind Lord

A bending Knee to He [...]v'n for dear Tygranes.

Tygr.

And will the kind Herminia do all this,

For loſt Tygranes, the Divine Herminia

A Beauteous Suppliant to th' immortall Throne

Breath a ſoft Prayer, and melt the liſtning Gods,

And all for worthleſs me! Then I am orepay'd

For all my bleeding ſighs. So bleſt—

Herm.

So bleſt, if ſhe can give thee bleſſings, all my Oriſons

My tendreſt Vows for Thy Succeſs I'le pay,

With ſo much Zeal the pious offering giv'n

Whilſt thou ſhalt combat Earth I'le wreſtle Heav'n.

King.

Hold my Herminia, thou too Godlike Goodneſs,

And take me with thee in this generous Conteſt.

A Prayer for dear Tygranes! Prayers and Hecatombs:

Incenſe and Sacrifice, all Pomp Divine;

Altars ſhall ſmoak and blazing Temples Shine.

United Heaven and Earth ſhall joyn for Thee;

Thou and the World, brave Youth, the Gods and we,

Enter Meſſenger.

Meſſ.

Your Royall Siſter

Conducted by ten-thouſand Scythian Horſe

Sent by the Mercy of her pitying Conquerour,

Free and unranſom'd is returning home.

King.

Free and unranſom'd! Yes, relenting Tyrant,

Like flowry Garlands to a bleeding Victim,

A poor amends for Clariſmunda's Wrongs.

Tygr.

For the Reception of our Royall Siſter,

Haſte, Orimon, draw forth a thouſand Horſe

That theſe embracing Arms may fly to meet her.

Exit.

King.

My dear Herminia, the ſoft ſweets of Love

Till this bleſt Minute have been all my Theme.

But now, my faireſt, I am forc'd to borrow

[Page]From the kind Arms of Joy one hour for pity.

I have a mourning Siſter,

A wrong'd one my Herminia, whoſe Returne

Muſt call one Tear even from the Eyes of Love.

Queen.

A Tear for Clariſmunda! Yes my dear

Lov'd Lord, if that wrong'd Siſter does demand

The Royall Tribute of thoſe richer Pearle,

I hope you'll give theſe Eyes the Leave to add

Their pious Offring too.

King.

Thine, my Herminia!

Queen.

Mine, and all Eyes. At bleeding Virtues Sufferings

Our Griefs are but our Sympathetick pains.

Each melting Eye at that ſad Object mourns:

The Loadſtar draws, and trembling Pity turns.

Enter Tygranes Leading Clariſmunda, Celeſtina, Roſalin &c.

Clars.

My Brother and my King!

Take to thy Arms, thy generous pitying Arms

This Load of Miſery, Deſpair and Ruin,

King.

Fair Flower of Paradice, the ſweeteſt Roſe

Set in the Thorns of Life, dear Royall Mourner

My Souls beſt half, my own immortall Veins.

Clar.

Thy Veins! No Sir that once fair Chriſtall Fountain

By the embitter'd Gall of Woes all poyſon'd,

The King gazes on Celeſtina.

My blood runs Death, and I am thy Veins no more.

King

What do I ſee! Great Gods!

Clar.

But, oh, dread Sir,

In my affrighting Wounds, my Savage Wrongs,

I have brought home—

King,

Thoſe Eyes, my Clariſmunda—

Clar.

Eyes Sir!—

King.

Thoſe Wrongs, my Siſter—But proceed.

Clar.

Thoſe Wrongs indeed! So wrong'd,

There's not that miniſtring Saint at Heavens high Throne

But midſt his Scenes of everlaſting Joys,

Looks down on Clarismunda's hideous Ruines.

Mine, mine's a Cauſe—

King.

By Heavens, amazing Fair—

Clar.

What ſays my King?

King.

Thy Cauſe my Sweet, go on.

Clar.

Yes, my dear Brother, and what's more then Brother

My Champion and my King; By thoſe great Names

[Page]I call and challenge thy avenging Sword,

Thy Sword, my Soverain Juſtice

King.

Artaban?

withdrawing from Clariſmunda and whispering, Clariſmunda ſtrikes into Diſcourſe in the mean while in dumb ſhow with the Queen and Tygr.

Amor.

Mirvan, doſt mark that Charming Stranger there?

Mir.

Ay, and that firing King too.

aſide to Amorin.

King.

That Lady

to Artaban.

Art.

My dread Lord!

King.

That fair one.

Celeſt.

Shoot home my Charms! now my Prophetick Glory!

aſide

Mir.

Shine out fair ſtranger

aſide to Celeſtina.

Celeſt.

Boy!

Mir.

There's Honour near ye.

Tygr.

Dear Siſter theſe Reſenting Murmurs ſpeak

With ſuch an Emphaſis.

Clar.

Do they ſpeak Brother!

They muſt act too: Theſe wrongs that find a Tongue

Muſt find an Arm, Tygranes.

Tygr.

Yes Royall ſufferer,

Thou ſhalt have Vengeance, Vengeance, Clarismunda,

If Arming Man and ayding Heaven can give it thee.

Clar.

Do this, and all my work of Life is done:

And when thy Sword draws bloud, drink deep, my Brother;

Remember nothing but a pile of Death

Can build the Tomb of Love. Build thou that Tomb

For Clariſmunda; then I dare dye pleas'd

When I have ſeen my blazing monument rays'd.

King.

Succeed and Challenge that Reward, my Artaban

to Arta.

Exeunt all but Celeſtina and Mirvan.

Celeſt.

'Tis don 'tis done; I read it in his Eyes;

The Golden Shaft and all the whole Blind God.

Now my kind Sybill thou haſt fullfill'd thy Promiſe:

And I could kneel to thank thy Charming Oracle.

Oh Beauty! Love and Triumph wait thy Throne,

Hold my kind Toyl but faſt, the Game's my own.

Exit.

Mir.

So;—a poor Slave has Charms to ſnare a King:

Yes, fair unknown, th' Imperiall Thunderer

Hangs gathering o're thee in a glittering Shower,

And 'tis but ſpreading of thy Smiles before him

To catch the Golden God.—well! There's Love for you —

Death! what was I born for! Love's not my Province:

The Sweets of Life are baniſh't from theſe Lips.

Kind Nature ſtampt me in Heavens Image, Man,

Born with a Face perhaps t'have Captived Queens.

Till mercinary Infamous Barbarity

(An Evnuch Monſter) baſely rob'd my Cradle,

And left me a dull Drone of the Creation.—

[Page]Since then the Gall, and Dreggs of Life, are all

My Portion; to requite the ſpightfull worlds

Unkindneſs, let me this one pleaſure find

To doal round my own Draught to all Mankind.

Finis Actus Secundi.

ACT. III. SCENE. I.

Herminia diſcover'd Sleeping on a couch attended by Mirvan and Amorin.

Song.

WHy do's the Idle World miſtake,

And Love a Godhead make?

If Love were Heav'n, like Heav'n twou'd laſt,

And the Immortall Joys would never dye.

Ah no, falſe man, at ev'ry blaſt

In broken Vows Loves fleeting Shadows fly.

Down then let all his Glorys fall,

His Templet, Altars, Empire, all

To dirt and Aſhes trod:

For oh the Fools, for oh the Fools, that make blind Love a God.

So when fair Celia mournd to find

Philander ſo unkind;

She ſaw the Tempeſt yoll too faſt,

And all o'reſpread her riſing Mornings dawn;

Her louring Fate was quite o'recaſt

And her Ecclipſing Glorys all withdrawn.

But tho' there ſhine ſuch fading Jemms

In brittle Earthly Diadems,

Poor Celia ne're deſpair:

There's Starrs above, there's ſtarrs above to crown thee brighter there.

The Scene ſhuts and Mir. and Amo. advance upon the Stage.

Amor.

OH Mirvan, this fair Scythians Charms are ſure

Made up of Prodigy; and the blind God

Has ſtockt her with ſuch Shafts, her Eyes Diſdain

To play a leſſer Game then Miracles,

Mir.

Miracles indeed: An unknown Stranger face

Who, or from whence Hell knows, to catch a Monarch

from a young Princely Bride the fair Herminia,

[Page]A Beauty ſcarce Enjoy'd.

The very Virgin Bluſhes on her Cheeks

Still warme; that lovelyeſt Roſe gather'd but yeſterday,

And all the fragrant Sweets thrown by to day.

Abandon'd, Slighted—ay and all this too

By the ſtrange Charms of ſuch an Eaſy wanton

That Scarce held out the Courtſhip of an hour.

But See the glittring Pageant moves this way.

With what Devouring ravenous Eyes he ſwallows

The fair Deſtruction.

Amor.

Put my dear Loſt Mrs.

The poor Herminia, what a mournfull part

Haſt thou in this gay Scene. Too unkind King—

Was it for this, in thy firſt blooming Youth,

By thy Imperiall Fathers kind Commiſſion

A Viſitant in the fair Court of India,

That Early Votary t' Herminia's Eyes,

Thou knelſt at thoſe dear Feet— Sweet injur'd Goodneſs

My heart bleeds for thee.

Mir.

Troth ſo does not mine.

Amor.

How Mirvan, canſt thou ſee our Royall Mrs.

The poor neglected Queen, thus Scorn'd, thus Slighted,

Without one pitying Thought.

Mir.

A pitying Thought!

Faith none at all.

Amor.

Canſt thou be Man and ſay this?

Mir.

No, Fool, were I a man I ſhould not ſay this.

But when the curſed Luxury of Greatneſs

As the early brand of a Court Slave,

(A dog a nobler Creature) took Man from me,

It took Humanity too—Spight, darling Spight.

Amor.

But See the Queen and Princeſs

Mir.

Well if this fair Scythian Wanton

This white ſhe-devil do not prove at laſt

That firebrand, that State-Firebrand, as ſhall one day

Set Perſia in a Flame:—if this ſhe-Phaeton

Prove not at laſt the arranteſt State-grievance

E're ruin'd Monarch, or Suck't Nation poor,

May my Propheticks be believed no more.

Enter Queen and Clariſmunda.

Queen.

The Treaſure of my ſoul, my dear Lords Love,

The hoarded Maſs of a whole Ages Bliſs

All by one midnight Thief for ever loſt.

Clar.

Indeed my Royall Siſter thy ſad Story

Melts pity from my Eyes; and truſt me, dear Herminia,

[Page]My own unhappy Load of Miſeries

Have drein'd theſe Streams ſo low, their did not want

Thy Sufferings to rayſe a ſecond Spring.

Queen

This generous Senſe of my hard Fate ſpeaks thee

So truly kind—

Claris.

So truly juſt, Herminia.

For in the deep Reſentments of thy Wrongs

Mine is no common Share. 'Twas Clariſmunda

Was their unfortunate Cauſe. That infamous Creature

That Scythian Devill my unhappy Favourite;

By my miſtaken Charity to that

Deluding Face, the fatall Cockatrice Egg

Hatcht by my warmth to all this brood of Miſchiefe.

Queen.

Nay Clarismunda, charge not Thy fair Virtue

With ſo unjuſt a Stain. Thy part was innocent.

When angry Providence reſolves to kill

It eaſily finds the Means. Miſery, and

Misfortune ſtill like Weeds and poyſons Shoot.

Alas they want a very little Root.

Clar.

Sweet murmuring Turtle huſh thy mournfull plaints

And bear thy Soul above the Worlds poor ſpight.

Let thy dark ſhades make thy fair Truth more bright.

'Tis the True Diamond that ſhines by night.

