Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia: a tragedy. As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent-Garden. By John Hoole. Hoole, John, 1727-1803. 56 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2009 April 004800475 T30840 CW115254587 K034471.000 CW3315254587 ECLL 0163901500

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.

Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia: a tragedy. As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent-Garden. By John Hoole. Hoole, John, 1727-1803. 54,[4]p. ; 12⁰. printed by W. Spotswood, for the United Company of Booksellers, Dublin : 1775. The sheets were also issued with a titlepage omitting the printer's name. With an epilogue. With a final leaf of advertisements. Reproduction of original from the British Library. English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT30840. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.

EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).

The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.

Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.

Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.

Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.

The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.

Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).

Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site.

eng

CLEONICE, PRINCESS of BITHYNIA: A TRAGEDY.

As it is performed at the THEATRE ROYAL IN COVENT-GARDEN.

BY JOHN HOOLE.

DUBLIN: PRINTED BY W. SPOTSWOOD, FOR THE UNITED COMPANY OF BOOKSELLERS.

MDCCLXXV.

PROLOGUE. Written by THOMAS VAUGHAN, Eſq Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY. TELL me, ye Gods, ye arbiters of wit, Who rule the heavens, or who lead the pit, addreſſing the gallery and pit, Whence comes it, in an age refin'd by taſte By ſcience poliſh'd, and by judgement chaſte, We ſee the Muſe, in dignity ſublime, Led on by prologue, ape-ing pantomime; Whoſe ſportive fancy, and whoſe comic ſkill, All muſt applaud—where Roſcius guides the quill; Yet when Melpomene in grief appears, Her ſuff'ring virtue bath'd in ſorrow's tears, From Tyrant laws, or jealous love oppreſs'd, Swelling with ſilence in her tortur'd breaſt. How can the heart her genial impulſe ſhew, Feel as ſhe feels, or weep another's woe; When gay Thalia has ſo late poſſeſs'd The laughing tranſports of the human breaſt? Let each her province keep, let jocund mirth To Epilogue alone give happy birth; Eaſe the ſtruck ſoul from ev'ry anxious fcar, And wipe from beauty's check the ſilent tear. Twice Metaſtaſio's wings have borne our Bayes, And ſafely brought him o'er the critic ſeas; Fir'd with ſucceſs, he dares this awful night, Cheer'd by your ſmiles to take a bolder flight; Nor longer ſtoop beneath a foreign ſhade, Like Dian ſhining from a borrow'd aid; But comes impregnate with Icarian pride, To ſtretch his pinnions, and forſake his guide; Yet doubtful flies, leſt vapours damp his force, And one black cloud ſhould ſtop his airy courſe, To awful heights his proud ambition ſoars, And the dread regions of applauſe explores; No ſun he fears—but courts its warmeſt ray 'Tis yours to raiſe—or ſink him in the ſea. Let Candour then proceed to try the cauſe, That Magna Charta of dramatic laws!
PROLOGUE. Written by a Friend, to have been ſpoken in the character of the Tragic Muſe.

Deſigned for Mrs. BARRY.

JUDGES of Genius! from whoſe hands a bard This night awaits the laurel of reward! To you, the Tragic Muſe, in Britain's name, Comes to announce the merits of his claim. 'Tis I have led him timorous to this field, And bade him dare his country's guantlet wield; Bade him aſpire to vault her fiery breed, Nor humbly ſtoop to mount the manag'd ſteed. Long had I ſeen his patient merit toil, In culling chaplets from a foreign ſoil; Whilſt, here, tranſplanted by his ſkilful hand, Italia's honours bloom'd in Albion's land. Long had I mark'd, as ſuch exotic boughs Content he wove to veil his modeſt brows, A ſpirit that in paths untrod before Might ſnatch the nobler foliage of this ſhore. Pleas'd with the hopes, that I had now deſcry'd A future ſon, from whom the buſkin's pride To this my favourite Iſle, again might riſe; I touch'd his ear, and pointed out the prize. "Wither my honours in this clime (I ſaid) "Buds here no bounteous leaf to deck thy head? "Are theſe once foſiering ſkies ſo over-caſt, "That Genius dares not brave th' inclement blaſt? "Come, let me lead thee, where my ſons of yore "In Fancy's fields amaſs'd their laureate ſtore; "With active powers, aloft, beſtrode the clouds "Inſpir'd by kind acclaims of ſhouting crowds. "Turn thee, where Shakeſpear wav'd the myſtic rod, "And ſaw a new creation wait his nod. "Behold where Terror, with eccentric ſtride, "Burſts, like a torrent from the mountain's ſide! "Behold where gentle pity heaves the ſigh, "Sluicing the fruitful conduit of the eye! "See love at whoſe approach, the airy Wiles "Of Mirth and Freedom, or the jocund Smiles "Of ſweet content, diſpers'd in wild affright, "Mount on their ſilken wings and take their flight. "See Jealouſy his hideous form uprear, "Tine the quick brand, and ſhake the vengeful ſpear: "While, cloſe behind, fell Anguiſh aud Diſdain "Stalk ſullen by; and ſwell his gloomy train. "Mark where Deſpair points to ſome diſtant ground; "On blaſted yews, where Night-birds ſhrick around, "Where yawning Tombs add horror to the night, "And Meteors flaſh their momentary light. "Here mark thyſelf, what various objects riſe, "Nor truſt the medium of another's eyes.' I ſpoke—and Genius ſtrait began to ſpread His ready Plumage, and my voice obey'd, Adventurous, thence he dares this night aſpire To ſtamp the vivid ſcene with native fire. 'Tis yours, ye Britons, then, with kind applauſe, To fan the flame I kindled in your cauſe: Nor be it ſaid, when on your mercy thrown, You foſter every ſpark, but what's your own. From your dread ſentence, crown'd with laurels won, I ardently expect to greet a Son: The Palm I have depoſited with you, And truſt your hearts to give it where 'tis due.
Dramatis Perſonae. MEN. Mr. BARRY. Mr. LEWIS. Mr. BENSLEY. Mr. LEE. Mr. HULL. Mr. WHITEFIELD. Mr. L'ESTRANGE. Mr. THOMPSON. WOMEN. Mrs. HARTLEY. Miſs DAYES.

Guards, Attendants, &c.

SCENE, a city on the frontiers of Bithynia, and the country adjacent.

CLEONICE: A TRAGEDY.
ACT I. SCENE, a gallery. TERAMENES, AGENOR. TERAMENES. AGENOR, ſtill Bithynia muſt retain The ſword unſheath'd, and ſtill remov'd afar, Shall Peace, in vain deſir'd, mock every hope, Of dear domeſtic happineſs—the leagues Of factious princes, whoſe aſſociate force Has vex'd this bleeding land, now yield indeed To Lycomedes' arms, or rather ſhrink Before the genius of your noble friend. Agen. Arſetes, bred in diſtant realms, and long A wanderer o'er the face of earth, muſt hail The hour that led his ſteps to tread your ſoil, And gave him Teramenes for his friend. Tera. Tho' now the rage of civil ſtrife is paſt, Full well thou know'ſt, to-morrow's ſun declin'd, His next returning beam lights up the day That ends the truce with Pontus, and demands Our ſtrongeſt force to meet a mightier foe, In Artabaſus. Agen. Five returning ſuns Have chang'd your vernal groves, ſince as the breath Of Fame declares, your armies met and fought On Hippias' banks, what time your martial powers (Forgive me, if report miſlead my tongue,) Bow'd to a foreign ſtandard. Tera. Lycomedes, Whoſe thirſt of glory in his vigorous life Compell'd the neighbouring ſtates to bend beneath Bithynia's yoke; when creeping time had clogg'd The vital ſprings, and kept his age from ſcenes, Of active valour, by his generals ſtill Maintain'd the field, and thro' the nations ſpread His martial terrors, till that fatal day, When Hippias, down his current, dy'd with blood, The frequent corſe and glittering enſign bore: Then, midſt the ſlaughter, fell a ſacrifice To iron war, our king's lamented ſon; A youth, the early darling of his ſire, The ſoldier's hope, and nurſling of the field. Agen. Oft have I heard Polemon's name, whoſe brave Unpractis'd arm encounter'd Artabaſus, And from his ſword receiv'd a glorious death. Tera. But tho' the time's neceſſity compell'd Bithynia to the truce, ſtill, ſtill the thought Of his Polemon rankled in the boſom Of our afflicted monarch, ſtill the hope, Tho' diſtant hope of vengeance, glow'd within, And fed eternal hatred in his ſoul. While now to Pontus' bounds, his army ſpreads Its conquering legions, he forgoes the ſtate Of Nicomedias' palace, to reſide Amidſt this city, whoſe oppoſing bulwarks Riſe on the kingdom's edge, and dare the foe. Agen. Fame ſpeaks your rival great, and gives the praiſe Of might and wiſdom to the king of Pontus; And more, 'tis ſaid, his ſon, amidſt the files Of Rome's immortal legions, diſtant far From Pontus, learns the rugged trade of war, And gathers laurels in his blooming age, That veterans view with envy: his return Gives earneſt of new triumphs. Tera. Let him come; Would yet Arſetes aid Bithynia's cauſe His ſword with brave Orontes join'd, whoſe hand Muſt ſway the ſcepter of Bithynia's realm, Might fix th' unſteady wing of victory To Lycomedes' bands. Agen. Orontes' valour Your ſovereign deems to merit Cleonice, Whoſe piety forſakes the pomp of courts, The ſplendid eaſe of female life, to attend A father's ſteps, amidſt the clang of war. But for Arſetes, thou remembereſt well When firſt he join'd to thine his ſocial arms, He pledg'd his faith for five returning moons To abide your welcome gueſt, and now the tenth Wanes in her ſilver orb. Tera. What ſays Agenor? My mind, tho' loth, recalls each circumſtance. But ſtill I hop'd Arſetes might be won To breathe our friendly air, ſtill mix'd among Bithynia's warlike ſons, now hovering o'er The verge of hoſtile Pontus, when the time And place concurr'd to pour with ſudden inroad The ſtorm of conqueſt on our hated foe, To avenge a form, a worth ſo like his own— —But ſee, he comes— Enter ARSETES. Belov'd Arſetes, welcome! Youth, at thy preſence, buds with bloom renew'd, Such as I was, when, on Arabia's ſands, I cruſh'd the wandering robbers of the deſert. Arſe. My lord, too partial friendſhip ever finds New praiſe for your Arſetes; if I claim Of merit aught, here Heaven receive my thanks, That bade me wield the ſword for Lycomedes. Tera. And yet Arſetes now methinks forgets To prize our country's honours; while the bond Of friendſhip holds no more his changing heart; That heart, which once I preſs'd with tranſport here, Which ſeem'd with mutual tranſport to receive The love I proffer'd, when my boſom glow'd With warmth of gratitude to him, whoſe arm Snatch'd Teramenes from impending death, As fierce Lyſippus aim'd the threatening blade At my defenceleſs head, when you ruſh'd in, (Till then unknown) and ſav'd me from the foe. Arſ. 'Twas ſure ſome happy ſtar, that led my ſteps At that bleſt moment—if I ſav'd the life Of Teramenes, I preſerv'd indeed A faithful counſellor for Lycomedes, An army's chief, but for myſelf a friend. Tera. And wilt thou, my Arſetes, now forſake The bands, that late purſued the glorious taſk Of conqueſt, taught by thee—now when the great, Th' important moment comes, on which depends Our monarch's fame, our vengeance—led by thee And brave Orontes, we have ſtemm'd the tide Of inbred tumult: every rebel head Now lies ſubdued, and fluſh'd with great ſucceſs, Our ſoldiers now demand, with loud acclaim, To pour their fury o'er yon hoſtile bounds, Beneath Arſetes and Orontes. Arſe. Heaven Be witneſs here, compulſive honour long Has chanlleng'd my departure—yet, till now I wav'd obedience to the frequent calls Of duty; but the flame of civil broils At length ſubſiding thro' your troubled ſtate, I muſt (forgive me, chief, forgive me, friend,) Yield to the powerful voice, and quit Bithynia. By every toil my ſword has known in battle, But moſt the toils I ſhar'd with Teramenes, Unwilling and compell'd, I leave your clime, And quit a country dearer than my own. Tera. Farewell, Arſetes; think that Teramenes Feels from his in moſt ſoul the fix'd reſolve Of him, whom once he fondly deem'd by fortune, From all mankind ſelected for his friend. I'll ſeek the king—no leſs will he regret Arſetes' loſs, whoſe preſence might inſure His wiſh'd revenge, and fix his kingdoms glory. [Exit. ARSETES, AGENOR. Agen. Why droops Arſetes? O! diſcover all Thy ſecret grief and let Agenor ſhare it. Arſe. Indeed thou doſt—my every thought is thine, My other ſelf, my boſom's counſellor! What needs there more to rend my heart, to fill My tortur'd ſoul, while loitering here I wrong My native ſoil, the voice of filial duty Chides my delay, yet Love, the powerful God Reigns in my breaſt, and mocks each ſettled purpoſe: Come, my Agenor, with thy friendly aid Confirm my thoughts, and teach me yet to tread, Yet to reſume the path my ſeet have left; To quit the land, where all my joys are center'd, To tear myſelf from love and Cleonice— —O! never!—never— Agen. Yet again reflect, Think who you are, to what has Heaven reſerv'd Your virtues—Shall a kingdom's heir— Arſe. Go on— 'Tis honeſt chiding—Shall a kingdom's heir, (Thus would'ſt thou ſay) on whom th' expecting eyes Of thouſands look for happineſs, on whom A father fixes every deareſt hope To ſee himſelf renew'd to diſtant times, Shall he, forgetting all the claims of glory, Forgetting all the ties of filial duty, Defraud his longing people of their prince, And from his ſire with-hold a darling ſon? Say—ſhall Bithynia's hoſtile lands detain, From Artabaſus' ſight his loved Pharnaces? O! no—Agenor—thou haſt fir'd my ſoul; My father!—yes, I will embrace the knees Of him, whoſe love reproaches my delay. Yet never, Cleonice, ſhall this breaſt Forget its wonted flame:—Is it a crime To adore the ſum of all her ſex's graces, Tho' wayward chance has plac'd the hopeleſs bar Of lineal enmity between our loves? Agen. And yet, my prince; the indulgent hand of fate, Perchance may weave your future web of life With threads of brighter dye; even love itſelf May find a way to clear the gloomy proſpect: Diſcord perhaps may once again extinguiſh Her hated torch that fires the rival nations, And Cleonice be the bond of peace: Too long, already, ſtrangers have we lived, Alien from friends and home: tho' Artabaſus Sent you beneath my father's guardian care, To learn hard leſſons in the ſchool of glory, Yet ſure the parent ſuffer'd in that abſence, Which, as a king, his virtue deem'd would raiſe Your fame, and fit you for a people's weal. Arſe. Yes, my Agenor, oft his tendereſt greetings Have warn'd me to return, when circling time Had brought the period fix'd for my departure; Or when the pauſe of arms, or honour's duty Permitted me to quit the hoſt of Rome. Agen. And yet—my prince— Arſe. And yet—too true, Agenor, I feel each juſt reproach—the land indeed I left, and journey'd o'er a length of ſoil, When fate (for ſure 'twas more than common fortune) Prompted my ſteps to tread Bithynia's realm, Where Lycomedes wag'd inteſtine war With rebel arms. Agen. Thy generous valour then, Warm'd by the common cauſe of kings, to aſſert A prince's rights, forgot thy country's foe. Arſe. Full well thou know'ſt I vow'd to every God, By all the ſolemn ties that bind mankind, Ne'er to reveal, while in this hoſtile land My country or my birth; this, urg'd by thee, I ſwore, when firſt I told thee my deſign, To gaze on Cleonice's wondrous charms. Agen. Nor vain the caution—think, O think, how far It yet imports to keep the mighty ſecret: Alas! my friend, I tremble, had your father Been conſcious whither fortune led the ſteps Of his Pharnaces; could he know the land Of Lycomedes now detains his ſon— Th' idea ſtarts a thouſand fears: ſhould now Some dreadful chance betray you to the foe; I ſhudder at the thought—then let us hence And to the longing troops of Pontus give A blooming hero, promis'd oft in vain: Then let us haſten—by my father's ſhade I now adjure you—for Pharnaces once Rever'd his Tiridates— Arſe. Witneſs Heaven How dear I held him!—Artabaſus only Could claim a nearer duty o'er my heart, The guide, the great example of my youth! Methinks I now recall the fatal day That ſnatch'd him from us—O my lov'd Agenor! The ſcene is preſent to my eyes—I ſee The battle rang'd, when to my ardent gaze His hand experienc'd pointed out the files Of rigid war, and taught me where to drive The thunder of the field; when Heaven ſo will'd, A diſtant arrow ſent with deadly aim, Pierc'd his brave breaſt— Agen. Then midſt the diſtant fight, It was not given Agenor's hand to cloſe, A dying parent's eyes— Arſe. Theſe arms receiv'd The venerable chief—"Take, take," (he cry'd) "This laſt embrace—ſtill let the dear remembrance "Of Tiridates' counſels move his prince, "And, for my ſake, be kind to my Agenor." He could no more, but left in thee his pledge Of truth and amity—ſince which my ſoul Has held thee ever partner of her ſame, Her better half, her other Tiridates! [Embrace. Agen. I am indeed thy Tiridates—yes, My father, from thy ſeats of bliſs and peace, See, how thy prince rewards thy loyal faith, And, in his love, ſupplies a parent's loſs— And yet, forgive me, prince, thy words awake Remembrance of that day for ever mourn'd!— —My father— Arſe. Go, Agenor, ſince my laſt Reſolves are fix'd—provide whate'er requires To quit this court—to quit my Cleonice, Tho' death is in the thought!—thy piety Reproaches mine—ere yet the mounting ſun Whoſe early ray now gilds the face of morn, Attain his mid-day ſeat, the camp of Pontus Shall ſee Pharnaces and Agenor. (Exit Agenor. Arſe. (alone) Yet Be ſtill, my beating heart—O Cleonice! I feel her now—Inſtruct me every God In ſoothing ſpeech—O! teach my lips to breathe In gentleſt ſounds the fatal word—farewell. —Orontes here!