And then the frowns of Fortune we out brave

When Grief is not our Tyrant but our ſlave.

Exeunt.

Enter Orontes diſguis'd attended onely by Briomar.

Oront

Yonder ſhe moves, my louring planet moves.

But why do I not follow her, run to her,

Run to my doom, and catch her blaſting fires.

Bid all her blazing Bolts of Thunder turn;

Court the Keen Lightning of her Eyes, and burn.

Briom.

Oh Royall Sir, think to what threatning Danger

Will your Raſh Love expoſe your Life and Glory.

Yes, if bold Truth may ſpeak, to what unprincely

Nay what unmanly Dangers.—

Oront.

Preaching fool

No more profane Reflections on a Cauſe

So ſacred.—

Briom.

Can there be a Cauſe ſo ſacred

To draw you forth from your abandon'd Kingdoms,

And in this poor Diſguiſe to quit your Throne?

Briomar

Oront.

Quit Thrones! quit Worlds, quit Earth and Heav'n my

Run mad, deſpair, and dye.

Briom.

Dye Sir!

Oront▪

Yes, dye.

To Deaths ſhort pain from lingring Tortures fly:

Plunge the Vaſt Deep, and launch to that bleſt ſhore

Where Clariſmunda's Scorn can kill no more.

Briom.

Death I confeſs is Woes laſt certain Remedy.

[Page]But when the Great ſeek Death, they ought to meet him

In the fair Paths of Glory. Poorly dying

Is worſe then baſely Living. Sir, conſider

You're born to Empire, hold the Charge of Kingdoms,

A Royall Cauſe, and a protected people;

Beſides behold a gathering Storm before you,

Arms at your Gates, and Vengeance round your Walls,

Advanceing Enemies, and puſhing Fate.

That Death thou ſeek'ſt, ſeek nobly, King. Crown'd Heads

Should not fall cruſht like poor deſpairing ſlaves,

But build their Monuments when they digg their Graves.

Oront.

Kind Briomar, I thank thy honeſt Love.

'Tis true the Charge of Empire lyes upon us.

Yet Heav'ns Vicegerents are not ſo all Gods

But we have a little of the Man about us.

Shackled with Soveraignty, and tyed up to Honour,

We are not ſo faſt to golden Fetters curſt,

But Love one Link of the long Chain may burſt.

Oh Briomar— I have that laſt Account yet to make up

To that Fair Tyrants Ear before I dye.

That as thou valueſt my Eternall Peace,

By all thy Loyalty I muſt conjure thee,

Under the ſhelter of this kind Diſguiſe,

To gain me an Acceſs. But one bleſt Minute

At Clariſmunda's Feet.

Briom.

But in this kind Diſguiſe can you ſo rule

Your maſter'd Paſſion, as to keep your ſhrow'd,

No frantick ſtart to burſt your guardian Cloud.

Sir, dare you promiſe me.—

Oront.

Yes I dare promiſe.

Shall I performe my Briomar?

Briom▪

How Sir.

Oront.

No more; I'le be obey'd.

Briom.

Then Sir, my Duty ſhall diſpute no more;

Th' Acceſs ſhall be obtain'd: Though I much fear

Effects too diſmall.

Oront.

Leave Effects to Fate:

Love ſpurs the Leap, and Danger Checks too late.

Exeunt.

Scene a Room of State.

Enter Celeſtina, Roſalin and Women.

Roſ.

Madam, five hundred Talents from the King,—

Cel.

Have Kiſt my Hand this Morning.

Roſ.

From Great Love

A fair preſented Sum.

Cel.

To buy me pins.

A ſmall Oblation. But my Royall Vaſſall

Remembers his Allegiance; knows his Duty,

And pays my Eyes their Tribute— Now, my Roſalin,

How doſt thou like the Port our Greatneſs bears?

[Page]Say is a Monarchs Heare a Toy worth wearing?

Roſal.

Your Conqueſt is a perfect Raign of Wonders.

Cel.

Nay, I have conquer'd now: And ſuch a Conqueſt,

That ſurfeited Delight, and gorged Ambition

Have drunk ſo deep, that they can thirſt no more.

Roſ.

Madam, the Princeſs —

Cel.

Ha! What brings her here. —perhaps

The Conſciencious Fool comes to Preach Honour,

Herminia's Wrongs, and Celeſtina's Fraylty;

If ſo; I am reſolv'd I will receive her

Like my great ſelf, the Miſtreſs of a Pow'r

The World's too weak to ſhake.

Enter Clarismunda.

Claris.

I ſtoop beneath My ſelf when I deſcend

To talk with Sin and Shame. But ſweet Herminia

A Champion in Thy Cauſe commanding Juſtice

Forgive the Faults offending Honour makes

No; the proud Theif, the Syren has undon thee

Shall not move off with Her Rich prize ſo tamely.

I'le talk with the gay Sin, and glittring Infamy.

Cel

Theſe happy Walls and their more happy Miſtreſs

Thus honour'd and thus grace'd! Beleive me Madam,

You've ſo ſurprized me with this wondrous Goodneſs,

Took me ſo unprepared for a Reception

Worthy of ſuch a Gueſt—

Claris.

Hold, there's no need

Of ſo much courtly Ceremony. All

I came to meet I've found, thy ſelf; and wiſh

The Viſitant I bring thee may receive

But half this promis'd welcome.

Cel.

If I am All

You came to ſeek, I am proud that you have found me,

And prouder to receive whate're Commands

Honour can give, or Honour can obey.

As ſuch, no doubt, you bring me, ſpeak Your pleaſure.

Clar.

Honour! Oh thou haſt named the richeſt Jem

That e're adorn'd the Fair True Honour, Beauties

Ineſtimable wealth; whilſt we wear Thee

We have inexhauſted Mines of endleſs Treaſure,

Enough t'enrich the world. Where Honour Shines,

Our Eyes are Sparks of Heaven, 'Tis that kind Sun

That lights 'em into Stars. The Great juſt Powers

Made us the faireſt work of their Creation,

Till our own faults our own defacing Shame

Unmakes the work of Gods.

Celeſt.

Ay, now you charm my Ear with raviſhing Muſick,

Honour our Sexes warmeſt Pride, Our whole

[Page]Devotion, Saint, Heaven, All we kneel and pray to.

And Madam, if thoſe Powers you name have made

Beauty the Maſter-ſtroak of their Creation,

I thank their Generous Moulding Hands Theſe Eyes

Are not their pooreſt ſtamp. And to do Juſtice

To Heavens unfiniſht Peice, I ſhall take care

In the bright ſphear to which my charms have rais'd me,

Not to unmake, but mend the work of Gods.

Clariſ.

The Sphear thy Charms have rais'd thee to! No thou

Gay gilded Vanity, call 'em thy Sorceryes,

The 'infatuating, falſe deluding Fires

Of Sin plumed up with Power, thou vile Uſurper.

Celeſt.

Uſurper! That diminitive Imp of Majeſty,

That puny poor Prerogative! no Madam

Your kinder Juſtice ſure can find my Glories

A fairer name.

Claris.

A fairer name!

Celeſt.

perhaps

The little Murmures Envy and Ignorance,

Have been too buiſy with your Royall Ear,

And breath'd my Name with their unhallow'd Lips.

But to correct th'ill manner'd Grin of Fools

Let the Kings Heart, and theſe victorious Eyes

Tell the vain babling world I raign by Conqueſt.

Claris.

What do I hear! Oh thou amazing Front

Of bluſhleſs Guilt! Thou ſit'ſt enthron'd in Sin then.

Hold'ſt thy black ſeate of ſhame by Claim and Title,

And ſtampſt a Royall Soverainty on Damnation.

Cel.

Madam, this Language—But no more

You are too blame, miſtaken angry Princeſs;

For when I ſhall enform that Peeviſh Snarler

For whom thou playſt the Champion, what good Offices

I've done her with the King, She'le have but ſmall

Occaſion of Complaint, For I muſt tell you

As my peculiar Grace I have given him Leave

T'allow her a fair Court, Guards and Attendants,

And all the Decency that ſuits her Quality.

Nay, and to ſhew you I'm more generous ſtill

I have permitted him to pay her the

Civilityes of a Wife.

Claris.

Civilityes!

Celeſt.

And let me tell you. 'Tis not

A Common Condeſcenſion in a Mrs.

To give a Wife that Liberty.

Claris.

Great Gods! This is beyond all mortall Patience.

She gives her Husband Leave; 'tis ſhe allows her;—

Her Favours all—

Oh poor Herminia, whither art thou fall'n,

aſide.

[Page]Brought thy rich Royall Veins from thy fair India,

To be a Penſioner to a vile Wanton;

Raign the Precarious Partner of a Throne.

But thou rank Weed, thou poyſonous plant of Death,

Oh that thou'dſt give thy Soul but ſo much Leiſure

As even to think—

Cel.

Think! I have Thought.

For Thinking's half the pleaſure

Claris.

No, thou too hardend Brow, didſt thou but know

What tis to be—

Cel.

The Mrs. of a King—

Yes, very well.

Clar.

The Mrs. of a King! no fair Perdition

Change that gay name and call thy ſelf a Prodigy.

Celeſt.

A Prodigy! Right; all made up of Wonders.

The very Thing I would be.

Claris

Barbarous Creature!

Is thy Lethargick Sleep of Death ſo deaf

To all th' Alarms of Infamy and Vengeance;

That not one frighting Dream nor waking Horror

Tells thee what hideous Loads of Woe thou haſt heap'd

On Wayling Innocence, the wrong'd Herminia;

Snatch'd a lov'd Lord from her embracing Arms,

And left her mourning Days and widow'd Nights:

Rob'd all her Deareſt Joys.

Celeſt.

'Tis, true, I have ſo.

And I confeſs the Loſs is ſomething hard.

But to repair that Loſs, tell the fair Mourner,

Her Charms are not ſo loſt, but thouſand Cupids

With thouſand Darts, and every Shaft a Heart,

Attend the dayly Triumphs of her Eyes.

Claris.

Oh my Chaſt Ears!

aſide.

Cel.

What though th' ungratefull King

Has play'd the Wanderer; can that fair Shrine

Want Homagers! The world is not ſo poor.

Claris.

Hold profane Inſolent! ſtop that ſulphurous Breath.

Rooted with horrour I have heard thee out;

And a chill Damp about my trembling Heart

Has but juſt left me blood enough to bluſh

That thou wert born of Woman.

Quick Let me fly that cloven footed Treaſon,

Leaſt yawning Earth, and ſwallowing Graves receive me.

Exit.

Cel.

Poor angry thing farewell; ſuch chattring Daws

Diſmount my Eagle Flight!

That bugbear Conſcience! No,

I've Loves whole Feaſt before me. And let thoſe

[Page]Dull puny ſqueamiſh Fools that dare not carve

Hug their Lean Virtue, pine, Deſpair, and ſtarve.

Exit.

Scene Changes.

Enter Herminia and Amorin.

Herm.

Art ſure this is the Kings Retiring Hour,

And this the place to meet him?

Amor.

Ev'ry Minute

His Preſence is expected. But dear Madam

I have one humble pray'r, that this ſmall ſervice

Of your Obedient ſlave be kept a Secret;

This is forbidden Ground, and 'twill be more

Then half the price of my poor Life to ſerve you.

Her.

Fear not ſweet Youth, I'le guard thee from that Danger.

Ex. Amo.

Forbidden Ground! Is Love a Crime ſo mortall?

And am I grown that poyſon to his Eyes!