—and is not this the bleſt The deſtin'd huſband of my Cleonice— I ſhall relapſe—for if I think—diſtraction Enſues, and fame and peace are loſt for ever! [Exit. Enter ORONTES. Oron. Sure 'twas Arſetes! that malignant planet, That thwarts my courſe, whene'er my fiery ſoul Would, eagle-wing'd, ſtretch her aſpiring flight, He ſoars above me ſtill—Have I not worn The maſk of loyal faith, ſmooth'd o'er the dark The ſullen brow of deep deſign, with ſmiles My heart confeſs'd not?—What have I not done, For thee, Ambition!—Let not pale remembrance Review the paſt, or paint a ſcene to ſtagger The ſickly reſolution—deeds long done, That ſleep ſecure from every mortal ken, Are but as ſhadows in the coward eye Of conſcience—Hence!—Orontes' ſoul diſdains The phantoms of remorſe.— Enter ZOPYRUS. Now, my Zopyrus— Speak; haſt thou aught that claims my ear? Zop. I learn That the young ſtranger, who ſo deeply witch'd The madding multitude, prepares this day To leave Bithynia's court. Oron. It cannot be— Arſetes!—ſpeak—what at this fated time, When war again unfolds his brazen portals, And Pontus brings to view its creſted thouſands; A tempting proſpect yet untry'd, to prove His ſword—It cannot be! Zop. This hour Agenor Declar'd Arſetes' purpoſe. Oron. Speed it, gods! Come near, Zopyrus, to thy faithful ear I've oft diſclos'd the ſecrets of my heart, Where Love, but moſt Ambition holds his ſway. This ſtranger is my bane—I ſhrink beneath His better Genius—even the field that once Crown'd this good ſword with honours, yields me now But wither'd laurels, which his brow diſdains; While the blind herd on him, with full-month'd clamour, Laviſh their ſhouts. Zop. Yet fortune has ſecur'd Your brighteſt hopes—has not our king declar'd Orontes, next by birth, aſcends the throne? Have not the aſſembled ſtates confirm'd the right Of juſt ſucceſſion? haſtening on the ſteep Of downward life, our king, though high in ſpirit, Blazing with waſting light, that ſoon muſt fail, Shall ſudden ſink in night, and leave to thee A glorious riſing to imperial greatneſs! Fair Cleonice too ſhall bleſs your bed, And with her beauty ſmooth the toils of empire. Oron. 'Tis true, the charms of Cleonice well Might claim the tongue of rapture—yet, Zopyrus, While great Ambition's ſun lights up my flame, The ſtar of Love looks ſickly at his beams. Zop. What more can crown your wiſh, when Happineſs, In all your ſoul aſpires to, ſoon ſhall open Her welcome arms—Mean-time the king, my lord, Eſteems, and holds you high above the rank Of Nicomedia's nobles. Oron. True, Zopyrus; Spite of the tardy warmth of cautious age I've work'd me deep in Lycomedes' foul, By more than common zeal to avenge his ſon. But home-bred faction, ſpreading thro' the land, Compell'd us to the hated truce with Pontus; Till now, nine moons elaps'd, this upſtart chief Stept in to bear away the prize of arms Due to my elder ſword, while Teramenes With partial eye beheld his every deed, And idoliz'd the work himſelf had rais'd. Zop. Yet common rumour ſpeaks that friendſhip holds In ſtrongeſt bands Orontes and Arſetes. Oron. Even ſo, my friend—and policy demands That he, who runs the mingled race of life, Should learn to veil himſelf, and oft appear The thing he is not— Zop. Should propitious Fortune Remove your rival hence— Oron. If this report Be true, the dark eclipſe that late has frown'd, No more, my friend, ſhall intercept my fame; The war's great field, at this auſpicious time Begun, ſhall not enrich a ſtranger's hand, But fall the harveſt of Orontes' ſword. Exeunt.
ACT II. SCENE, A garden, with palm-trees, olives, and other Eaſtern plants. CLEONICE, alone. ALAS! it will not be! and fond remembrance In vain recals the paſt—where, where is now That reaſon's boaſt, which o'er creation lifts The pride of man, when fickle as the gale That ſweeps the bloſſom from the bough, our paſſions Veer with each hour, and ſhake our beſt reſolves? How is my boſom chang'd!—no longer now, From my example, mothers teach the young And tender maid, who dreads each ſwelling wave That heaves but gently o'er the ſtream of life, To riſe ſuperior to her ſex's weakneſs— Enter ARSINOE. Arſi. Friend of my life, whoſe partial choice has given Arſinöe long the privilege to paſs The ceremonious bounds, which birth and title Had plac'd between us, wherefore art thou chang'd From her that lov'd, and lov'd but her Arſinöe? Cleo. Still art thou here the partner of my heart; Then wherefore this reproach? and why complain Of change that never yet this breaſt has known? We were two plants that grew in friendſhip's ſoil, And promis'd fruits of never-dying love. Arſi. Then every care that Cleonice knew Arſinöe too has ſhar'd—but late I've mark'd That Cleonice, different from herſelf, Shuns even Arſinöe's preſence, ever ſeeks The lone receſs, and brooding o'er her thoughts, Nurſes ſome hidden grief—ſoon war again Shall looſe its rage—perhaps the threatening danger Alarms your fear. Cleo. Thou know'ſt that I alone Remain'd the comfort of a father's age, When fate, that tore Polemon from the hope Of his Bithynia, from a huſband's arms A hapleſs conſort ſever'd, thou remember'ſt, My mother, ſad Arete, bow'd with grief, Soon mix'd her aſhes with the ſon's ſhe mourn'd: Then left, in early youth, my converſe oft Sooth'd a fond parent's pangs, when recollection Rais'd up the form of bleſſings loſt for ever! While, as I grew, paternal fondneſs ſaw With partial eye his Cleonice's mind Expand beyond her ſex: hence not alone, The ſoft, the winning talents, that to life Give female poliſh, but the greater arts Ennobling man were taught my ripening age. But, o'er the reſt, my ſire, whoſe boſom glow'd T'avenge his ſon, enur'd my thoughts to cheriſh Deep hatred of the ſoe by whom he fell. Arſi. Hatred and vengeance ill agree, my friend, With tender grief like thine—eſtrang'd from all Thy wonted temper, ſolitude beſpeaks Far other change—Then ſeek not to deceive The ſearching eye of friendſhip. Cleo. Alas! Arſinöe, I feel the woman here—thou ſaid'ſt but now That war again muſt ſoon unlooſe its rage; Is there no cauſe for fear? whate'er the tongue Of ſtoic fortitude may boaſt, the mind, The generous mind that owns life's deareſt ties, Will nouriſh feelings pride diſdains to own. Arſi. Revolve our preſent ſtate, our country's ſword, Now us'd to victory gives high expectance Of future triumphs, while for you, my friend, If love, if grandeur charm, Bithynia's throne Shall raiſe you high, and Hymen light his torch At Cupid's flame—Is not the firſt of men, The firſt of heroes, yours? Yes, Cleonice, Each anxious doubt ſhall fleet like morning miſt, And all be loſt in your Orontes' arms. Cleo. Orontes' arms!—O Heaven! what have I ſaid! By every tie of love—But whither—whither Now rove my thoughts!—Leave me, leave me, my Arſinöe, To brood in ſecret o'er my treaſur'd ſorrows. Arſi. Scarce from her tenth fair creſcent has the moon Silver'd night's fleecy robe, ſince I've beheld, Tho' ſilent, I've beheld thy alter'd mien; Methinks ere ſince the day, when 'midſt the ranks Of rebel arms my father 'ſcap'd with life. Sav'd by the gallant aid of brave Arſetes— Ha! thou art pale—and now the mantling blood Returns once more—What can this mean?—My heart Has caught the alarm, and, Oh! my ſoul forebodes Diſtreſs and anguiſh to my hopeleſs love. (aſide. Cleo. It muſt be ſo—hence, every vain reſpect! I can no more diſſemble—Heat, Arſinöe, Hear then and pity Cleonice's weakneſs! While Lycomedes with a monarch's care, Plans future ſchemes of greatneſs—Cleonice, Loſt to herſelf, her rank, her ſex's glory, Doats on the merits of a youth unknown! Arſi. Orontes then— Cleo. Orontes!—name him not— I own his worth—I own the ſacred rights A king and father claim—but I muſt own, Tho' while I ſpeak, confuſion fills my ſoul, Arſetes bears down all; and tho' the pride Of fortune rais'd me high above his hopes, A pleader here, which nothing could withſtand, By looks, by deeds, by all that can ennoble The pride of youthful manhood, had prepar'd My eaſy boſom to receive the gueſt, That n w, ſole tyrant, reigns my boſom's lord! Arſi. Then am I loſt indeed! (aſide. Cleo. Go, my Arſinöe, And learn if aught is rumour'd that pertains To my Arſetes:—ſoon this favourd hero Will leave Bithynia's court—but ſtill remember Veil'd in thy faithful breaſt to keep my ſecret: To thee I truſt my life, my fame, my all! [Exit Arſin. Cleon. [alone.] Loſt and bewilder'd ſtill I rove in fate's Diſtreſsful labyrinth—Why, Cleonice, Why didſt thou leave the ſhore of calm indifference, To launch upon the dangerous ſea of love? Enter LYCOMEDES, and TERAMENES Lyco. This day, my Cleonice, ſurely dawns With happieſt omens—He, whoſe valiant arm, Join'd with Orontes, quell'd our rebel ſons To whom the public voice gave every ſuffrage Of grateful tribute, threaten'd to forſake Our realm, and bear to other climes his ſword But Teramenes, who with counſel ſage For ever watches o'er his country's weal, Has found the happy means to fix him here, To graft his virtues on Bithynia's ſtock, Bleſt earneſt of revenge! Cleo. What means my father? (aſide. My lord, the duty Cleonice owes Her country's welfare, and her father's honour, Demands my thanks for every aid that Heaven Gives to Bithynia's ſtrength—and ſure, Arſetes Stands firſt in martial praiſe—But ſay, my father, What happy means has Teramenes found To fix him yours? Lyco. Such means as oft have dealt Deſtruction on mankind: what oft has drawn The ſword of violence, may now ſecure A nation's ſame and vengeance—Yes, whate'er Arſetes' race or country, beauty's charms Inſure his future ſervice.—Fair Arſinöe, Thy virtuous friend, ſhall bind her native land In grateful thanks for ſuch a hero's valour. Our friend, our Teramenes, joins to his Arſinöe's hand, and gives, in ſuch a ſon, A great ally in Lycomedes' cauſe. Led by Orontes' and Arſetes' valour, What may Bithynia's ſquadrons not atchieve? Cleo. [aſide.] Support me, Heaven! [to Ter.] —Sir, I confeſs the virtues Of my Arſinöe, and her beauty's charms: Permit me yet to aſk you, if Arſetes Has e'er reveal'd—Perhaps ſome diſtant fair, Whoſe love and beauty had poſſeſs'd his ſoul, Impels him to forſake Bithynia's court. Ter. No, princeſs—if this judgment, not unſkill'd In human kind, can read the thoughts of men, He loves Arſinöe: late have I obſerv'd His boſom labouring with the ſtifled paſſion, Of recent birth; and well I know my daughter Owns, with a virgin bluſh, Arſetes' virtues: Nor could a youth, whoſe fortune only reſts In his own merits and his ſword, refuſe That hand which Nicomedia's nobleſt peers With tranſport would receive. Lyc. Why droops my daughter? Still cheriſh hope; a train of better days Succeeds, where vengeance brightens up the proſpect. My age's darling! 'tis for thee my ſoul Still labours, tho' declining years would fain Woo me to ſhades of peace—to raiſe thee high, With thy Orontes, and avenge my boy, I ſcorn rep ſe—nor will I reſt till theſe Old eyes behold in chains or breathleſs ſtretch'd The cruel foe by whom Polemon fell! Come, Teramenes, let us ſeek Arſetes, Then once again renew our vows to pour The war's whole rage on Artabaſus' head. [Exeunt Lyc. and Ter. Cleo. [alone.] It is enough—misfortune now has ſpent Her utmoſt ſhafts—and I defy the future! O Cleonice! has thy ſtruggling boſom For this ſo long contended? Oft when pride Of inborn dignity, when ſenſe of fame, And every duty to a father, urg'd My ſoul to combat love—how have the words Of perfidy enſnar'd my eaſy heart! Deceiv'd—rejected—wedded to Arſinōe! But hence!—avaunt!—I will—I would forget The perjur'd, yet the once belov'd Arſetes! But ſee!—the traitor comes!—O Heaven! away With woman's weakneſs—meet him as befits A princeſs ſlighted and her love betray'd! Enter ARSETES. Arſe. While thus the faireſt of her ſex withdraws To ſolitude and ſadneſs, ſhuns the gaze Of admiration, let Arſetes yet Intrude on Cleonice's lonely hours Ere cruel fate compels— Cleo. My lord, forbear— This needed not—a hero's towering ſoul Soars high above the weakneſs of the lover: Since thou wilt part, it is not Cleonice Can here detain Arſetes—other charms— But I forget myſelf—excuſe me, Sir— Whate'er your aims—let not my preſence damp The glorious fortune love and fate prepare— And think not e'er awaken'd from her dream Of fond credulity, that Cleonice Will cloud your joys, or ſtop your path to greatneſs. [Exit. Arſe. [alone.] Where am I? ſure I dream—my every ſenſe Is loſt in wild amazement— Enter AGENOR. Agen. All is ready, And nothing now remains but that we quit Bithynia's court for Artabaſus' camp— What mean thoſe looks of ſorrow, wherefore heaves Your ſwelling breaſt, while clouded with deſpair Your eyes, in ſilent pauſe, reproach the Gods! Arſe. Alas! what ſhall I ſay—could'ſt thou believe it, Agenor? ſhe for whom my ſoul had near Forgot a kingdom's fame, a father's love, Each nice reſpect of honour, made my name To future times the ſcorn of every tongue, That fathers to their ſons might point the example, And bid them fear to fall as fell Pharnaces! Even ſhe, my friend, has now with cruel ſcorn, Repaid my love— Agen. O Sir, forgive Agenor; But ſure in pity fate concurs even here To haſten your reſolves—whate'er the cauſe Of Cleonice's anger, every moment Is wing'd with peril—think what foes conſpire Againſt your father's peace, his life and fame. Arſe. No more, no more, Agenor—beſt of friends, In thee thy father Tiridates ſpeaks. Pharnaces! ſtill thou ſhalt retrieve thy glory; Burſt from the veil of dark obſcurity, And blaze in virtue's beam.—But yet, Agenor! O yet indulge a heart that ſinks beneath Accumulated anguiſh—can I leave My Cleonice thus—alas! who knows How ſoon, by raſh reſentment urg'd, her hand May to Orontes yield her plighted faith! While abſent hence Pharnaces.— Agen. Wilt thou then, Wilt thou then linger here, unmindful ſtill Of fame and Artabaſus? Arſe. No—this night, Be witneſs, every power! we leave the court— This only day indulge a lover's fondneſs! The care be thine that Artabaſus ſoon Receive this ſignet, whith the welcome news That his Pharnaces, his expected ſon, Will join, ere yet they reach the bounds of Pontus, His native bands,—there, kneeling at his feet, Implore forgiveneſs—in this interval Of fate and love, theſe lips ſhall once again Aſſail with every ſoothing eloquence The cruel Cleonice; then, Agenor, To Artabaſus will I open all My ſecret heart—perhaps ſome future day (O buſy hope!) may give me undiſguis'd To plead my cauſe before her, when my ſight. Shall in her breaſt revive the tender flame, And love with endleſs rapture crown Pharnaces! [Exeunt ſeverally. SCENE a gallery. Enter LYCOMEDES and TERAMENES. Lyco. How ſtand the ſoldiers' hopes, my Teramenes? What ſpirit breathes among their ranks, to give A preſage of the war? Tera. The troops on fire, Demand alone Orontes and Arſetes; With loud reproach they execrate the ſoe, And hail with joy the near expiring truce. Lyco. Yes. Teramenes—civil Diſcord now, That ſheaths her ſword, has left Revenge to rear Her dreadful banner—Nemeſis has heard Our ſolemn vows againſt exulting Pontus. No more Polemon's ghoſt ſhall haunt my dreams; Arſetes and Orontes ſhall extend My name to lateſt times; the glorious love Of empire and of arms, that fir'd my youth, Shall warm my frozen age—too long compell'd I ſmother'd in my breaſt the flame of hatred; But when my ſoul forgets thy loſs, Polemon, Diſgrace and ruin o'er theſe ſilver locks Shed their black influence!—Orontes, welcome; What hear'ſt thou of the foe? Enter ORONTES. Oron. Not unprepar'd, The king of Pontus, from Heraclea's walls, Has drawn the choiceſt ſons of valour forth, That lie encamp'd beſide Parthenius' ſtream. Tera. 'Tis ſaid, they wait the arrival of Pharnaces, (The kingdom's hope) whom Artabaſus ſent, What time Bithynia ſign'd the truce with Pontus, To diſtant Rome to train his youth in arms, And Fame, with loudeſt tongue, proclaims his praiſe. Lyco. A ſtripling when he left his father's court? Tera. He was; and now ſcarce twenty funs have ripened Our fruitful years, ſince Artabaſus gain'd By him a parent's name.— Lyco. Such as he is— O, ſcorpion memory! ſuch perhaps had been Bithynia's heir and Lycomedes' ſon! O, Teramenes! O, Orontes! pity A father's feelings—Thou, Orontes, ſaw'ſt My hapleſs boy—thy pious arms embrac'd My loſt Polemon, as life's guſhing ſtream Sprinkled his budding laurels—where was then A father's vengeful ſword, while to his tent You hore him pale and ſenſeleſs, diſtant far, Detain'd by coward age, theſe ears receiv'd The dreadful tidings, when his frantic mother Ended her wretched being—Powerful Jove! Shed from thy bitter urn the dregs of anguiſh On my poor ſpan of life, withhold each comfort Which creeping years, o'erwhelm'd with ſorrow, claim, If I forgive the cruel hand that cropt This blooming plant, which elſe had flouriſh'd now, And ſhelter'd with his ſhade my waſting age! Oron. Soon ſhall welead th' embattled ſquadrons forth On Artabaſus—ſhould this boaſted ſon Return, tho' conqueſt plum'd, he comes perhaps A fated victim— Lyco. O! that thought, Orontes, Gives vigour to my nerves!—Ye powers of vengeance! Hear, hear a father's voice, and thro' his ſon, Reach Artabaſus' heart, that after years Of tedious expectation, now at length Return'd and ſcarcely welcom'd, he may fall A dreadful ſacrifice—then thro' the ſenſe, The thrilling ſenſe of fond parental love, By his Pharnaces let him know the pangs Of Lycomedes, when Polemon fell! [Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE, a private apartment. Enter CLEONICE and ARSINOE. CLEONICE. TALK not of comfort—'tis in vain. Arſinöe; Arſetes leaves us—my relentleſs ſcorn, Impell'd by frantic jealouſy, the madneſs Of woman's love, drives from Bithynia's court The firſt of warriors: his right hand, that ſtill Held Victory captive, now to happier realms Shall bear his fortune and his ſame—the ſun That riſes on the war, ſhall ſee our troops Pale and diſmay'd for their Arſetes loſt. Who knows the event?—the ſame declining ſun May bluſh upon Bithynia's ſhame, and gild With favouring rays the tent of Artabaſus, May ſmile upon his arms; while Lycomedes Curſes each day that wider ſpreads his ſhame. Arſi. Alas! my friend, your warmth of temper frames The gloomieſt proſpects of imagin'd terror— Tho' Fortune now may frown— Cleo. Thee too, Arſinöe, Thee have I wrong'd—forgive thy Cleonice— Art thou to blame, if, fram'd for gentleſt paſſions, Thy breaſt, the ſeat of innocence and love, Confeſt the manly beauties of Arſetes, Not bound by cruel ties of fame or duty? Rouze, rouſe, my feeble virtue—yes, I feel New ſtrength, and ſhould Arſetes yet remain— I think, Arſinöe—Heaven, ſupport the thought! I think,—I could reſolve to yield him to thee— But ſee, thy father— Enter Teramenes. Ter. All the hopes we form'd To keep Arſetes here, diſſolve in air: Thus oft, preſumptuous man too fondly graſps Ideal good: the hero, whom we deem'd Secur'd by every tie, declines the hand By Hymen given, endow'd with wealth and honours; While candor bluſhes on his modeſt cheek, He owns Arſinöe's virtues, owns the fate That now forbids him to receive her love, Or longer to remain Bithynia's gueſt. Cleo. Still art thou true, Arſetes! Ter. My Arſinöe, Why heaves thy boſom?—Still our guardian Gods We truſt will ſmile. Arſ. My lord, Arſi ö ſtands Prepar'd for all—be witneſs, Heaven! how oft I check'd each flattering hope: forgive, my father, The involuntary ſigh! perhaps the laſt The fruitleſs effort of expiring paſſion! Ter. Call up the thoughts that ſuit thy ſex and rank: Time ſhall, with lenient hand, relieve thy anguiſh, Thy princeſs, with the gracious warmth of friendſhip Shall ſhed the balm of comfort in thy wounds: —Still art thou ſad?—permit me, Cleonice, Awhile retir'd with dear paternal counſels, To arm her tender breaſt, that peace again May chaſe deſpair and eaſe an anxious father. [Exit with Arſinöe. Cle. alone. Tho' my heart joys to find Arſetes true, Still am I wretched—yet again methinks, Fain would I once again behold that face Where love, where aith!—but O! 'tis madneſs all! Doom'd to Orontes, when the lonely hour Invites to ſhades of ſorrow, tyrant duty Makes even my grief a crime—but let me ſtill, Let me once more, while yet without reproach I may indulge the ſight, behold Arſetes, Take the laſt ſad adieu—and like a wretch That ſhivers on the precipice of fate, Enjoy the parting glimpſe of peace and happineſs. Then ſink at once to miſery and Orontes. [Exit. SCENE, a ball. Enter Lycomedes, Teramenes, and Orontes. Lyc. The Gods have heard our vows, my Teramenes, Ere yet the night aſcends, to Pontus' camp Pharnaces will return; even now we heard From certain tidings, that the prince's ſignet Receiv'd by Artabaſus, had confirm'd His near approach— Ter. My liege, the enemy Will feel new vigour from the expected ſight Of young Pharnaces—ere a few ſhort days Are paſt, th' advancing troops by Arcas led Will join our arms; united then, our bands May ruſh to certain conqueſt. Oron. Teramenes, Forgive me, if my ſoul revolts ſrom counſels Which frigid prudence dictates—ſhall we then Remain inglorious, ſkulk within our walls, To wait uncertain aid—permit the foe To gather ſtrength and courage from the prefence Of this Pharnaces?