Oh for the Spirit of the great Semiramis

To meet my wrongs, and ſtemm the ſtorm that ſinks me

No, I've too much the Mothers Milk within me,

Weep like a Girle, and bend beneath my ſufferings;

Nature intended me ſome humble ſhepherdeſs,

A Creature born to breath her plaints to Woods

And helpleſs Groves, to mix her feeble Tears

In murmuring Brooks; too weak to weild the Thunder,

And rowze the ſleeping Rage of injur'd Majeſty.

Enter King.

King.

Herminia! Ha! That Face, and in theſe Walls!

Methinks I feel a chilling Damp within me,

A ſecret check from thoſe accuſing Eyes—

Let my retiring ſhame—

going back.

Herm.

My Lord, my King!

King.

Madam—

Herm.

I have a Grace to beg. Not that I'd ask

Ungratefull Favours from You. But methinks

From all your long long Hours of happier Bliſſes,

Herminia, ſure, may beg one borrow'd Minute—

King

That painfull Minute

aſide.

Her.

There was once a day

When underneath my Native Royall Roof,

Th' Imperiall Towrs of the proud Indian Court,

To my firſt Virgin Charms a gawdy Train

Of ſuppliant Kings, all Captives to my Eyes

Knelt at my Feet, unleſs their Sighs deceive'd me,

(For they were men and 'tis a flattering World)

I think (if you have not quite forgot) my Lord

Was one of that fair Train, and loved me too,

[Page]Or elſe my Virgin heart was poorly won.

I think you lov'd— But if I am miſtaken,

Correct my Fault, and I will weep and mend it.

King.

This is too much thou murmuring Sweetneſs:

Dry up thy Tears, and weep no more.

Herm.

No more!

King.

No more; for truſt me

It is a ſhowr too rich to fall for me.

Herm.

Ah King, to dry theſe ever ſtreaming Sorrows,

Is not my work but Thine. To ſtop theſe Fountains

Shut thou the ſprings that feed 'em. Ah my Lord,

Remove the fatal cauſe of all theſe Tears

And then I'le ceaſe to mourn.

King.

Alas Herminia!

Upbraid my Guilt no more; but think me puniſht

Even in my very Sin: for when I am falſe

To ſo much Truth, a Love like thine; 'tis with

That conſcious Shame, and thoſe accuſing Horrours—

Herm.

That pleaſing Pride and thoſe tranſporting Charms:

Thou woud'ſt ſay—Poor Herminia, has no Charms

Or if ſhe e'er had any, even their very

Remembrance, like a laſt nights Dream, the thin

And vaniſhing Shaddow gone, they are all loſt

In Celeſtina's Arms, that fatall Raviſher

Of all my hopes, my Joys, my Life.

King.

Ah Madam,

Ceaſe this too killing Theme: conſider me

As a poor helpleſs Wretch driven headlong by

An unaccountable reſiſtleſs Power.

Alas, I wou'd be faithfull if I cou'd.

All that I can, command my bleeding heart,

My bending Neck, my Head beneath thy Feet:

Theſe I can grant; but do not ask impoſſibles.

Herm.

Impoſſibles! nay then I read my Fate.

King.

If it be Fate 'tis paſt our humane power

To reverſe Deſtiny, and in ſubmitting

T' immutable Decree exalted Virtue

Exerts her nobleſt Wiſdom Patience.

Herm.

Patience.

Enter Tygranes.

Yes Sir you take the neareſt way to teach it me,

For when your ſtrange unkindneſs gives me death,

I ſhall be huſht all Patience in my Grave.

King.

Madam, my Charity takes me from your ſight

The greateſt Height of pity we expreſs

To ſhut our Ears from Greifs we can't redreſs.

Offring to go.

Herm.

Oh ſtay upon my Knees I do conjure you.

[Page]Move not that way: That killing paſſage leads

To Celeſtina; And in all your Cruelty

Shew that poor Mercy to the loſt Herminia,

To ſtay one little Minute from her Arms.

Tygr.

Oh King, can ſo much Beauty plead in vain?

All thoſe rich pearle, thoſe dear fair Streams of Life

Drop from thoſe Eyes and unreguarded fall.

King.

My Brother!

Tygr.

My dread Lord, coud'ſt thou but think

What Glory waits on Majeſty, where Virtue

Shines the bright Jem of Diadems, that ſweetneſs

Need not have Knelt thus long.

King.

Tygranes!

Tygr.

Thou dear all Soveraign Goodneſs, turn but one

Kind look, and veiw that lovely Kneeling Mourner

Charming in Tears, and beauteous even in Ruines.

Herm.

Kind Prince, no more: ſpend not thy prodigall Breath

On a poor Outcaſt Wretch, not worth his Thought.

Tygr.

But one one Look. Think but what charms invite thee.

Humanity, Religion, Nature; the

Whole pitying World intreats thee back to Love.

Oh Sir conſider rayſe your mounting Thoughts

To the exalted charms of Godlike Vertue:

Think what ſoft Down in Loves rich Bed of Honour,

Fills the calm pillows of embracing Innocence.

King.

Oh my Tygranes.

Herm.

Yes my dear lov'd Lord

In theſe incircling Arms theſe chaſt Embraces

No guilty Dreams the ſtarts of frighted ſin

And pangs of aking guilt will wake your ſleeps,

But fair all Heav'nly Forms ſeale your clos'd Eyes,

And Quires of Angells lull your Golden ſlumbers.

King,

Alas my poor Herminia,

Herm.

Oh my Stars!

I ſee a dawning pity in his Eyes

Break forth my riſing Sun and make it all

Immortall Day and ever ſhining Joys.

Take Take your kneeling Mourner to your Arms;

Take me to love, be kind and bid me live,

And ſtab my bleeding breaking Heart no more.

King.

Thou talk'ſt, ſweet Murmurer—

Tygr.

Oh Sir embrace the bleſſed Minute,

Return to her dear Arms, return to all

The Joys of Earth and the Rewards of Heav'n:

Think but what ſhining Hoſt of Supliant Saints

Expand their Arms t' embrace thy bleſt Repentance.

King.

My dear Tygranes,

My Fame, my Crown, and my Imperiall Cauſe

Call thee to Arms, to Arms: My muſter'd Legions,

[Page]And marching Armies wait thee in their head.

Go forth my Son of War: the great To morrow

Leads to the Field.

Tygra.

Doubt not that great To morrow;

Be you but Juſt to day. Run to her Boſom:

Oh run, and take her to your pitying Mercy,

Myriads of Joys and thouſand thouſand Bliſſes—

King.

Battles and Arms! Hark the Shrill Trump Tygranes,

The Alarm of Honour calls.

Tygra.

The Trump of Virtue, King;

'Tis that that ſounds to call thy wandring Heart

To theſe abandon'd Arms.

King.

The Scythian Tyrant,

And Clarismunda's Wrongs.

Tygr.

The Scythian Sorcereſs,

Exit King forcing himſelf from them.

And loſt Herminia's, Wounds.

Queen.

Too cruell King.

Sure I am not the firſt unhappy Woman

That wept for Broken Vows, and faithleſs Man:

Yet ſure the firſt that ever wept ſo ſoon:

So Young, ſo early loſt, ith' very Morn

Of Love for ever ſett— Put generous Prince.

So much I owe thee for this wondrous Goodneſs;

What kind Return can this vaſt Debt defray?

What I am too Poor I muſt beg Heav'n to pay.

Exit.

Tygr.

Such charms and this unkind Return! Ah King,

Had thoſe dear Eyes but ſmiled on bleſt Tygranes

How had I lov'd! Oh Beauty, in thy whole Divinity

How narrow is thy Attribute of Mercy;

Thy Soveraign power of Life and Death ſo ſhackled,

That in a thouſand Bleeding hearts before thee,

Thy kind repreiving ſmile can ſave but one!

Nay, and that very ſingle Mercy too

Is often dealt with that unlucky Hand,

Made ſome ungratefull taſtleſs Infidells prize,

Whilſt periſhing Truth ſtands by and ſtarving dyes.

Exit.

Finis Actus Ter [...]ij.

ACT. IV. SCENE. I.

[Page]

Celeſtina and Roſalin.

Cel.

TH' Embraces of a King! Poor Satisfaction!

A Monarchs Darling, but a Kingdoms Loathing.

All a diſhonourd Blot, the Worlds cheap Theme,

And common Tale of every grinning ſlave.

The Queen!— Ay, ſhe ev'n in her loweſt ſufferings

Outſhines my talleſt Pride. The peoples Love

And th' univerſall pity of mankind

Like perfum'd Sweets embalm her fragrant Fame.

But me their Hate and Scorn; my very Sex

Stand at a Bay all frighted at my Name

And drive me like a hunted Fugitive

From out the Herd of Life. I cannot bear it.

Roſ.

Dear Madam—

Cel.

Oh thou lying Oracle, where's

My promiſt Mountains, all your Boaſted Miracles!

No; Flattring falſhood, tell thy Lord of Darkneſs

There is no Faith in Hell. Did'ſt thou not Promiſe

Falſe Propheteſs, that I ſhould raign in Pleaſure.

Roſ.

If Soveraignty, Dominion; if to hold

A King in Chains, and Crowns in Vaſſalage, be

To raign in Pleaſure, ſhe has perform'd that Promiſe.

Cel.

A King my Slave! poor narrow-bounded Throne!

Thin empty Bliſs; for in Poſſeſſing His,

I have loſt the Hearts of all the World beſide.

Nay what has all my mighty Conqueſt made me

That little deſpicable Wretch a Harlot.

Oh the foul Bliſter, Cankers and Diſeaſes!

Is there that humbleſt of my cringing Flatterers,

That waits th' upriſing of my morning Smile,

And pays me his (All Hayl) for the ſnatch'd bleſſing,

Even with thoſe Lips that kiſs the Earth I move on,

No ſooner is his fawning Face turn'd from me,

But with a low reviling Eye puts forth

His forked Tongue and hiſſes at my Shame.

Roſ.

Why all this fooliſh Murmur! Thus concern'd

For that Courſe Vulgar Blaſt the Popular Breath!

Does your exalted Greatneſs want Their Love!

It is enough they fear you. Fear the nobleſt

Prerogative, 'twas Fear that firſt made Gods.

Cel.

No, Girle, this Shallow Sophiſtry —

Roſ.

Nay Madam

[Page]Your Witches and your Propheycing Devils

I'm ſure have done their Part. And if you have ſtill

A giddy roving uncontented Thought,

E'ne blame your own unſatisfyed deſires:

If Womans vain Ambition covets more

Then all Hell has to give, 'tis not Hells Fault but Womans.

Cel.

But oh my Roſalin, I cannot bear

This publick Odium of the World and live.

Only the Miſtreſs of his looſe Deſires.

His burning Kiſſes all but Sooty Fires.

That little Outly of his Love, his Miſtreſs.

Roſ.

His Miſtreſs!

Why wou'd you be his Queen?

Cel.

His Queen! Ay, that's

A name indeed, that Sacred Poſt of Honour;

Myriads of pleaſures wait the hallow'd Brightneſs;

A Solid Heaven of Conſtellated Bliſſes,

Subſtantiall Power, untainted Glory: Then

I ſhould have Hearts as well as Knees to ſerve me.

Roſ.

His Queen!—Why truly Madam, ſince your Wiſhes

Muſt ſoar ſo high, I know no wondrous Stops

That hold their Flight, conſidering your Aſcendant,

The Eyes you wear, and the fond Heart you govern

Cel.

Ha▪

Roſ.

Were the Gordian Bar remov'd between you.

The golden Fruit would meet your reaching Hand,

And fairly bid you carve your own Deſires.

Cel.