—O! forbid it virtue! That virtue which has fired Bithynia's ſons To glorious conqueſt and extended ſway! Lyc. My empire's hope! on whoſe ſucceeding reign Sits expectation: this Pharnaces ſtill Turns every ſcale of fight; his towering ſpirit, Enthuſiaſt of the battle, looks with ſcorn On vulgar honours— Oron. To this boaſted hero, Deck'd in his foreign triumphs, ſend the trump Of ſtern defiance, that Pharnaces' arm May meet with mine before the camp, and give A glorious opening to the morn of war! Lyc. —'Tis nobly utter'd—thy impatient ſword May find employment—to the hoſtile camp A herald ſhall to-morrow bear our challenge To this Pharnaces, in the liſted field Next day to engage in ſingle fight, the champion Bithynia's king ſhall ſend—but ſince the life Of my Orontes on the great event Suſpended hangs—to thine ſix warriors more Shall join their dauntleſs names. Oron. Let inſtant lots Decide the combatant; or rather fix, Without the chance of lots, Orontes' ſword, Which here he tenders, vowing from Pharnaces To tear his recent ſpoils, and to the manes Of your Polemon ſhed his life, or fall Himſelf a victim, happy in the applauſe Of his lov'd ſovereign, and his country's tears. Enter Arſetes. Arſ. Permit me, ſir, ſince time with rapid wing Now mocks my ſtay, to waken your remembrance That call'd by fate to other ties which honour, Which duty muſt enforce, Arſetes now Prepares to leave the court, reluctant leave That court, where Lycomedes' royal hand Sheds laviſh honours on his poor deſert. Lyc. Yet ere thou goeſt, thy valour that has long Suſtain'd our arms, may add one labour more; For ſtill methinks, Arſetes, would my ſoul Detain thee here; but ſate, I know not why, In thee from Lycomedes tears a hero, Whom next Orontes he eſteem'd his ſon; This very now, ere thy arrival here A challenge was decreed to dare Pharnaces To ſingle ſight—Orontes, 'midſt the liſt Of noble candidates for fame, demands The glorious peril, let us add to theſe Arſetes' name, and inſtant lots decide The champion fated on his venturous ſword To bear Bithynia's vengeance— Arſ. [aſide] Ha! what means My wayward deſtiny! Oron. Behold the champion Thy choice ſelects—ſee, Lycomedes, ſee, Suſpenſe is on his brow—Is this the man Whoſe arms ſo oft— Arſ. Yes, 'tis the man, Orontes! Who fought Bithynia's battles, he whoſe force— But I am calm.—No, Lycomedes, think not I ſhrink from honour's trial—ſhould the lot Bring forth Arſete's name—believe me, ſir, Whate'er Pharnaces—I alone perhaps Am doom'd his victor, when the world ſhall own That what Pharnaces was, is then Arſetes. Lyc. Enough, enough;—thy zeal, Orontes, here Prompts thee too far; nor thou Arſetes, heed Orontes' eager warmth—to dare beyond The level of mankind, and bravely reach At virtue's height, is all that human firmneſs Can boaſt her own—Succeſs, enthron'd above, Beyond a mortal's power, by Heaven alone Commiſſion'd, crowns the deed—now let us hence— The lots once drawn, ſoon as the fated morn Aſcends the ſteep to gild the turret's height, Our knight ſhall wait the ſignal. [Exeunt Lyc. Ter. and Oron. Arſ. alone. Deity Of blind events!—ſay, whither wouldſt thou lead Pharnaces now?—yet let me once again Behold my Cleonice, then forſake This fatal realm, no more a feign'd ally To tread with hoſtile ſtep Bithynia's court. Enter Cleonice. She comes—once more 'tis given me to addreſs My Cleonice—'midſt ſurrounding perils Yet happy, if I once again can pour My ſoul's full anguiſh here— Cleo. Alas! Arſetes, What ſhall I ſay? how ſpeak my boſom's tumult? I fear too much I wrong'd thee; tho' our fate Can ne'er unite us, yet I feel my heart Will never caſt Arſetes from the throne Where Love had plac'd him.— Arſ. O! thou moſt unkind! What had I done to merit!—when my ſoul With anguiſh bled— Cleo. Alas! I thought thee falſe, And tho' I knew thou never could'ſt be mine, I could not bear another ſhould receive That love, which once I deem'd was mine alone. Arſ. Another Cleonice! is there then Amidſt the blooming circle of your ſex A maid whoſe charms—what treacherous tongue has dar'd Traduce my faith? Cleo. The king and Teramenes Declar'd your purpoſe to eſpouſe Arſinöe: Fir'd at the thought, my raſh ungovern'd temper— Thou know'ſt the reſt.— Arſ. Forbear, I know too much: For this, thou could'ſt unheard condemn the man That lives not but in thee; bid the ſame breath That warm'd my love to rapture, like a froſt Nip every bloſſom of my future hopes!— Thou never lov'dſt— Cleo. Then wherefore am I wretched? Unjuſt Arſetes! give me back, ye powers, That bleſt indifference, when as yet this pulſe Had never learnt to beat, theſe nerves to tremble With fear, ſuſpenſe, with all the nameleſs train That baniſh peace for ever—In Orontes I view'd a Prince, to whom paternal care Had pledg'd my nuptials; till a ſtranger's virtues Drove every thought from Cleonice's breaſt Of intereſt or ambition—ſtill remember I will—I would retain the inbred dignity That ſuits the daughter of Bithynia's king.— Enough, Arſetes, that my ſoul has ſtoop'd To own her weakneſs—yet ſince cruel Fate Forbids our union, when thy heart ſelects Another love, may every happineſs That crowns the fondeſt pair— Arſ. O! never, never! This boſom traitor to its firſt— Cleon. The king— Enter Lycomedes. Lyc. Well doſt thou honour here the man whoſe ſword May turn the tide of victory—my daughter, Behold Arſetes, now decreed to meet In combat with Pharnaces—know, the lots Of fate are drawn; our fame is in thy hands; Thou art our champion. Arſ. Since the will of deſtiny Seals me thy warrior; till the morn diſſolves The truce with Pontus, let me from the court A while retire, on ſomething that concerns My weal, my honour—when the bluſh of dawn Shall ſttike the altar on the foreſt's edge To Mars devoted, there thy guard ſhall find A champion arm'd to meet Bithynia's foe, If Artabaſus' ſon accept the war. Lyc. Till then the hours be all thy own—Nor claims Bithynia, or Bithynia's king, from thee But what befits thy honour—ſhould ſucceſs Attend our hero's arms, theſe walls ſhall ring With joyful paeans, and to crown the day With jubilee, the day that ſets us free From ſuch a foe, Orontes to the altar Shall lead his Cleonice; and the garlands Of Hymen's triumphs mingle with the palms Which victory diſplays—The important hour Demands my counſel hence—till next we meet, Farewell—and ſhould Pharnaces, ſway'd by virtue, Accept our challenge—may Polemon's death Sit on thy lance—a mother's grief and death Edge thy keen faulchion, and a father's ſufferings Infuſe new ſpirit in the day of fight, That every eye may view with tears of tranſport Arſetes' laurels and Bithynia's glory! [Exit. Cleonice, Arſetes. Cleonice. [pauſe] Yet is there more! O, no! my fate has long Frown'd in the diſtant proſpect—now the viſion Draws near, and miſery with rapid ſpeed Rides on the advancing hour—thy life, Arſetes, Expos'd to peril in to-morrow's field Excites each fear—for thee my prayers ſhall pierce Jove's awful throne; yet muſt thy victory Doom me a wretch for ever—led to grace Thy triumph in Orontes' hated bands! Yet be it ſo—fate, honour, virtue, all Demand this ſacrifice!—and ſhould the event Of battle crown thee with the victor's wreath, And ſtill Bithynia's vows detain thee here, Arſinöe be thy bright, thy dear reward— She loves thee, my Arſetes—yes—O Heaven! Why do I weep—let her beſtow that happineſs Which Cleonice never— Arſ. Still thou know'ſt not What fate has yet reſerv'd—the enſuing combat May clear a myſtery, which till now compell'd My bleeding heart had kept from all—from thee! Then by each paſt, now hopeleſs hour of love, Still cheriſh in thy breaſt the gentle flame Arſetes kindled, till the expected ſun Sets on the battle's fate; our fate perhaps Hangs on the equal balance—Cleonice Will ne'er refuſe theſe moments to Arſetes: Thou know'ſt not what I feel for thee, my ſoul Labours beneath a load of ſecret anguiſh; While danger, ambuſh'd in a thouſand forms, Waits every ſtep, and threats my way with ruin. Cleo. Thou haſt prevail'd, Arſetes; and whate'er The fateful birth that waits to be diſclos'd, My love ſhall hope the event— Arſ. The day declines, And warns me hence— Cleon. O Heaven! we meet no more Till that eventful time! yet go, Arſetes: Go whither glory calls—Hear, every Power! Raiſe o'er his head the buckler of defence, Pluck from the hoſtile hand the nerve of ſtrength, And bring him victor home—nor let a tear From Cleonice ſtain the hour that gives Bithynia ſafety, and Arſetes fame! [Exit. Arſetes, alone. Methinks my pulſe more quickly beats, and all My ſpirits rouſe, as nearer to the goal Verges my fate. Enter Agenor. Arſ. Agenor! Age. O, my friend! Reflect what perils hover round; ſome God (Forgive me, prince!) that frowns upon our raſhneſs, Has form'd the labyrinth that threatens now— This combat by the king propos'd— Arſ. O, wherefore Did not Orontes mark the champion's lot, Then Fate, perhaps—But yet, my friend, this fight, This myſtic fight, may work ſome means to unravel The knot of deſtiny—The hour now preſſes; The herald ſoon will ſeek my father's camp. Age. Then let us hence!—The warlike troops of Pontus Impatient wait to ſee their prince return; Whoſe glories won in diſtant climes, attract Each liſtening ear, while every ſoldier, warm With expectation, pants to view that face Where Mars propitious in life's opening prime With youthful graces blends the victor's ſmile— Your father too— Arſ. I feel, I feel it here! The godlike, virtuous ardor! yes, Agenor, My ſoul is up in arms—methinks I ſee Good Artabaſus darting thro' the ranks His ardent looks—methinks I hear him chide, With fond paternal warmth, his tardy ſon. Now, on his reverend cheek, where age begins To ſhed its ſilver honours, ſtands the tear Of tenderneſs, while all the parent longs To ſee thoſe features ripening into manhood, Which laſt he view'd in early bloom—I hear The ſhout of charging hoſts! the neigh of ſteeds! The battle joins, and no Pharnaces there! Now danger ſtalks around, and Artabaſus— Diſtracting thought! fly, fly my beſt Agenor, Fly to redeem our fame, and ſave a father! [Exeunt. SCENE, another apartment. Enter Orontes and Zopyrus. Zop. Compoſe yourſelf, my lord. Oron. Zopyrus, never— Was it for this I deem'd his abſence near, And now behold him with Orontes join'd In glory's liſt—nay more, by partial fortune Declar'd Bithynia's champion!—Should he fall, He leaves a name in arms to cope with mine!— But ſhould he conquer!—Hell is in that thought! Who knows, Zopyrus!—whither may the king's Too partial views incline?—The kingdom freed From ſuch a foe—Polemon's death reveng'd— He may, perhaps, forget—The crown, Zopyrus, That miſtreſs of my ſoul, to which ambition Points every aim, may grace a ſtranger's brow! Zop. What ſays Orontes? Oron. This right arm might reach His life—but policy forbids my hatred To blaze abroad—The many blindly dote On him they ſcarcely know—Zopyrus, ſpeak, Art thou my friend?— Zop. Hold—let me think,—Orontes Bears not the coward's ſcruples—there is yet Perhaps a way— Oron. Pauſe not, but ſpeak— Zop. 'Tis here— Arſetes muſt not live—Give but the word, He dies, and dies ere he can meet Pharnaces! Oron. But how?— Zop. Thou know'ſt that I command the guard To eſcort Arſetes from the fane of Mars To meet Pharnaces; from a deſperate band, The power of gold, and vaſt reward, ſhall ſingle A choſen few, that at a ſignal given Shall rid your ſoul of every fear in him: And more to blind ſuſpicion's eye, their arms, Their veſts ſhall ſeem of Pontus' troops: the deed Effected once, the enſuing fight ſhall ſee Theſe tools of our great enterpriſe expos'd Full in the front of ſlaughter, that in heat Of onſet they may fall, and in their fall Mock all diſcovery. Oron. Come to my breaſt! By heaven it ripens well—Then, when he's dead, We lead the troops to well ſeign'd vengeance!—Say Where lies the force of Pontus? Zop. Station'd near Bithynia's bounds, that thrice an arrow's flight May reach their outmoſt guard. Oron. Now, hated rival! Now triumph for a moment—My revenge Prepares ſuch greeting, never more thy deeds Shall ſhine to vulgar eyes—on proud Arſetes Death ſoon ſhall cloſe his everlaſting gate, While life to me diſplays the glorious path That leads the daring wind to fame and empire. [Exeunt.