The Gordian Bar remov'd! and fairly carve

My own Deſires!—What Bar but poor Herminia?

That feeble Thred—Thou dear inſpiring Devil!

Oh what a mountain Thought of vaſt Ambition—

Comes pouring ore me like a rolling Deluge.

Roſ.

Madam, Young Mirvan the Queens favourite Evnuch.

Waits for Acceſs as your petitioner.

Cel.

Mirvan!

Admit him.

Enter Mirvan.

Mir.

Madam, amongſt the univerſall Knees

All bending to ſalute the riſing Sun,

Might poor I dare t'implore one ſmiling Beam.

Cel.

Puſh thy fair ſuit, and try thy generous Fortune.

Mirv.

Then Madam, I've a Brother, and a Brother

Not born like me to curſe his riffled Cradle:

A Brother that writes Man, and would write Man

In Characters of Blood. A Youth that dares

As much as Courage can, or Honour ought.

And tho' his praiſe ſuits not my Mouth, to give

Fair Truth her due, he wears a Sword, he thinks

Too brave to ruſt, a Boy that wou'd lead Men;

And therefore begs by me your gracious Intereſt

[Page]For a Commiſſion for him.

Cel.

If thy Brother,

Sweet Boy, but fights with half the Grace thou ſueſt

He might lead Armys: Well, kind Advocate,

He ſhall have a Commiſſion, and a Noble one.

Mirv.

Thus low my Kneeling Gratitude—

Cel.

Riſe Mirvin.—

This Boy well manag'd—

aſide.

Riſe, my pretty Suppliant,

Thou look'ſt and talk'ſt ſo winningly, there's nothing

I can deny to that petitioning Face.

Mirv.

My Face! 'Tis well

I have a Face to beg a Ladys favour.

aſide.

Cel.

Well, gentle Boy, ſuch early Wit as Thine

Tells me thou know'ſt the World. How doſt thou like

The pleaſures of a Court!

Mirv.

How ſhou'd I like

What I want pow'r to taſte?

Cel.

Nay, fye, my Boy.

Thou wrongſt my Innocent meaning.

Mirv.

Then to anſwer

Your Innocent meaning with an Equall Innocence,

That downright Truth your Bounty merits from me

How can I love the Court who hate the World?

Cel.

Thou hate it. What have Thy young Years to quarrell at,

That thou ſhould'ſt hate the World!

Mirv.

I had a Father in't.

And for his ſake I hate it.

Cel.

For his ſake!

Mirv.

A poor meanſpirited Slave, that got me Man,

And for a wretched Bribe of the Court Gold

Unmade the Thing he got me — For which I owe him

My honeſt hearty Curſes in his Grave,

And for his ſake hate the whole loath'd Creation.

Cel.

How Mirvan if thou hate'ſt the whole Creation,

Thou muſt hate me, and 'tis not ſafe to talk with thee.

Mirv.

Nay Madam (and beleive I Scorn to flatter)

Of all the hated World I love you beſt:

Becauſe I fancy all thoſe Charms were given you

To do a little Miſcheif in the World,

That darling Miſtreſs of Eyes dear Miſchief.

Cel.

Hate the whole world beſide? and I alone

The favourite! Nay this is kind indeed.

But may I truſt that Kindneſs?

Mir.

Truſt me Madam!

Now by thoſe Eyes I ſwear, thoſe brig [...]t Incendiaryes

What is't I dare not do to ſerve that fair Deſtruction.

Play the proud Juno and command me Labours

Like a young Hercules; and if I ſhrink or tire

Say I've a Soul as abject and as baſe

As the poor frame the Imp of man that holds it.

[Page]Cel.

This is ſo generous—

Mirv.

Truſt me ſay you.

Nay I will truſt you Firſt; and with a ſecret

Of that prodigious weight.

Cel.

The rareſt Tool!

Mirv.

Know then the Queen, the more then Widow'd Queen,

Too ſad a Mourner at your fatall Triumph

In pure Deſpair for her deſerting Lord

Reſolves this very night—

Cel.

Oh my big Hopes!

aſide.

Mir.

In a diſguiſe to leave the Court and Kingdom;

And bury all her Sorrows in a Cloyſter.

Cel.

To my beſt wiſh!

[aſide.]

Mir.

For this Religious Voyage

Who ſhould ſhe chooſe her Pilot but my ſelf;

Her ſingular Truſt of my confiding Truth,

Has pickt out Me, her only leading Guide

T' her Melancholy Cell.

Peruſe this Letter,

Committed to my Care to leave behind her

As her laſt farewell to her unkind Lord.

Cel.

Reads.

Letter.

That I have lov'd you even to a Superſtition, planted my very Heav'n in Love, the Transports of my Despair too plainly teſtify. But when my feeble fraylty can bear my Wrongs no longer, pardon the Effects of what Your Ʋnkindneſs is but the too fatal Cauſe, when I thus fly from ſo much Inhumanity to the Arms of a kinder Heaven.

Herminia.

Mir.

Now Madam, as you like it, make your beſt on't.

Cel.

Oh Mirvan! now I muſt beleive thou loveſt me.

This is ſo kind a Truſt. Thou toldſt me too

That thou lov'dſt Miſchief.

Mir.

Faith, won'd You durſt try.

How much I love it.

Cel.

Sayſt thou ſo, my Boy!

Nay then darſt thou be kind, and let me in

A Party to this Plot, a kind Aſſiſtant

To hand this Mourning Wanderer to her Cell!

Say, darſt thou let me chooſe her Cloyſter for her?

Mir.

With all my Soul. If any Noble Spight

Glow warm within your Breaſt, ſet it a blazing.

At that ſweet Game form your own deareſt Wiſh,

And mould Your ſlave to ſerve you.

Cel.

To my Arms

Thou kindeſt little Engine, ſerve me, but

As the Rewards I'le pay thee ſhall deſerve,

And melt me into Gold.

Mir.

Alas dear Madam,

There needs not a Reward to buy my Faith.

Be but your Great Deſigns what I can wiſh 'em,

Without the needleſs Bribe of Gold or Treaſure,

I wou'd give Wealth to purchaſe ſuch a pleaſure.

Exeunt.

[Page] Scene Changes. Enter Orontes diſguis'd.

Oron.

From Scythia's Throne, and my proud Armies Head,

From ſofter Majeſty, and rougher Wars

All glittering Plumes, all my once bright Regalia

Stript to this narrow Shrowd to wrap my Woes,

And bring my Death to Clariſmunda's Feet.

Oh Love! How unaccountable's thy Power.

Enter Clariſmunda attended.

Clar.

From that loath'd Name—

Oront.

From that loath'd Name Orontes

To that lov'd Heaven, his cruel Clariſmunda,

He has commanded theſe Commiſſion'd Knees

To beg one liſtning Minute.

Clar.

Your Petition

Is an Ungrateful Theme. Yet I am not

So deaf to my worſt Foe, but my kind Patience

Shall lend the Ear thou ask'ſt.

Oront.

Thus then by me

That Sentenc'd Criminal ſpeaks. If by that faireſt Hand

Death ſhakes his Glaſs, and waves his Brandiſh'd Shaft;

If executing Deſtiny's gone forth,

And meager Graves with all their hungry Yawn

Wait their laſt Gorge of poor Orontes Blood:

To his ador'd deſtroying Angels Ear,

Thus breath his Dying Accents.— Oh Bright Madam!

If Tears that would melt Rocks, if Groans enough

To wake the Sleep of Tombs; if tortur'd Conſcience

Above the very Pangs of loſt Eternity.

And to all theſe a Penitence ſo true,

Enough to unlock Heaven.—If theſe, all theſe

Might beg his Life from Cruel Clariſmunda, —

Clar.

Could all theſe beg his Life —

Oront.

And with that Life

His Clariſmunda's Love

Clar.

My Love!

Oront

Thy Love,

Dear, all Divine! For without Love 'tis Death ſtill.

Oh could that dear forgiving Mercy take

A pardon'd Penitent to thoſe dear Arms,

Not Ranſom'd Slavery, not Life Reprieved,

Not Crown'd Ambition, nor tranſlated Martyr,

Half, half ſo bleſs'd as he! To thoſe fair Eyes

He'd raiſe thoſe Monuments of mighty Love

Should out-live Worlds; and finiſhing Time cloſe up

His laſt Recorded Volume with the Story

How bleſs'd Orontes loved.

Clar.

Miſtaken Advocate

[Page]To have tryed the Eloquence of thoſe ſoft Sounds,

They ſhould have ſpoke before Orſanes Death.

Oront.

And does that Louring Viſion wake for ever;

The loſt Orontes Crime ſo all impardonable!

Clar.

So impardonable, that

To leave the World with my loud wrongs unrighted,

When I ſhall meet my great Forefathers Souls,

'Twould make me bluſh in Heaven.

Oront.

Too Cruel Fair!

Clar.

Sir, I muſt hear no more. Go bear your Maſter

This Anſwer, as my fix'd Eternal Vow,

I will have my Revenge: But tell him too

So much I owe to his Repenting Tears

That when my Arming Wrongs that hunted Blood

Shall ſpill, I'll give the Executing Blow,

Calm as the Prieſteſs at an Altar Kills,

Yet ſtill muſt Kill.

Oront.

But can that Beauteous Prieſteſs

Accept no gentler Sacrifice, no leſs

Appeaſing Victim than the poor Orontes

All ſtreaming Blood? And is one Thought of Mercy

That ſtrange Impoſſible?

Clar.

So much Impoſſible,

Perhaps beyond the Grave I may forgive him,

On this ſide Death I muſt not.

Oront.

Then dear Cruelty,

Diſcovers himſelf.

Take, take my thirſted Blood.

Clar.

Good Gods, Orontes!

Oh King! How poorly thou haſt thy ſelf undone?

Haſt put thy wretched Life into my Power;

And I muſt tamely take it. Hadſt thou met

My Nobler Vengeance in thy Armies head,

Thruſt thy bold Breaſt againſt ten thouſand Javelins,

Thou might'ſt have fall'n with Honour, Honour, King!

But now, now I muſt take this poor Advantage.

(Thou kill'ſt Orſanes poorly)

Forget thou art a King, Uncrown'd, Unthroned,

Led like a Vulgar Slave, bound in Vile Chains,

And at the Tomb of the great Cyrus, there,

There through thy humble naked yielding Throat

Hew out my Vengeance, carve thy bleeding Heart

A Sacrifice to Clariſmunda's wrongs.

My Guards, my Slaves there.

Enter Attendants, Guards.

1 Attend.

Madam, Your Commands?

Clar.

If your loſt Honour, and your bleeding Country,

[Page]An injur'd Monarch, and a Kingdoms ſhame,

Can rouze your Swords—

Oront.

Strike, ſtrike 'em through this Breaſt.

Yes, generous Perſians, behold before ye

The black Orontes, Scythias Tyrant Lord,

Stain'd in the Blood of Thouſand, Thouſand Perſians;

And the deplored Orſanes barbarous Murderer.

But bear me to the Tomb of your great Cyrus;

There hew your Vengeance, carve my bleeding Heart

A Sacrifice to Clariſmundas Wrongs.

Clar.

So pleas'd with Fate! Then thou'rt in love with Death!

Oront.

So much in Love, that on my Knees I'll meet it.

I wear a Load of uſeleſs Life about me;

And thou'rt ſo kind to eaſe me of my Burthen.

Now Gentlemen, perform your Royal Charge:

Bear me to Death, to Death with the Vile Monſter.

Loaded with Chains, led forth a publick Spectacle

To pointing Infamy and hiſſing Scorn:

For that fair Doom will have it ſo.

Clar.

Will have it ſo!

Orant.

Quick, quick, ye tedious Slaves

Can ſhe ſpeak Death, and you want Wings to execute?

Let not Crown'd-Head, nor King, thoſe titular Sounds

Tye up your Hands, thoſe forfeit Names my Crimes

And this wrong'd Fair—

But bear me to my Death, to Scaffolds, Gibbets,

Stript to a Naked Dungeon Malefactor,

Tread my cruſh'd Soul.—

Clar.

Stand off ye Impious Villains!

A Monarch's Blood, and ſhed by Hangmens hands!

Oh, whither was my Fleeting Glory going!

His bending Neck like a tame bleating Sacrifice,

A ſtroke beneath my Scorn— But haſte Arſaces.

Raiſe all my Perſian Guards, and in their Head

Go, bear him back, back to his moving Armies,

Safe to his headed Legions. There Orontes,

At the Proud Front of all thy Royal Squadrons,

With Groves of Spears, and walling Shields around thee,

Rich in thy Creſted Plumes, and Glittering Steel,

Worthy the Perſian Swords, and Clariſmundas Vengeance,

Strike then my Arm of Fate.

Oront.

Oh wondrous Honour!

Even in amazing Cruelty!

Clar.

Yes Scythian.

Though all the Perſian Bolts

[Page]Are levell'd at that Heart, thy Blood Orontes,

My whole rich Game of Death; yet not to ſnare

My hunted Lyon in Ignoble Toils—

No, King; Return, return; thy Crown, thy Arms,

And Royal Standard want thy leading Sword.—

Oront.

So brave a Foe!—

Clar.

Reſerve thy Sword thy Anſwer:

Arm'd at the head of ſlaughter'd Fields, there Scythian

Fall thy great ſelf, Die warm my Royal Enemy;

To morrows hotter Veins my Vengeance pay:

Thy Blood Orontes is too cold to Day.

Exit.

Oront.

Die warm! Yes, Generous Foe, thy envy'd Glory

Shall light my Fire; Deſpair to Fury turn:

In my laſt Flaſh my brighteſt Blaze ſhall burn.

Through Blood and Death move on 'gainſt all thy odds,

Thy Wrongs, the Arming World, and battailing Gods!

For by thoſe Eyes a Sacrifice decreed,

'Tis juſt I ſhould a glorious Victim bleed.

Exit.

Scene Changes. Enter Celeſtina, and Roſalin.

Cel.

The Bolt is ſhot, and now a Crown ſtand fair.

aſide.

Roſ.

Madam, I'm all Amazement at the News!

Cel.

Amaz'd, at what? To hear a mad young wife

Has took a Midnight's Ramble!

Roſ.

But the Queen!

Oh Madam! Certainly ſome ſtrange Deſpair

Has cauſed this Secret Flight, perhaps to ſeek

Some ſolitary Grot to Sigh and Die.

Cel.

To Sigh and Die! Poor innocent Simplicity!

What if ſhe's ſtoln to ſome retiring Solitude,

To meet a private Lover?

Roſ.

How! a Lover!

Cel.

Mark the Truth, I tell thee

That very thing a Lover.

Roſ.

'Tis impoſſible!

Such Tears, and ſo much Nuptial Faith —

Cel.

Why, All

That's nothing: Womans Truth like Womans Beauty,

Is not a thing Immortal.

Roſ.

But dear Madam,

Herminias rigid Principles of Honour,

And her fond Sighs even for her Faithleſs Lord,

Admit a Lawleſs Love!

Cel.

Though it be Lawleſs

Is it not Love ſtill, Fool?

Enter King.

King.

Dear Sovereign of my Soul,

[Page] Aſia's fair Pride, and Perſia's more than Conqueror,

Thou all amazing Brightneſs to my Boſom.

Cel.

Oh Prince! Encircled in theſe Arms, methinks

The Tranſport of my Joys bears my wing'd ſoul ſo high

Till I look down on Under-Worlds beneath me.

King.

Look down indeed, thou dear Triumphant Fair,

Whilſt thoſe poor Under-Worlds all bluſhing own

Their whole Creation cannot match theſe Eyes.

Cel.

Nay, now you flatter.

King.

By thoſe ſweets I cannot.

For thine are Charms above the reach of Flattery.

But, Madam, t'add one Trophy to your Eyes,

The poor Reſenting Queen (wouldſt thou believe it)

Is this Night fled from Court.

Cel.

Alas, poor pittied Sweetneſs!

King.

Prithee be kind, and Read this murmuring Scrole,

A Farewel Letter ſhe has left behind her.

Celeſt. Reads.

That I have Loved you to a Superſtition, planted my very Heaven in Love.—Your Ʋnkindneſs is the too Fatal Cauſe when I thus fly —to the Arms of a kinder Heaven.

Herminia.

King.

That ſhe is gone, and th'angry Cauſe that drives her,

Her Letter ſpeaks too plain. But whither gone?

That ſhe has wrap'd in Myſtery. I ſuppoſe

I muſt be kept in Darkneſs from that Secret.

Gel.

Darkneſs and Myſtery! Why is there any thing

In this plain, eaſie, naked, honeſt Letter

Writ in that Cypher that it wants a Key to't?

King.

Why, Canſt thou Read her meaning?

Cel.

Fie, my Lord,

Can you not Read it?—Why this idle Queſtion?

You will not Read it, Sir.—And 'tis ſo generous

I love you for this goodneſs.

King.

Will not Read it!

Cel.

Ay, will not, muſt not: And 'tis Noble in you.

A little innocent Ignorance is ſometimes

A Manly Virtue, worthy even a King.

King.

Madam, This is all Riddle!

Cel.

Riddle!— Nay, Sir, as if you did not know

Where, and to whoſe Embracing Arms ſhe's gone.

King.

Arms, and Embraces!

[Page]Cel.

Ah poor Lady!

We little gueſs the pains of ſlighted Love.

But her Deſpair has took the wiſeſt remedy.

Her Griefs found a very gentle Cure.

Nay, ſhe's ſo kind to make it her Confeſſion,

And you're more kind to wink at little Frailties

King.

Still you talk in Clouds.

Has ſhe made you the Confident of her Flight,

Or is there ought coucht in that myſtick Scrole

My ſhallow Reaſon has not depth to fathom!

If ſo, 'twere kind you would inſtruct my weakneſs.

Cel.

Nay, if you'll force me then to play th'Interpreter,

T'explain a Ladies bluſhing weakneſs. Mark Sir—

She tells you firſt ſhe lov'd t' a Superſtition,

Planted her very Heav'n in your embraces.

And when that ſlighting unkind Heav'n forſakes her,

Tells you, as honeſtly, to ſupply your room,

She'as choſe the Arms of a much kinder Heav'n;

And pray what Heav'n, what Arms, but kind Tygranes?

King.

My Brother! ha!

Cel.

You know he's gone to th' Camp:

And ſhe's as kindly gone to meet him there.

King.

God's! 'tis impoſſible▪

Cel.

Nay, to convince you.

'Tis now ſtale news, even Boys and Varlets talk it.

King.

Confuſion!

Cel.

The young Mirvan, Sir's, my Oracle.

That uſhering Squire to her amorous Errantry;

The Boy (as Boys will talk) the mighty Secret

Alas, too weighty for his tender ſtrength,

Amongſt his ſmall Companions at their parting,

Dropt it behind him, and the Tale thus handed

Amongſt my laughing Slaves it reacht my Ear.

King.

So hot my Minion,

A follower of a Camp,

A Leaguer Devil.—

Cel.

Nay, now you're too unkind. What has ſhe done!

Remember, Sir, ſhe brought you Youth and Beauty,

And ſcarcely taſted Love before ſhe loſt it;

And if poor Lady, forſaken thus unkindly,

It takes ſome harmleſs freedom. Is't ſo great

A Fault in our poor Sex to look abroad

Only to borrow what we've loſt at home!

King.

My Brother too, that Preaching Saint her Stallion!

Cel.

Oh fie, Sir, ſuch hard Words, and ſuch ſad Names!

[Page]King.

Damnation! This is Impudence enough

To fire the Veins of Statues. Had ſhe plaid

The private Wanton, took her ſcapes in Covert,

In Groves or Shades—But in the face of Day.

To run t' a Camp, and publiſh my Diſhonour

Before Two hundred thouſand Witneſſes,

Like a trail'd Scent for the whole Hunting World

To run me down a Monſter—

Cel.

Now the kind Gods defend your Sacred Peace.

Why all this Rage?

King.

Death! At an Armies head;

The Din of War to tune her ſporting Dalliance,

'Larm'd to Luſt, and Trumpeted to Infamy!

Cel.

Nay, if I thought I ſhould have rais'd this Storm! —

King.

Now, by the Fame of all my Royal Anceſtors

That ſleep beneath the Duſt, or wake above the Stars

If I ſhow Mercy on 'em —

Cel.

How, Sir, Mercy!

King.

Bring the returning Fiends but to my reach;

Not [...]terceding Victory, Crowns, Laurels,

The Conquer'd Scythia, nor Orontes Head

Shall buy their forfeit Lives.

Cel.

How, Sir, their Lives! Oh Heavens what have I done!

King.

Madam, forgive me one retiring Minute,

And think no common Fire my Boſom warms,

When it has pow'r to ſnatch me from theſe Arms.

Exit.

Cel.

Both, both their Lives! A hearty Promiſe King,

And I'll take care thou ſhalt perform as heartily.

Yes, through their Hearts my path to Empire lies;

Chalk'd out ſo plain my Devils muſt booty play,

If in ſo fair a Walk I miſs my way.

Exeunt

Scene, A Camp Enter Herminia and Mirvan.

Mirv.

Command the Chariot to attend.

Queen.

Where is't thou lead'ſt me, Boy!

Mirv.

To a Cloyſter, Madam.

The ſilent Cell for your repoſing Sorrows.

Queen.

But Boy, is this my way! Methinks I hear,

The ſound of neighing Steeds, and ecchoing Trumpets,

And view a ſpacious Plain before me, cover'd

With Tents and Standarts, ſay, my gentle Boy

Where am I?

Mirv.

In the Camp?

Queen.

Ha! In the Camp.

Mirv.

The Perſian Camp.

Queen.

Oh Boy, What haſt thou done?

[Page]Mirv.

Nothing, dear Madam; only executed

Your dread Commands.

Queen.

Mine!

Mirv.

Since the Glorious choice

Of your retiring Solitude, a ſhrine

Worthy ſo bright a Saint, was Charge, too weighty

For my young Years, I have conducted you

This way, that kind Tygranes—

Queen.

How! Tygranes!

Mirv.

Yes, Madam, that that generous Prince's care

May be your Nobler Guide, and kindly finiſh

That Sacred Truſt my weakneſs undeſerves.

Queen.

Good Heaven! The Prince!

Mirv.

Madam, I have ſent for him.

Pardon th'officious Zeal of your poor Slave.

Queen.

Thou raſh unthinking Boy

Enter Tygranes.

Mirv.

And ſee he's here.

Tygr.

Madam, a pleaſing, but ſurprizing Meſſage

Told me, that that all beauteous Excellence

My Camp thus Honour'd with her Royal Preſence,

Was pleas'd t'have ſome Commands for poor Tygranes.

Queen.

Commands, Tygranes! No; that idle Boy,

That naughty thing — Oh Prince, I am all Confuſion.

Tygr.

Let not a faint deſire check your fair Thoughts.