ACT IV. SCENE, An open place in the city. Orontes alone. WHENCE is this ſeeming weight? ſhake off, my ſoul, This lethargy, and be again Orontes. The truce is ended—all is ſafe—Arſetes Accepts our challenge—and ere this Arſetes Waits at the foreſt's edge—How ſlowly night Has dragg'd her courſe! at length the day returns To lift his beams upon thoſe eyes, that never Muſt view his ſetting ſplendor—See! the king!— Diſſimulation, ſpread thy ſubtleſt ſnares, Teach me to amuſe the fond credulity Of eaſy fools, with ſhew of what my heart Diſdains to feel—but hold— Enter Lycomedes, attended. Lyc. Yon' orient ſun, That, glancing from the dewy mountain, ſheds The day-ſpring's early bluſhes, on this morn Shines with redoubled luſtre: on this morn, That gives Arſetes to the field of fame Our empire's champion—O, my beſt Orontes! This hour, methinks, the hand of Heaven once more On deſtiny's eternal page begins To enroll Bithynia's honours—Speak, my ſon! Thy generous ſoul, now wrapt with glory, pants To ſhare Arſetes' danger. Oron. Lycomedes, I own my ſpirit rouzes at the call Of martial conflict; yet, forbid it, Heaven! My heart, impell'd by envy, ſhould repine To view another's honours—by the hand Of Mars, the patron of my wars, I ſwear There's not a breaſt would feel Orontes' joy, To hear the fate my ardent hope divines This morn awaits the glories of Arſetes. Lyc. O truly great!—nor think thy noble ſword Shall uſeleſs ſleep; no—ſhould the great event Thy ſoul forebodes, attend Arſetes' valour, Thyſelf with Teramenes join'd, ſhall pour Our eager thouſands on the troops diſmay'd Of Pontus: Arcas ſhall arrive to join Our glorious arms; and univerſal victory Clap her glad wings—then every happy wreath, That hope had form'd, ſhall deck theſe hoary temples, And choral virgins hymn Bithynia's bands Return'd in triumph home! Our Teramenes, Already now, in pomp of martial pride, Leaves theſe glad walls, and ſwells with war's deep notes The ſoldier's ardor, while the plated mail Heaves on each boſom— Enter Cleonice, attended. O, my Cleonice! Age now, with backward gaze, on memory's plain Revives forgotten honours—Say, my child; Owns not thy heart a more than woman's feelings On this eventſul moment!— Cleon. Yes, my ſoul Expands to greater hopes—each other thought Now ſleeps neglected—while the mightier claims Of filial duty and my country's love Poſſeſs me whole—the noble mind that draws Its boaſted lineage from a race of kings; Of kings, the ſacred delegates of Heaven; Should baniſh every ſelfiſh view that tends not To wide diffuſive good—Oh! ſhould the hand Of proſperous fortune mark this happy day, What thouſands then would hail with rapture's voice Arſetes' bleſt return!—for this event Old age ſhall lift his wrinkled palms in praiſe; The virgin's tears ſhall vaniſh into ſmiles; Redoubled warmth ſhall nerve the ſoldier's arm; Till conqueſt ſwell the breath of ſame to ſpread Bithynia's deeds, and lift her name to Heaven! (dead march at a diſtance. Lyc. Whence is that ſound? that martial ſymphony With Teramenes!—theſe are other ſtrains Than joy or victory!— Cleon. The notes of ſorrow!— And now 'tis ſilence all!— (muſic) —Again! Oron. My heart Beats high with anxious hope and fear. (aſide. Lyc. Orontes! What do I ſee! theſe aged eyes diſtinguiſh A martial train with low inverted pikes, And banners trailed to earth!—and hark! more near Methinks I hear deep murmurs of diſtreſs, And mingled groans, that peal in fancy's ear Arſetes' name!— Cleon. Arſetes!—look, my father, The low-hung trophy and the duſty arms— [Enter in proceſſion a troop of ſoldiers, to a dead march, advancing ſlowly from the further end of the ſtage, firſt a company trailing their lances and trophies in the duſt, then the helmet. ſhield, and lance of Arſetes, borne by two ſoldiers; next Teramenes, and laſt a bier with a dead body, covered with a mantle, the ſoldiers bearing branches of cypreſs and palm: the proceſſion ad ancing towards the front of the ſtage, halts, and the muſic ceaſes.] Cleonice advancing towards the trophies. Ha! ſure I know that creſt! That buckler's orb Blaz'd with Arſetes' honours!— Lyc. Teramenes, Whence is this dreadful pomp of death? Ter. I cannot— I cannot ſpeak!—O, royal ſir, behold Bithynia's champion! broken is the lance Of war, the genius of the battle faints! Arſetes is no more!—lo! there he lies Pale from the hand of fate, no more to wake To fame, to virtue, or Bithynia's cauſe. (Cleo. faints. Lyc. My daughter!—Heaven! why am I thus unmov'd! When age, unfeeling, ſinks not with the ſtroke That now perhap—But ſhe revives—remove her From this heart-breaking ſcene— Cleo. (recovering) Yet hold—forbear— Ye ſhall not tear me hence—deſpair and grief Now freeze my ſeat of life; the dreadful tidings Shall load each paſſing gale, and every virgin, Whoſe breaſt has known the agonies of love, Lament with me, and mark this day with horror! Lyc. What means my daughter! Cleon. Pardon, Lycemedes; Orontes, pardon—to diſſemble further Were inſult to his corſe—I lov'd Arſetes, And I avow my flame— Oron. In all, my rival! [aſide. Lyc. Unhappy girl!—yet think not I will chide; I feel thy anguiſh here!— Ter. Where now is faith! Where royal truſt in princes!—while Arſetes Thus falls a ſacrifice to murderous treaſon, And ends his life by an aſſaſſin's ſword! Lyc. Ha! murder'd, Teramenes!— Oron. Speak; relate Each horrid circumſtance!— Ter. Thou know'ſt, Arſetes Directed, that Zopyrus might attend Two hours from dawning day at Mars's altar: But ere th' appointed time, a band of ruffians Attack'd the hapleſs youth; in vain his valour Oppos'd their fury; cover'd o'er with wounds, Senſeleſs he fell; but when Zopyrus came And aſk'd, with tears, the aſſaſſin's name, his eyes Then nearly clos'd he rais'd, and murmur'd forth Pharnaces' name, and died! Oron. (aſide) Be firm, my ſoul, And hide thy ſecret triumph! Lyc. 'Tis enough! Pharnaces!—Artabaſus!—Gods, I thank you!— Cleon. I weep not now—my heart would fain aſſume The cruel firmneſs of unfeeling woe! Arſetes murder'd! murder'd by Pharnaces! Where, where was juſtice, where the guardian powers That watch o'er virtue!—Yet, it will not be— My reſolution melts, and Nature pays This ſtreaming anguiſh to Arſetes' memory! Lyc. My child, my Cleonice, in thy ſorrows A king and father ſhare—for prayers and tears Are all an old man's weapons: hoary age, That breaks the vigour of Alcides, leaves Theſe idle ſinews uſeleſs as the arms Of female weakneſs! Cleon. Why, eternal Powers! Why is not courage given to woman? ſhall not Reſentment brace our ſex's feeble arm! I feel, I feel it now—my boſom ſwells With fury, with diſtraction—See Polemon, A bleeding ſacrifice!—lo! next my mother In death's convulſive pangs, and loſt Arſetes, The murder'd victim of the worſt of foes! Lyc. Hear, mighty Jove! and ſend thy dread vicegerent To weigh in equal ſcales the deeds of men! See, Cleonice—ſee where Artabaſus Shrinks in the awful trial!—ſoon, my daughter, Vengeance ſhall rear her bloody creſt—Pharnaces Shall pay the forfeit of his deed. Cleon. 'Tis there My hopes alone can triumph— [here the bier is brought forward. Lycomedes, Thou know'ſt my weakneſs—then permit me here To pay one mournful tribute—one laſt look, To poor Arſetes! [advancing towards the bier. Lyc. Hold! my Cleonice, It is too much—forbear!—the nearer view May ſtart thee into frenzy. Cleo. No, my father, I can—I will ſupport it— [approaching the body] Is this Arſetes! Is this Bithynia's triumph!—See the mantle That wraps his clay-cold limbs, the fatal preſent Of Cleonice's hand!—O, my Arſetes! Pale, pale and lifeleſs!—murderous ſlaves!—O where, Where are thoſe eyes that ſhed their beams of love On Cleonice! where thoſe lips that wak'd The heart-felt tenderneſs!—Diſtraction!—Hear me, O Heaven!—Arſetes, hear!—while thus I claſp Thy ſenſeleſs corſe, while yet thy ſpirit hovers O'er thy cold clay, in pity to our ſorrows! O never ſhall theſe eye-lids know repoſe, This breaſt be ſtill'd to comfort—never—never Till this accurs'd Pharnaces—Ha!—look there!— Th' exulting murderer triumphs!—Stay, Pharnaces— Fly not—behold, he bleeds!—ſee there the dread Tribunal met, where Minos lifts the urn— His juſtice ſhall avenge my dear Arſetes! [Exit. Lyc. Her griefs are wild—attend and ſooth her ſorrows. (to attendants, as they go out. Oron. Tears are but woman's tribute—to the ſoldier A ſoldier pays far other dues—Arſetes Demands Bithynia's gratitude—Here reſt Your honour'd load, while on the cold remains Of this lamented chief, Orontes vows An offering to his ſhade—O! Sir, permit me To ſecond, with my own, the ſoldier's zeal. Lyc. Thou art my age's hope, the ſtay on which My kingdom leans—take all thy courage claims, Go—lead the troops to arms. Oron. This ſword, that oft Has fought my ſovereign's cauſe, again unſheath'd, Thirſts for the blood of Pontus—Yes, I ſee, I ſee the genius of Arſetes lead The embattled ſquadrons, while his ſpirit ſtill Breathes in each breaſt, and marks the foe for vengeance. [Exit. Lyc. Be it our care to pay the laſt ſad rites To loſt Arſetes—to the clouds aſcend His funeral flame, and call the Gods to witneſs Our grateful tribute to the chief we mourn; Then in a ſacred vaſe ſelect with care His dear remains, to place them near the urn Where the lov'd relics of Polemon, borne A mournful trophy, ever in our ſight, Feeds ſtill our grief, and miniſters the gale That blows the ſmother'd flame of deep revenge! [Exeunt, the proceſſion going off in order. SCENE, a private apartment. Enter Orontes and Zopyrus. Oron. Deſtruction to my hopes! what Gods averſe Could blaſt my fortune further!—Can it be! Zopyrus—all our ſchemes abortive thus! What he, whom lifeleſs now the city mourns, Is not Arſetes—Arſetes and Pharnaces The ſame— Zop. There is no room for doubt—the tablets Found on the veſtments of the ſlain unknown, Confirm the important truth. Oron. Unthinking wretch! A thouſand proofs e ur, that ſpeak too plain— His birth conceal'd—ſurpriſe when Lycomedes Propos'd the combat with the prince—diſtraction! A turn like this may fruſtrate all!—it teems With tenfold ruin!—Cleonice's love To this Arſetes ſtarts another train Of galling doubts—What's to be done? Zop. Already The ſoldier pants impatient on the edge Of battle—Who can tell the event? Pharnaces May fall, and crown your wiſh. Oron. But ſtill the chance Of war is ever doubtful—Could we draw Pharnaces from the tumult of the fight, The tufted grove, that ſhades the fane of Mars, Might hide an ambuſh'd force, to whelm at once Our foe in ſwift deſtruction. Zop. 