Nor doubt your Vaſſals Honours, nor Obedience

If there's ought lodg'd within that Sacred Breaſt,

There needs no more than that dear Breath of Life,

To ſpeak and to create.

Queen.

Alas Tygranes,

I know not what to ſay: And yet my Silence

Has ſuch a guilty Look Forgive my Bluſhes,

And I will ſpeak, Oh Prince, deſpairing Loves

Tormenting Pangs have brought this wretched wanderer,

Stoll'n from a hated Court.

Tygr.

How, Madam!

Queen.

Stoll'n

From all the Syrens Songs, and Circes Bowls

That from theſe Arms have ſtoll'n my deareſt Lord.

I have left th'uneaſie Load of tarniſh'd Diadems,

In ſome lone Cell to ſeek my Peace and Grave —

But this unlucky Guide, this fooliſh Boy—

Mirv.

My Royal Miſtreſs too much Honour'd Confident.

But the important Charge too great, my Zeal

For her dear Service has ſurpriz'd her hither,

Only t'implore your kind aſſiſting Hand —

[Page]Tygr.

Madam, in this raſh Deed, what have you done!

Queen.

Done Tygranes!

Left Infidelity, Ingratitude,

Falſe Oaths, gay Sin, and glitt'ring ſhame behind me.

Tygr.

Yes left Shame, to meet Shame.

Queen.

What ſays Tygranes!

Tygr.

What all Mankind muſt ſay. Oh Madam, think,

Think what reflecting Names the cenſuring World

Muſt give ſo frail a weakneſs. Fled from Court,

Run, poorly run!

Queen.

Yes, with my wrongs.

Tygr.

Wrongs, Madam!

Are Wrongs ſo heavy as to out-weigh Honour!

Queen.

And is it that diſhonourable Flight

To quit the World, to ſeek the Arms of Heaven?

Tygr.

Heaven muſt be ſought as Heaven preſcribes our ſeeking

Thou art a Wife, Herminia; and the Seal

Of plighted Faith, entail'd Obedience on thee.

Is this Commiſſion'd Flight thy Lords Command?

Or 'cauſe he breaks his Vows, muſt thou break thine?

Queen.

What's this I hear?

Tygr.

Wou'dſt thou ſeek Heaven, Herminia,

A noble Patience is thy Scale to mount it.

Is it a pain to live too near thy wrongs,

To ſee thy Lord run Faithleſs from thy Arms

To an Adultreſs Bed? Let thy wet Eyes

Turn from his Shame, and weep for his Converſion.

If he be Falſe, wait his return to Truth:

But if he ne'r return, perform Thy part:

Finiſh thy lingring mourning Race of Martyrdom

And 'win the Crown of Love.

Queen.

Oh Prince, thou talk'ſt—

Tygr.

As thou ſhouldſt Act Herminia. But this mean

Ignoble Flight will blemiſh all thy Brightneſs.

Thy Fame, thy Virtue, thy Religion, all

ſtand frighted at the Thought.

Queen.

Kind Prince, no more.

Tygr.

Yes, one thing more, let my prevailing Pray'rs

Recall thy wandring Reaſon, and return thee

To thy ungrateful Lord.

Queen.

Enough, dear Prince,

You've wak'd my Shame, and touch'd my Soul ſo near,

That I muſt follow where ſuch Glory leads:

Tygr.

Then inſtantly I'll diſpatch a kind Expreſs

T'excuſe thy bluſhing Fault, and ſmooth thy way.

Till then, this Night accept a poor Pavilion;

[Page]Too mean a Palace: But Reſpect and Reverence

Shall make up what the humble Roof has wanting.

Queen.

Diſpoſe me as you pleaſe.

Tygr.

To Morrow's Sun decides the face of Scythia.

If Victory ſhall pleaſe t'attend my Chariot,

I'll be my ſelf thy proud returning Guard.

But if I fall, with my laſt dying Breath

To the ſurviving World I will bequeath thee,

A charge worthy the World, protected Innocence.

Mirv.

It goes on rarely.

Tyg.

Look up, dear Madam; Heav'n may ſtill have Joys;

Reſerved. But if of all all hopes bereft,

Thy wrongs are all thy mournful portion left;

Shine through thy Clouds, bear thy fair Head above

The frowning World, and mount a ſmiling Star.

In all thy Loads, too low diſdain to ſtoop

'Tis brave to ſuffer, when 'tis poor to droop.

Queen.

Herm. Oh Prince, thou haſt read me ſo Divine a Leſſon▪

And painted Ruine in a Face ſo lovely,

That thou haſt tuned my Soul to all the Muſick

Of a whole Quire of Angels, Yes Tygranes,

To my too cruel Lord I will return

Return to all the Pangs, to all the Miſeries

Of ever mourning Love; Life's bitter Draught

Lift to my Lips with that unſhaking Hand —

For oh thou haſt taught me to be greatly wretched

To be Divinely Bleſt.

Tygr.

Do this Herminia!

Queen.

No more my wandring Pilgrimage, no, Prince,

I'll build my Houſe of Sorrow in a Palace,

Under my Roof of Gold a Hermit dwell;

A Court my Cloyſter, and a Throne my Cell.

Exeunt all but Mirv.

Mirv.

So now the Toil is ſet, and dear Deſtruction

Comes rolling on apace. What a vaſt Pile

Of Ruine ſhall I build. 'Tis hard Herminia,

And I could pity thee—Why ſhould I pity?

My bloody Cradle, and my barbarous Parents,

And ſhall I feel remorſe; when ev'n my Father

To his own Blood ne'r felt it. No, vain pity,

Seek ſofter Breaſts; mine has no room to lodge thee.

Beſides, I move by that commanding Influence

I know not, Celeſtina, by what Charm

But thou haſt bound my Soul, and Nerv'd my Arm,

Joyn'd in thy Cauſe, we that bright Comet Reign,

Thou the Fair Star, and I the Blazing Train.

Exit.

ACT V.

[Page]

Enter Celeſtina, Mirvan, and Roſalin.

Cel.

REturning home Victorious!

Mir.

If to leave

A hundred thouſand Foes in Battle ſlain.

If Conquer'd Scythia, and the great Orontes

Led home in Perſian Chains can write Victorious,

Tygranes wears that Title.

Cel.

And to grace

His Victory he brings the beauteous Fugitive

A fair Attendant t'his Triumphant Chariot,

To court the Kind forgiving King's Reception

Of the returning Wanderer.

Mir.

If her Religious Ramble (as I've manag'd it)

Has not a little pav'd her Path too rough,

Some ſuch good natur'd Office he intends her.

Cel.

And thou my little Harbinger kindly com'ſt

Before 'em to prepare me for their Welcome.

Mir.

Yes, Madam, That's my Errand. For to give

My ſelf, and dear ſweet Villany their due,

Miſchief and I have both rid Poſt to ſerve you.

Cel.

My deareſt little Devil, how I love thee!

But, Mirvan, after this firſt lucky hit,

Dareſt thou be generous, and play out thy Game!

Mir.

Dare! Can you doubt my Courage, or my Conſtancy?

Is glorious Treaſon a deſign too great,

Or this Young Arm too daſtard? Have I launch'd

Thus far and ſtood thus firm to ſtagger now?

By my fair Truth this poor Suſpicion wrongs me.

Cel.

It does indeed, ſweet Youth, forgive my Fears:

I know thy honeſt Truth too well — to truſt it.

aſide.

But my kind Boy, I am afraid I have kept thee

Awake too long. I know this Nights hard Travel

Has tired thy tender Limbs, and thou want'ſt Reſt.

To Bed, my Boy; and when thou haſt repos'd awhile

I'll ſend, my pretty Engineer, and call thee.

Retire ſweet Boy, and Sleep —

Exit Mirvan.

—Thy laſt; young Fool.

Thy Bed, thy Grave. Yes, my kind honeſt Traytor

Thy hand has done me too much faithful Service

To leave thee a dangerous Tongue alive to ſpoil it.

[Page]Beſides my little Tool, my ripining Plot

Has buſineſs for thy Death: And bet thy Glory:

As thou haſt liv'd, ſo thou ſhalt ſerve me Dead.

And therefore ſleep thy laſt.—Now my deſigns

Are all in my own Breaſt. Treaſon's a Jewel

When the rich Cabinet has but one Key.

They're only truly Great who are ſafely ſo.

Roſ.

Well, Madam, Your Propheticks are all Oracles:

And the mad roving Queens amazing Ramble

Has fill'd the World with wonder.

Cel.

Fame indeed

Talks ſomething loud.—

Roſ.

'Tis true, the Prince has ſent a ſoft Expreſs,

And ſmoothly laid it all upon Religion.

Cel

Religion in a Camp.— Ah, Girl, if the

Soft King has eaſie Faith enough about him

To think no warmer a Devotion hatch'd

This gentle Pilgrimage, than Zeal and Prayer-Books.

No, Roſalin, he's not that blind believer;

I fear thou'lt find that rougher Faith about him,

A gathering that black Storm as will rain Blood.

Roſ.

Herminia's Blood, and Celeſtina's Glory,

Her Scaffold, and your Coronation.

Cel.

Right;

That fullen Hour that wraps her head in Duſt

Wreaths mine in Diadems. Herminia's Grave

The Baſis of my Pyramide. 'Tis true,

It is a little hard, thou poor Herminia,

To cut ſo keen as I muſt. But Ambition,

Ambition gives the blow; and when that ſtrikes

Remorſe nor Pity, no faint check controuls

That two-edg'd Fate tho' bar'd with Lives and Souls.

Exeunt.

Enter Tygranes, Herminia, and Orontes Priſoner. Guards and Attendants.

1 Atten.

A nobler Game of Glory ne'er was play'd:

Fortune ſet high, a Kingdom on a Battle,

And one bold Throw has ſwept the mighty ſtake.

2 Atten.

By this dear Light that Sun that ſmil'd to ſee

The richeſt Crimſon that the Earth e'er dy'd,

Not the proud Jove from the defeated Gyants

Return'd with fairer Laurels than Tygranes.

Tygr.

Enough my generous ſharers of my Fame;

Your laviſh Goodneſs plays too much the Prodigal.

My Victory dares not challenge half this Triumph.

'Tis true, the Fortunate Tygranes fought,

[Page]But 'twas the Juſtice of his Quarrel Conquer'd.

Courage is only ours, Succeſs is Heav'ns:—

And for thy Fate, Orontes —

Oront.

Mine, Tygranes,

Is to curſe Life and Thee; my Life alone

Too much to bear; but Life and Shame together,

That double load of Miſery — Oh Prince!

When thy keen Sword cut through my Conquer'd Kingdom,

Had it been kind, and carv'd my Heart too, dying

I could have loved thee, but muſt hate thee Living.

Tygr.

If thou repineſt at thy ill Chance of War,

Blame thy bad Cauſe. If overtaking Deſtiny

Has dealt thee that hard Lot that does not pleaſe thee,

Remember King thy Ruine is no more

Than thy Deſert, thy Puniſhment, Orontes:

And ſufferers are not chooſers of their pain.—

But to perform my laſt juſt Rites of Victory,

Thou Orimon, go Viſit our wrong'd Siſter;

And in a Brothers Name bear her that Trophy:

A preſent from her own Triumphant Vengeance.

Oront.

To Clariſmunda! My too generous Conqueror,

This is ſo kind, I'll thank thee for this Goodneſs

Even in my Grave: For Oh! a Grace ſo high,

Thou giveſt me leave at thoſe dear Feet to die.

Exit Guarded.

Tygr.

But hark, the King approaches.

My Beauteous Charge I am thy Champion now:

A prouder Cauſe than all my Scythian Conqueſts.

Enter King attended.

My Royal Lord, low at your Sacred Feet

With the fair Harveſt of your own rich Field,

Thus proſtrate kneels the proudeſt of your Vaſſals,

By your great Cauſe, that fair inſpiring Genius

Led forth to Victory.

King.

Mine, Tygranes, my

Inſpiring Genius! No; a little, ſure

Of that fair Cauſe, that ſoft Inſpirer.

Tygr.

How, my dread Liege!

King.

That Beauty, thoſe fair Eyes,

They were ſo kind to See you Conquer.

Tygr.

Sir!

King.

To ſtand the kind Spectator of your Victory:

Oh the fair Hand of a ſoft melting Venus!

To buckle on the Sword of her proud Mars;

To plume his Creſt, and ſend him forth to Battle.

Tygr.

Death and Confuſion!

Queen.

Oh my blaſſed Ears!

[Page]Tygr.

Oh thou amazing Voice of Royal Thunder

Break forth from thy dark-Cloud, thou louting Heav'n,

And ſay what mean theſe Myſtick Sounds of Horror?

King.

Mean! Is that a Queſtion

At this loud Hour of all thy Ecchoing Treaſon,

The crying Shame of that inceſtuous Devil.

Queen.

Good Gods!

Tygr.

Oh King! what falſe infernal Malice

Dares blaſt the Fame of that all beauteous Truth.

Queen.

For the laſt Blow to all my bleeding Sufferings,

My Loyal Faith, and all my Mourning Innocence

Transform'd into this hideous Gorgon!

King.

Innocence! But my tame Juſtice ſleeps too long.

Sieze this brace of Monſters.

Tygr.

Hold angry King!

Oh ſtop your headlong Fury!

Till the wrong'd Virtue of that brighteſt Saint

Has wiped the ſpots from her fair Ermin Whiteneſs,

Stab'd the foul Falſhood through the Canker'd Throat,

And Seer'd the Tongues of Blaſphemy.

King.

No doubt on't.

Run to a Camp to cool her burning Hell,

And in the height of the ingendring Crocadiles

Whine Heav'n and Sanctity.

Queen.

How can I hear theſe diſmal Sounds and Live?

Tygr.

Plot, rank Conſpiracy! The Camp!

That undeſigning Chance the fooliſh Error

Of an unlucky Boy. But if ſo ſlight

A ſhadow can aſſume a ſhape ſo dreadful,

Sir, let the Boy be call'd, the fatal Cauſe

Of this accurſt Miſtake, young Mirvan.

King.

How! that young Bawd! Doſt thou call him thy Witneſs!

No, thou Grand-Fiend, thou know'ſt thy wiſer Politicks

Have huſht that Traytor with a Doſe of Poyſon.

Tygr.

Riddles and Death! Still more myſterious Horror.

Poyſon!

King.

Yes Poyſon!

Your Midnight Purveyor, your truſty Pandar,

In a return for all his faithful Services,

Your dark deſigns too great for that weak Counſel-keeper;

By a kind Drug ſent Sleeping from the World.

But your thin Arts and all your Cobweb-Veils —

Tygr.

Some moſt accurſed Engine of Damnation.—

[Page]King.

Dull canting Fool —But hence, I'll hear no more

Queen.

Yes, Royal Sir, Hear your poor wrong'd Herminia.

By yon fair Lamps, and fairer Heav'n that lights 'em,

By all the hopes of my Eternal Peace—

King.

Whining Syren— But

Treaſon ne'r wants a Knee, nor Guilt a Tongue,

Sighs, Prayers and Tears are the falſe Tools they cheat with.

Take 'em away; and houſe 'em in a Dungeon.

Tygr.

Yet hold your mad blind Rage

Till ſome kind God, the guard of pittied Innocence

In the dear Cauſe of that all Angel Goodneſs—

King.

Silence that poiſon'd Breath, vain talking Slave,—

Exit.

Tygr.

Oh thou all-ruling Providence, what an

Ungovern'd World thy great firſt Mover turns,

If Truth has this Reward—And Thou bright Virtue,

Thy moſt inhumane Wrongs, hard-fated Fair, —

Oh how can the Almighty Juſtice give

Prevailing Hell this ſtrange unbridl'd Pow'r

Queen.

Yes, Prince, Hell has prevail'd, and 'tis a ſad

Sad Portion, but if the Divine Diſpenſer

Has ſo ordain'd, 'tis not our part to quarrel

Omnipotence; we may wail Miſery,

But muſt not murmure at it.

Tygr.

Miracle,

Of Goodneſs.

Queen.

No, Tygranes, if the Toil

Of Fate is ſet, and our purſuing Blood hounds

Have caught our hunted Lives, our Stars have dealt us

The hardeſt-Lot on Earth, only to purchaſe

The faireſt Crown in Heaven.

Enter a Meſſenger who ſpeaks to the Officer that has the Cuſtody of the Queen and Tygranes.

Meſ.

'Tis the King's Pleaſure

That Execution be diſpatch'd immediately.

The Queen and Prince are both thoſe popular Darlings,

Delay may be unſafe; and for that reaſon

He calls this haſtning blow.

Officer.

Curſe on the Office.

Aſide.

If forc'd Obedience to the King's Command,

Kneels to the Queen and Prince.

And the ungrateful Duty I muſt pay,

May hope a Pardon. —

Queen.

If the King Commands

Riſe and Obey: Thy Part; poor Slave, is innocent,

If he muſt Kill, and guiltleſs Veins muſt bleed,

The Axe is blameleſs, 'tis the Judge that's cruel.

[Page]Tygr.

But, cruel King, thou mercileſs Arm of Fate.

Have all my Laurels, And what's more than Laurels?

Has that chaſte Mourner deſerv'd his hard hard Fate?

Queen.

What we have deſerv'd, Tygranes

Is ours no more; What we muſt ſuffer, Prince,

Is all our Buſineſs now? We muſt prepare

For Death. Death! Is that all! Witneſs ye Pow'rs,

That I dare Die—The only pain in Dying

Will be to leave a blotted Name behind me,

The branding Blazon of Recorded Infamy.

Tygr.

No, thou fair Saint,

To Die's too much; fear not a Second Murder.

Treaſon and Perjury may have pow'r to Kill

The Innocent, but not Innocence. The Martyrdom

Of Honour, Slander'd Truth, and traduced Virtue

Are ſo Divine a Charge, that care of Providence,

That if no earlier Juſtice wakes to right 'em,

The very Prodigies of Heav'n and all

Their aiding Miracles riſe up their Champions.

Thy Fame, Herminia, muſt not dye, though thou muſt.

Queen.

Shall my Fame live? Nay, then to death lead on.

Lye white my Winding-Sheet, and ſoft my Grave.

But Prince, muſt thou bleed too? Herminia's Ruines

Pull down thy Fate with mine. Thy Blood Tygranes!

This is too much, ye Gods. How ſhall I make

My laſt great Audit at th' Eternal Throne,

For thy unhappy Death. At my own Grave

There I can ſmile, but I muſt weep for thine.

Tygr.

A tear, that fair rich Pearl of Life for me!

My poorer Veins not worth the care of Heav'n!

When ſuch neglected brighter Virtue bleeds.

But, if the generous Fair, muſt play the Prodigal,

Oh! let me teach thee how to give me Bleſſings

Beyond the price of Lives: When on thy Throne

Thy radiant Throne of Stars thoſe Eyes I meet

T'obtain in Heaven what was on Earth too great,

Shall I have leave to kneel at thoſe dear Feet?

Queen.

Yes Prince, thou ſhalt kneel there. And if there be

One richer, fairer Coronet above

For wondrous Truth, and more prodigious Love,

O're that dear Brow with the Jemm'd Wreath I'll ſtand,

And Crown thee Martyr with my own kind Hand.

Tygr.

Nay, then to Death, to Life, to Glory, all

At one kind Blow.

Queen.

And oh to meet that Blow

[Page]With all the pomp of Martyrdom we'll go;

And Shine above, to Light the World below.

Exeunt.

Scene Changes, Enter Orontes and Clariſmunda.

Oront.

To Heaven the deareſt, and on Earth the Faireſt,

Thy Guardian Gods have done thee Juſtice now.

A Hundred thouſand ſlaughter'd Scythian Ghoſts,

In the freſh Bluſhes of their Crimſon Gore,

Walk the black Strand, to tell the trembling Shades

The wondrous Tale of Clariſmunda's Vengeance.

Clar.

Yes, King, my Stars at laſt are juſt.

Oront.

So Juſt, that all yon bright Eternals,

The Pow'rs that gild the Night, and guide the Day,

Rank'd their embattell'd Fires for Clariſmunda,

All the proud Champions in thy darling Cauſe:

So keen the Sword that arming Beauty draws.

Clar.

If aiding Heav'n has battel'd on my ſide,

It has no more than plaid its own Revenger;

Mine are Heavens wrongs, their own Divineſt Image

Stabb'd in my Wounds, and their own ſcourge has puniſht 'em

Oront.

If their own ſcourge has puniſh'd 'em, and all

The pouring Vials of immortal Wrath

Have fill'd the whole embitter'd Draught of Woe,

May I have leave to ask that beauteous Judge

Is her avenging Sword of Fate yet ſatisfied.

Clar.

Satisfied!

Oront.

That Sword, thou dear Divine Deſtroyer.

After ſuch ſtreams of Blood, and piles of Graves,

Is the keen Death, the reeking Point ſtill drawn

At poor Orontes Heart?

Clar.

Indeed thou askſt that Queſtion—

Oront.

I would have thy Mercy anſwer.

Say, thou All-Angel Sweet, if angry Heaven

Has emptied all its Quivers on this Head,

Has Clariſmunda ſtill new Bolts to Kill.

Clar.

New Bolts! No, wretched King, thoſe righteous Pow'rs

Have made my Wrongs that ample ſatisfaction,

I now can ask no more.

Oront.

If thoſe kind Pow'rs

Have paid thee all the whole indebted Summ,

May I preſume to ask that fair Offended,

If a poor puniſht Criminal, his ſtains,

Waſh'd with the Bloud of thouſand thouſand Lives,

From tott'ring Pow'r, and falling Empire loſt,

[Page]From all the glitt'ring Wreaths of Royal Honours

Cruſht to baſe Chains, a vile inglorious Slave,

Say, is this little Out-caſt of the World

Still that ſtrange hateful Monſter?

Clar.

No, Orontes,

Thou'rt faln ſo low, I muſt not hate thee now.

Oront.

What ſays that Breath of Life?

Clariſ.

Muſt hate no more.

No, ſuff'ring Wretch, thou haſt met thy Crimes Reward:

And Juſtice, when her executing Aim

Has ſtruck the Blow, turns her yeil'd Eyes away

And ſees the Guilt no more. On thy proud Throne

And tow'ring at thy prouder Armies head

When Death met Death, and Thunder grapled Thunder,

Orontes then in all thy circling Glories

The Tyrant Lord of Pow'r was worth my Frown,

I could look up and hate thee, down I muſt not.

Oront.

Then farewell Empire, Thrones, Dominion, all

The plagues of Pow'r, and curſe of Crowns farewel.

And my dear Chains, and Glorious Miſery Welcome.

For now ſhe hates no more, Chant that bleſt Sound,

Ye great Angelick Quires, immortal Sweets

Perfume the hallow'd Breath, and bear it round

The ecchoing Skies, and all the liſt'ning Globe

That Clariſmunda now can hate no more.