'Tis a thought The cauſe itſelf inſpires. Oron. Zopyrus, go; Inflame the ſoldiers with Arſetes' name, That name ſhall ſecond our deſign—I haſte To lead them to the field—away— [Exit Zopyrus. Oron. (alone.) Aſcend, Black Miſchief, child of hell, from the dire gloom Of burning Acheron, whence perfidy, Aſſaſſination, treaſon, (names that ſhake The coward ſoul) breathe forth inſpiring aid To vaſt Ambition, at whoſe dazzling ſhrine Orontes ever bends—I feel, I feel The ſacred influence here—If Fortune yet Aſſiſt my arms, in ſight Pharnaces falls An open victim; but if ſtill averſe She thwart my glorious aims, what force denies, Deep covert guile ſhall give; and all my fears Be huſh'd for ever in Pharnaces' blood. [Exit. SCENE, the camp of Artabaſus. Enter Artabaſus and Pharnaces. Art. Yes, my Pharnaces, my full boſom heaves With all a father's feelings—every God That knows the tranſport here, receive my vows Of gratitude and praiſe: thy bleſt return Each year ſhall chronicle; on that glad day The hallowed fanes ſhall grateful incenſe breathe To thoſe high powers, whoſe providential care Reliev'd my anxious fears—Pharnaces lives! In ſafety lives, claſp'd in theſe arms of fondneſs; Yet I could chide—for O! reflect, my ſon, How I have ſuffer'd in thy painful abſence, Could'ſt thou ſo far forget— Phar. O, royal ſir! Believe me, while I ſwear, that oft the ſon Reproach'd the lover 〈◊〉 oft I ſympathiz'd With Artabaſus. Art. Tho' to partial nature The warmer ſallies of ungovern'd youth, Ere long experience turns the page of life, Are venial errors, yet thy raſhneſs here Startles belief—What perils haſt thou 'ſcap'd! What deathful ſnares! perhaps, a fate like his, Whom all Bithynia for Arſetes mourns. Thou ſaidſt it was Araxes— Phar. 'Twas Araxes, Whoſe mien and near reſemblance to your ſon: Aſſiſted my deſign—When at my ſuit You gave conſent to accept Arſetes' challenge, I truſted to Araxes' breaſt my ſecret, Diſguis'd him in the veſt and arms I wore, When 'midſt Bithynia's ſquadrons, with deſign Himſelf ſhould for Arſetes' wage the combat, Inſtructed firſt to yield himſelf my priſoner: From hence I hop'd to plan ſome happy means Of peace, by conference open'd with the foe. But this diſtreſsful fate, myſterious Heaven Has caſt on poor Araxes, baffles all; And leaves me loſt, uncertain whither points This deed, or what inhuman breaſt deſign'd it. Art. Swear, my Pharnaces, never more to tempt Our hoſtile Gods in Lycomede's court, Nor give that life to hazard, which thy father Would ranſom with his own. Phar. (kneels.) By this rever'd, This awful hand, Pharnaces vows to ſacrifice His all to filial duty, every act Of his ſucceeding life ſhall ſpeak the ſon; And O! if Fate requires! even Love itſelf Shall bleed a victim at the ſhrine. Art. Think not That Artabaſus will condemn the love That honour ſanctifies—for Cleonice, If ever Rumour's tongue can claim belief, She merits all you feel—Nay, more, my ſoul Could witneſs Lycomedes' regal virtues, Did not ambition, that exceſs of kings, That thirſt of widen'd empire, that too far Inſpir'd his early reign, now, eve in age Impel him to unſheath invaſion's ſword. The king, who, urg'd by partial glory, breaks The ſacred ties that link a ſocial world, Should boaſt no more the image of thoſe Gods, Whoſe wide benevolence extends o'er all! Phar. Still, ſtill my hopes, with fond preſumption, form'd Ideal ſcenes of happineſs—Could Peace, With outſtretch'd arms, embrace the warring nations, Could Lycomedes learn one ſelf-ſame ſpirit, Inform'd his foe Pharnaces, and his once Belov'd Arſetes—Yet I dare, my father, Boaſt a ſoft advocate in Cleonice. Art. O my Pharnaces, what can filial duty With him that loves, and loves like Artabaſus! Ere day can yield to night, a truſty herald Shall to Bithynia's king, try every art Of eloquence, to bend his ſoul to terms That fit the king and father—Grant it, Heaven! The day that ſees my lov'd Pharnaces happy, Gives Artabaſus all—Then cloſe, ye Powers Life's anxious ſcenes, and let me ſleep in peace— Whence is that noiſe? [Alarm and ſhout. Enter Agenor, his ſword drawn. Agen. To arms, my liege, the foe, Led by Orontes, iſſuing from the town, Advances on our eamp.— Phar. Orontes!—Heaven Has heard Pharnaces' prayer—My lord, my father, My ſoul's on fire, and pants to meet in field My hated rival!— Art. Go, Agenor; bear Our inſtant orders to the troops, to range Their ſerried files—Pharnaces leads them on To fight—to victory— Phar. Hear, God of Arms! Whoſe ſmiles have grac'd my earlieſt youth—O hear This laſt requeſt—Still in Pharnaces breathe The ſpirit of the war!— Art. Thy ardor wakes My youth again—Hear now, a father's voice; With thy ſtrong genius, lead him thro' the maze Of dangerous battle, that theſe eyes may trace His fearleſs ſteps, behold his brandiſh'd ſword Shine forth the guardian of a nation's honour; And, while his arm aſſerts his country's cauſe, Aſſert the common rights of all mankind. [Exeunt.
ACT V. SCENE, An apartment on the ſummit of a tower, commanding a proſpect of the fields without the walls. Two urns on two pedeſtals. Cleonice, O Night! that ſoon wilt ſtretch oblivion's wing (alone.) O'er many a wretch, drive on the lagging ſhades And cloſe the day's dire horrors!—tho' to me Sleep brings no refuge, yet congenial gloom Befits my anguiſh—five revolving years Thy ſenſeleſs aſhes in their peaceful dwelling Have every day, Polemon, wak'd remembrance, And oft receiv'd the tributary tears. But here's a ſtroke ſurpaſſing all—Arſetes Shrunk to this narrow ſpace!—at early dawn He tower'd in arms—a little hour he lay A breathleſs corſe, and here his ſad remains Warm from the funeral flame, are clos'd for ever! Enter Arſinöe. If thou bring'ſt comfort, ſpeak! Arſ. Alas! my friend, I know it not—ſince from the walls my father Led forth his followers, to ſupport the attack Of brave Orontes on the ſoe, ſuſpenſe Has dwelt on all—the citizens affrighted Hearken to every ſound, that whiſpers aught Of fight or victory— (diſtant alarms.) Heaven guard my father. Cleo. Sure 'tis the diſtant murmur of the fight That ſwells upon the wind, and ſee, Arſinöe, Ere yet the ſhade of evening faintly ſpreads O'er the dun fields, ſee thro' the duſty whirl The flaſh of arms— Arſ. But hark! ſome haſty foot Sounds on the ſteps that lead to this receſs: O! let me fly, and eaſe my beating heart For Teramenes' ſafety! [Exit. Cleo. Nearer ſtill I hear the deepening roar—another ſhout!— There, there perhaps, Pharnaces, hated name! Sheds wide deſtruction!—can it be, ye Powers! Can he who ſtoop'd to murder, riſe in aught That's great or noble? ſure Arſetes' ſhade Should hover round, and in the day of battle Wither his ſtrength!—Some fatal news at hand! 'Tis Teramenes—Heavens!— Enter Teramenes, and Officer. Ter. Where, where's the king? —O Cleonice— Cleo. Speak— Ter. Bithynia's loſt!— Our lateſt hour is come.— Enter Lycomedes. Lyc. What means this tumult? What from the camp—but now a peal of ſhouts Broke on my ſlumbering ſenſe—how ſtand our hopes? Ter. The foe is in the walls!—our bands repuls'd By Artabaſus and his ſon, retreated To gain the gates—with them the conquering troops Of Pontus enter'd.— Lyc. 'Tis enough—theſe eyes Have ſeen enough of woe!—Where is Orontes? Ter. I ſaw him laſt, with dauntleſs courage, brave The hoſtile troops, when headed by Pharnaces They thunder'd thro' the gates, at which dire moment He vaniſh'd from my ſight, and O! I fear He falls a victim to this dreadful day!— But time forbids our vain laments—this inſtant The victor may be here—one way remains That yet may ſave my king—the weſtern tower Is ſtill our own, and may perhaps ſuſtain The foe's attack, till Arcas ſhall arrive— But now, Arſinöe thither with a guard I ſent—retire, my liege, with Cleonice, In ſafety there. Lyc. No—tho' this trembling arm Shrinks from the buckler's weight, I can provoke The death I wiſh for from the pitying foe! Come forth, this ſword, that long has idly ſlept, Shall once again— Cleo. What means my father?—yet Retract your purpoſe—think on Cleonice! Forſaken here—I ſee, I ſee the hand Of ruffian force drag by the ſilver locks Thy venerable age—I ſee thoſe features, That oft have fondly ſmil'd on Cleonice, In agony diſtorted.—What remains For me at that curſt moment?—wild with horror To rend my ſcatter'd hair—againſt the pavement Daſh theſe poor limbs—then bare my breaſt to meet The ſteel, yet reeking with a parent's life, And mingle blood with his that gave me being!— Lyc. Diſtracting image!—O my child! my child! And ſhall I then—this moment I could yield The laſt cold drops that linger in theſe veins— And bleſs the hand that ſtruck me—yet when Death Draws his dark veil—to catch a glimpſe of life, But to behold thee die—Haſte, let me hence To loſe the dreadful thought—a minute longer May place us ſafe beyond the future reach Of fate, of miſery, and Artabaſus! Cleo. O, hear me ſtill—yet let theſe filial tears Prevail.—Death is the laſt, the ſure reſource, And when Fate cloſes every path that leads To future hope—this arm can then my father Fix one great period to a life of woes. Ter. My ſovereign, Artabaſus and Barzanes Are near at hand, from hence we may diſcern Their bucklers blaze [looking out] ; away, my liege! Lyc. O! never!— They ſhall be met—theſe withered limbs—look there, See thoſe ſad monuments— [points to the urns. And ſhall the hands, The murderous hands by which they fell, here graſp The ſword in triumph?—No, theſe rambling feet Shall meet their fury. [Going. Cleo. Yet—O yet, my father! One moment hear— Ter. Forgive me, royal ſir! If thus compell'd—Learchus, help— Lyc. [Struggling.] Unhand me— 'Tis more than treaſon—hence! [drops his ſword in the ſtruggle. Cleo. Lo! there, my father, Some God deſcends, and from your nerveleſs arm Strikes your reſiſting weapon. Lyc. O, ſhame! ſhame! 'Tis ſure the work of Heaven!—then all is paſt! I yield—Lead, lead me where thou wilt! [Shout. Ter. Again! Conduct them ſafely thro' the ſecret gate, Meantime myſelf, with ſome few friends will ſeek Orontes, and ſecure my King's retreat. [Exit. Cleon. O! hear me, Heaven! for Lycomedes hear! Still ſave him, ſinking in this gulph of ruin! Or let one moment whelm us both in death, And end a father's and a daughter's woes! [Exeunt. SCENE, an open place in the city. Enter Artabaſus, Barzanes, and Soldiers. Arta Thus far, Barzanes, has the victor wreath Crown'd virtue with ſucceſs—our arms, by Heaven Impell'd to guard the ſacred rights of men, Have to their deep receſs purſu'd the foe, The city now is ours—the hoſtile bands Submiſſive, or diſpers'd, contend no longer; Then ſheath the ſword of death, and bid reſentment To mercy yield her reign—the noble mind, Tho' Juſtice draw the ſword, regrets that triumph Humanity muſt mourn: for Lycomedes, Give heedful orders, that whate'er ſhall chance, To make him priſoner, to our better fortune, They treat him with ſuch honours as befit His name and rank, a captive of the war. Enter Officer. My liege, this inſtant Lycomedes taken, With Cleonice, as they ſought to gain The weſtern tower, conducted by the guard, Attend your ſovereign will. [Exit. Enter Lycomedes, Cleonice in chains, Guards. Lyc. (Entering) Lead me to him, Whom Lycomedes' evil ſtar has rais'd On fallen Bithynia's ruin—Cleonice Aſſociate in thy father's woes—Are theſe The hands that once I fondly preſs'd in mine, When on my knee thy prattling infancy Held me in all a parent's dear ſuſpence? Are theſe lov'd hands now claſped in rugged ſteel And ſlaviſh manacles? Cleo. Theſe hands, my father, Exult in chains that give to Cleonice, A glorious ſhare in Lycomedes' ſufferings, Nor are they bonds, ſince ſtill theſe filial arms Embrace my father—O! believe me, ſir, To ſuffer thus with you is height of bliſs, Compar'd to freedom baniſh'd from your preſence Art. If thou art he—O, Lycomedes!—hear No more thy foe, but brother—would to Heaven Thy age would now repoſe in peace! thoſe hairs Demand reſpect and honour—let me then Exchange theſe ſlaviſh ties, for other ties Of amity and love. [makes a ſign to the guard who takes off his chains. For thee, fair princeſs, What ſhall I ſay?