My Chains, my Fetters! No, thou Dear all Heav'n,

My Bracelets, ſtrings of Pearl, and links of Gold—

But thou all Sacred Sweetneſs, cou'd that kind

Unclouding Brow to all this infinite Goodneſs

Add one rich Bleſſing more, cou'dſt thou love too —

Clar.

Love! Love!

Oront.

Yes, Love, thou All-deſcending Goodneſs:

Turn not thoſe beauteous Eyes away. Oh Arm

Thoſe pointed Deaths no more. I am no longer

The black Orontes now: 'twas Seythia's Tyrant

Pride and Ambition's Purple Devil, all

The burning Hells of Power that ſinn'd againſt thee.

But I am now no more. No, thy kind Brother

Like the Great Jove has cruſht the tumbling Giant,

Script all my guilty Greatneſs to a little

Poor naked Slave, an humble crawling Wretch.

The Scepter'd Savage, and Imperial Monſter,

[Page]Thoſe hideous Names all baniſht from the World,

And I am nothing now but kneeling Love.

And if that pardoning Mercy—

Clar.

Oh Orontes.

Thy Tears, thy Penitence, and to Crown all

Thy murmuring Love pleads with that courting Eloquence—

But ha! What ſays my Heart?

Oront.

Oh ſpeak thou deareſt Oracle of Life,

Breathe the Celeſtial Sound — Methinks I ſaw

The pitying God in thoſe relenting Eyes

Juſt iſſuing down with all his glitt'ring Mercy,

But thoſe ſeal'd Lips ſhut up the lovely Paradiſe,

And cruelty hold back the kind deſcending Heav'n.

Clar.

Well Prince, if I muſt ſpeak,—But oh forgive

My bluſhing weakneſs, when theſe Eyes muſt tell thee,

That thou haſt conquer'd, thou haſt conquer'd, King,

My tendereſt melting Souls all ſofteſt Pity.

Oront.

And cou'd that ſofteſt Pity —

Clariſ.

Aske no more:

For beyond Pity 'tis all vaſt Eternity,

The All my utmoſt Life can ever give thee.

Oront.

The All.

Clariſ.

Alas! my Love's beyond my Pow'r.

But I have given too much. Hence from my Sight;

For from this Hour I ne'r muſt ſee thee more.

Oront.

No more!

Clariſ.

Retire without Reply, leſt my reviving Wrongs,

Recall my prodigal bluſhing Mercy back.

Yes, Fly to ſome far corner of the Earth

Whilſt I have pow'r to give thy pitied Sufferings

This laſt kind Tribute from my melting Eyes,

Go, and bear with thee round the wander'd World

A Sigh from Clariſmunda.

Oront.

'Tis enough.

That Sigh, that Pity, all Eternal Bliſs,

And, Gods, I ask no more.—

But, Madam, when I fly from thoſe dear Eyes,

The wander'd World will be too ſhort a Walk.

No, Clariſmunda, Love's laſt Race muſt run,

Beyond the narrow Travels of the Sun;

Far above Worlds, and Days dull mortal Light:

Thus he takes Wing, and thus ſets out his Flight.

Stabs hiwſelf.

[Page]Clar.

By thy own Hand thy Hearts laſt pouring Flood.

Oh King! ſo kind a Stream, this rich atoning Sacrifice

Has waſh'd thee all ſo White, and touch'd my Soul ſo near,

That I muſt whiſper in thy dying Ear;

Had I a Heart to give 'twere all thy own.

Oront.

Oh Divine Harmony! Now I am bleſt.

Clar.

Oh generous Prince! thou fill'ſt my painting Veins

With all that tender'ſt warmth: But haſt, oh haſte!

Mount the bright Stars, and bear this Meſſage with thee:

When thou ſhalt meet thy own great Martyr there;

Tell him, thou haſt left

His Clariſmunda a Divided Heart:

Thine all my Pity: all my Love Orſanes.

Oront.

Yes Madam, I'll obey your bleſt Commands;

Speed, ſpeed my Poſting Soul, and when we meet, Orſanes,

I'll Rival thee in Heaven. But oh! how much are all

My Sighs o'erpaid to die in theſe bleſt Arms;

How worthleſs is dull Life, when Death's all Charms.

Dies.

Clar.

Now all the work I had on Earth is done!

My Dear Orſanes, that long waiting Bridegroom,

Holds an immortal Chaplet for my Brow.

Shut from the World, then to a Cell I'll fly:

There my dear Winding-ſheets, my Robe of Glory,

Sweet Death's kind call with bending Knees I'll ſtay,

The Trump to my great Coronation-Day.

Exit.

Scene Changes. Enter Celeſtina and Roſalin.

Roſ.

What can this mean! Not Lunacy more wild!

Her wander'd Reaſon, and diſtracted Senſes

Stung with that ſtrange Tarantula —

Cel.

Huſh, Mirvan! Not a word.— Should Boys tell Tales—

Not for a thouſand Worlds. I'll have the Secret

Shut in a Marble Cheſt, lock'd up in Graves,

Deep as the Center of the groaning World,

That not one angry murmuring God ſhall hear it—

But ha! we are betray'd, betray'd dear Mirvan!

See there that grinning Tarquin in the Hangings,

Looks with a liſtning Face— and yonder Parrot,

Oh 'tis a prating Bird—The Air will breath it,

Winds whiſtle it, Ravens croke it—

Roſ.

Dear Madam—

Cel.

Roſalin! Ha, art thou here!

[Page]Roſ.

Yes, Madam, a poor Mourner.—

Cel.

Oh fie, in Tears, and on my Wedding day!

This is unkind: Ay, Girl, I am to be Married,

Doſt thou not ſee the Courting kneeling King!

Oh 'tis the fondeſt fool to make a Husband.

That kind believing thing. See he preſents me

A Bracelet ſtrung with bleeding Lovers Hearts,

And every Pearl a Tear of dying Innocence—

Poor Herminia,

Doſt not thou hang a bluſhing Ruby there.

Roſ.

Gracious Heav'n!

Cel.

Who talks of Heav'n? Oh 'tis a Golden Palace,

Where my kind Mirvan, Jove's dear Darling Ganimede,

Fills the proud Thunderers Imperial Bowl,

To quaff the World's Confuſion.

Roſ.

Oh my Fears!

There's ſomething talks in theſe wild Dreams!

Cel.

Fear Roſalin!

What canſt thou fear, my Wedding Robe won't pleaſe me!

Ah no! 'tis dyed in that deep Royal Crimſon

Not all the Waters of the Sea can whiten.

Enter King, Attendants, and Guards.

King.

What's this I ſee! Why this diſorder'd frame!

Is this a Dreſs? Is this a Brow, when Diadems

Wait your receiving Hand. The canker'd Sweets

Of Lawleſs Joys no more,

Prepare to mount the bright Crown'd Queen of Perſia.

Cel.

The Queen of Perſia! Queen of Hell, dull Fool—

Look, Roſalin, look—

Roſ.

Look, Madam!

Cel.

Doſt not ſee

Yond' wrinkled wither'd Witch, the ſooty Proſerpine!

She with that dowdy Face, Great Pluto's Queen,

Enthron'd the Glorious Partner of Damnation;

And Celeſtina but a puny Devil!

No, by yond' ſpightful Stars, I cannot bear it.

I'll daſh the tumbling Hag from her proud Seat,

Snatch from her flaming Brow her blazing Diadem,

And mount her burning Throne.

King.

All raving Frenzy.

But tell me honeſt Roſalin, how long

Have theſe ſtrange Phantoms all theſe waking Dreams

Shook her ſoft peace?

[Page]Roſ.

Since fair Herminia's Death.

Cel.

Who names Herminia's Death: I will not hear it.

There's Treaſon in the ſound.—But ſee! Oh ſee!

She comes, ſhe comes, ſhe comes!

The Ghoſts of Herminia and Tygranes deſcend in Glory.

— Oh my ſick Eye-balls!

How have I ſin'd to, wake theſe hideous Forms!

Have I done more than all my Sex beſide?

Alas, the pooreſt Lowborn Peaſant Girl,

That never heard of Crowns above a Garland,

Yet but to Reign the Sovereign of the Plains,

And have the bending Knees of Swains and Bores,

Wou'd cut through Hearts and Lives to be a Queen:

And I have done no more.

King.

What ſays my Faireſt?

Cel.

Say King! I ſay thou ſmelſt too rank of Blood,

Blood, eaſie cheated Fool!

King.

Death and Confuſion!

There's ſomething in this dark myſterious Horror

That ſtrikes my aking Soul.— Pray Heav'n the poor

Tygranes and Herminia—

Cel.

Are a bleſt pair of ever Royal Martyrs.

Innocence, Innocence, Innocence! Betray'd by me,

And by thee Murder'd!

King.

Murder'd! Oh—

Cel.

But look all Heavenly Fair, cloath'd and enrob'd

With the rich Beams of pure immortal Day.

Myriads of Angels, and Eternal Quires

All waiting for their Coronation Glory.

Yes, mount fair Stars, ye radiant Twins of Light,

Whilſt I muſt ſet in Everlaſting Night.

Dies.

King.

Dead! Thou fair Curſe and Painted Sin farewel.

Oh that my ſhame and Guilt were with thee Dead.

Ah no! a thouſand Racking Tortures live

To tear my ſinking Soul. Oh Blood Blood! Blood!

Herminia! Poor wrong'd ſweetneſs, could the price

Of Crowns or Worlds reſtore thee to my Arms—

No, Lovely Truth, too late we find thy Charms.

Exeunt omnes.

FINIS.

EPILOGUE,

[Page]

Spoken by Mrs. Rogers.

WELL, Gentlemen, our Author bids me ſay,

He Treats you with an Out-of-faſhion Play.

His fair Court Miſs, perkt in her Raigning Glory,

In the late Age had been a modiſh Story.

But now the old dull Tale will never do.—

And yet I'll Swear the Play has ſomething new.—

New, did I ſay? Yes, if it has no more,

Here's Two new Legs, you never ſaw before.

Nay, and what's more, they come to Court you too:

Ay, Sirs, You ſee what Wonders you can do;

Bring a young Suppliant to thoſe Sweet Faces,

To beg to our poor Play your kind good Graces.

Faith Sirs, for once lay by your Critick Thunder,

Not for the Senſleſs Poet, Hang him Blunder,

But for Our ſakes Your angry Vengeance ſtay:

Conſider, Sirs, this is the Womens Play.

And when we wooe your Favour, ſure you are

Not ſo hard-hearted to deny our Prayer.

Beſides, let me intreat, baulk not a poor

Petitioner, that never begg'd before.

Grant me but this Firſt Suit, a Boon ſo eaſie,

And in Return, I'll one day hope to pleaſe ye.

Encouraged by your Smiles a Beam ſo fair

Here's Two Good Works at once, for I Declare

You will both ſave a Play, and make a Player.

Information about this book

Title statement

The ambitious slave, or, A generous revenge a tragedy acted at the Theatre Royal / written by E. Settle.

Settle, Elkanah, 1648-1724.

Edition statement

1694

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2007-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A59288

ID [STC]

Wing S2654

ID [STC]

ESTC R10530

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

11907310

ID [OCLC]

ocm 11907310

ID [VID]

50749

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A59288)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 50749)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 511:29)

Source

— The ambitious slave, or, A generous revenge a tragedy acted at the Theatre Royal / written by E. Settle., Settle, Elkanah, 1648-1724..

Extent

[9], 54, [2] p.

Printed for A. Roper and E. Wilkinson ...,. London :: 1694.. (In verse.) (Advertisement: p. [2] at end.) (Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.)

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