—theſe arms prophan'd demand More than a king's atonement. (takes off her chains.) Is there aught Beſide the gift of freedom? Cleo. Artabaſus, There needs no more—from him that ſlew my brother All gifts are equal—tho' to the woman's weakneſs I yield theſe tears, my firmer ſoul diſdains The tribute nature pays;—then once again Reſtore thoſe ſhackles—give me, to the depth Of dungeon gloom—there's not a hoſtlie pang That enmity inflicts, but Cleonice Shall meet it all!—My father too—O, Heaven! Hence female ſoftneſs—yes, behold that weak Depreſs'd old age, behold this bloom of youth Nurs'd in the pomp of courts—yet, Artabaſus, This pair, unſhaken, dares your worſt of pains. Lyc. Hear every God my vows renew'd—hear too Polemon's ſhade! whene'er this hand ſhall join In friendly league with Pontus, haunt each hour Of ebbing life with horror's direſt forms! Art. Yet hear me, Lycomedes, ſtill reflect, Thyſelf a warrior once, in fight he fell, Fell as a hero ounht.—In arms of old When Demi-gods have fought, the fields have oft Borne ſlaughter'd chiefs, whoſe parents from the ſky View'd their pale ſons, and yielded to their fate. Lyc. Hear, hear, ye fathers; hear how cool the victor Can palliate death, and ſooth a parent's loſs. Polemon fell in fight—yes, Artabaſus, Nobly indeed he fell—too daring youth! Whoſe unfledg'd open valour met the arm Of veteran cruelty—but hear, proud man, Do all thy enemies ſo fairly periſh?— How died Arſetes? hapleſs youth,—the laſt, The glorious work of Artabaſus' race! Midſt all my ſufferings, ſtill I joy to know Polemon died a hero—Had the hand Of Time drawn out his early age to years Of ripe experience, he, like poor Arſetes, Had fall'n the murderer's victim. Art. Little, ſure, Thou know'ſt the work of fate,—the youth who fell Was by Pharnaces— Cleo. By Pharnaces!—yes, I know it well—Is this the glorious hero, The boaſted pupil in the ſchool of Mars? Did he for this in Rome's immortal ranks Learn the brave trade of arms, to edge the ſword Of baſe aſſaſſination, that the wiles Of black conſpiracy might catch that life, Which ne'er had ſunk in equal field of combat! Yes—my Arſetes—to Pharnaces' cruelty Thou fall'ſt a victim—fall'ſt by him, whoſe arm Had elſe perhaps confeſs'd thy valour's force. Then had thoſe limbs, my father, never felt The weight of chains—yet ſhould Orontes live, His valorous arm—perhaps Pharnaces' life Atones for poor Arſetes— Arta. Every power Forbid the implication! Lycomedes, Could I as well appeaſe each vengeful thought For loſt Polemon, as I now can clear The virtue of my ſon, by lying fame Traduc'd— Cleon. Did not his lips all pale in death Proclaim Pharnaces guilty? Arta. There indeed, Myſterious darkneſs lurks—but, Lycomedes, Speak—ſhould the hero whoſe triumphant arm Eſpous'd Bithynia's cauſe—ſhould he yet live— Cleon. Yet live! what means this cruel ſport with woe? Arta. Hear then, and wondering hear—Arſetes lives, Arſetes and Pharnaces are the ſame. Lyco. The ſame!—ſpeak, Artabaſus— Enter OFFICER. Officer. Haſte, my ſovereign! Haſte to the grove of palms,—the prince aſſail'd By numbers, with Orontes at their head, A hundred lances glitter at his breaſt, And all their cry is vengeance and Arſetes. Arta. What do I hear! now, cruel Lycomedes, Now, Cleonice, glut your rage,—yet know Arſetes lives, and lives in my Pharnaces, Or this dread moment ſeals perhaps his doom, And ends a wretched parent!— [Exeunt Artabaſus and Barzanes attended. Cleo. Does he live, Live in Pharnaces! O myſterious Heaven! Should it be thus, how has my ruthleſs hatred Purſued the man whom moſt I lov'd—the man (Madneſs is in the thought) who now may breathe His laſt.— Lyco. Forbid it, virtue!—Gods! I feel A ſecret impulſe here—it muſt not be— For me he oft has triumph'd—ſpite of age And impotence of ſtrength, yet will I face This laſt, this fatal ſcene—my Cleonice, Thy courage will purſue thy father's ſteps; Come, let us prove the worſt of fortune's malice, Then cloſe our eyes in peace, and reſt for ever! [Exeunt. SCENE, a grove of palm trees, with the temple of Mars diſcovered at a diſtance. (Claſhing of ſwords.) Enter Orontes retreating before Pharnaces, a party of Orontes driven off by the ſoldiers of Pharnaces. Phar. Enough, my friends; enough—this life demands My ſword alone—for thee, whoſe murderous guile With ſeeming manhood, drew me from the fight To fall by numbers, from this arm receive Thy treaſon's due reward. Oron. Fortune at length Deceives my aim;—but be it ſo—I ſcorn To deprecate thy vengeance—well thou know'ſt Orontes now—Zopyrus has confeſs'd, Pale, trembling daſtard! ſinking by thy arm, Our firſt device againſt the feign'd Arſetes— This laſt is mine—tho' intereſt and ambition Forbid me now to riſk an equal combat, Yet ſince thy hated genius ſtill prevails,— Hence every vain diſguiſe—as man to man, I dare thy worſt. Phar. Behold, thou double traitor! The grove and temple where Araxes fell: Where now thy followers lurk'd in fatal ambuſh To enſnare Pharnaces—tremble now, while juſtice Here lifts the ſword on this devoted ſpot, Here claims a ſacrifice to every virtue, Faith, friendſhip, loyalty, and poor Araxes! (fight. Arta. [within] Defend, defend my ſon! (Oron. falls. Phar. There ſink for ever, Nor leave thy equal here to curſe mankind! Enter ARTABASUS and AGENOR. Arta. Art thou then ſafe?—my ſon! my ſon! Phar. My father! Enter LYCOMEDES, CLEONICE, and TERAMENES. Cleon. [Entering.] Death has been buſy—ſure the battle's tumult Rag'd here but now— Phar. [turning.] 'Tis Cleonice's voice! Lyco. He lives indeed! 'tis he!—the guardian genius That watch'd Bithynia's ſafety— Cleon. Heavenly powers! And yet it cannot—ſpeak,—O ſpeak, my father, Ere this lov'd phantom— Phar. Still Arſetes lives; Behold him here;— [kneels] —No more unknown who now Aſſerts the lineal honours that await A kingdom's heir and Artabaſus' ſon. Cleon. Pharnaces, riſe,—ſure 'tis illuſion all! What then was he, whoſe pale and lifeleſs corſe— Arta. The youth, whom late you mourn'd for ſlain Arſetes, Was in his ſtead deputed for the ſight. Phar. Orontes and Zopyrus have confeſs'd The ſnare in which this hapleſs victim fell; Orontes drew me now, by fraudful ambuſh, To periſh here—behold where lies the traitor; His guilty life faſt ebbing with his blood. Lyco. Orontes!—where! then where is virtue, Gods! Now only living with Bithynia's foes! Why, Artabaſus, did Polemon fall! Or fall by thee!— Oron. [raiſing himſelf.] Hear, moſt unhappy father, Thou ſeek'ſt t'avenge Polemon's death,—behold Him now reveng'd—lo! here his murderer lies! Arta. The youth that fell by me!— Oron. By thee he fell, But fell unwounded—to his tent convey'd Senſeleſs awhile, he lay—myſelf alone Watch'd his returning life—at that fell moment, Ambition, powerful fiend! held forth to view Bithynia's crown—my ſacrilegious hand Uplifted then, with murderous weapon ſtruck My prince's life. Lyco. What do I hear!—my blood Is chill'd!—pernicious villain!—take the vengeance A father's fury— [draws, and is held by Art. and Ter. Cleon. Gracious Heaven!—my brother!— Tera. Yet hold—tho' great your woe,—the guilty wretch Already gaſps in death, and ſhivering ſtands On that dread brink, where vaſt eternity Unfolds her infinite abyſs.— Lyes. Polemon! My murder'd boy!— Oron. O thou bright ſun! whoſe beams Now ſet in blood, doſt thou not haſte to veil Thy head in night, while Nature, thro' her works Shrinks from a wretch like me!—Come, deepeſt darkneſs, Hide, hide me from myſelf!—hence, bleeding phantom— Why doſt thou haunt me ſtill!—another!—hence! They drive me to the precipice—I ſink— —O Lycomedes!— [dies. Lyco. Lo! there lies the ſerpent That late I nouriſh'd in my breaſt, to ſting My unſuſpecting heart— Arta. A father's nature Feels for thy dreadful trial—Lycomedes, Receive this pledge of friendſhip—ſtill be thine Bithynia's crown, nor claim I aught from conqueſt But mutual peace—ſome other time ſhall tell This work of fate—But who ſhall ſearch the ways Of Heaven inſcrutable, or dare to queſtion Why the ſame power beheld Polemon fall, And ſav'd Pharnaces for a father's love? 'Tis ours with humble praiſe to take from Jove The cordial draught of joy, nor murmur when He deals the cup of woe. Lyco. O, Artabaſus! No longer now my foe—this honour'd hand, This hand now free from my Polemon's death, Confirm the brother's union—balmy peace Reſt with his manes, and remembrance ever With odorous praiſe ſurround his laurell'd tomb! But yet I have a ſon—in thee he lives, Lives in Pharnaces— [embraces] —Yes; my more than brother, Our friendſhip knit ſhall plant the welcome olives Thro' both our lands, and bleſs their ſons with peace! Phar: It muſt, it muſt—ſome genius whiſpers now Oblivion to my cares, and bright-wing'd Hope, Like Cleonice, points my ſoul to bliſs! Lyco. If bliſs be Cleonice, ſhe is yours. Once more, my ſon— Arta: My daughter—every God Propitious ſmile to crown your virtuous love! Phar. Speak, Cleonice! does thy heart refuſe To own the mighty rapture? Cleon. O, Pharnaces! Think how my boſom throbs with various tumult Of mingled joy and grief—My brother's fate Still labours here, 'ſpite of the bliſs that fills My conſcious heart; for bliſs it is to avow My boundleſs paſſion—wife of my Pharnaces, Or rather that dear name which firſt ſubdu'd My virgin heart—my ever-lov'd Arſetes! Lyco. To thee, my ſon Pharnaces, I reſign Bithynia's crown, while I, retir'd in eaſe, Steal gently down the peaceful vale of life. Arta Behold the latent treaſon brought to light! Tho' hid from mortal eye, the Eternal Mind Pervades the deepeſt gloom—Confeſs, my brother, The dazzling meteor that miſled thy youth, And even ſeduc'd thy age: the monarch fir'd With falſe ambition for a conqueror's name, Is but the laſh of Jove to ſcourge mankind. For thee, my ſon, by Lycomedes rais'd To guide, with early hand, the reins of empire, Remember what the duty of a king Exacts, while each domeſtic bliſs ſhall crown Thy private hours, to watch thy people's weal, And ſhare, like Heaven, thy happineſs with all.
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. BULKLEY. OUR author, all ſubmiſſion, ſends me here, To make excuſes for your ſimple cheer; And I, that have no intereſt in his ſcenes, Muſt bear the train of tragic kings and queens. Shall I ſupport the weakneſs of his Muſe?— Egad—if ſo—I'll fit him with abuſe— I'll ſoon diſſect his fine-ſpun work, and ſhow That all his plot has more of farce than woe. For, after all, the creature's much deceiv'd, If e'er he thinks his tale can be believ'd. So tame and ſo inanimate his maid is— How very different from our modern ladies!— What, could a blooming laſs with ripen'd charms, Be held ſo long from her admirer's arms?— If ſuch were truths in prudiſh Heathen climes, Examples vary in our later times— Then for theatric play—how poor! how cold! A heroine's language ſhould be nobly bold, Outſtrip the decency of vulgar life, Mouth at the Heavens, and ſet the Gods at ſtrife.— Time was indeed, an antiquated bard Paid to that beldame, Nature, ſome regard, And drew his females with ſuch ſimple features, That all, who ſaw, believ'd them human creatures. Plain Deſdemona bore no trace of art, And Portia play'd a wife's domeſtic part; While Conſtance ſhew'd, but what before we knew, And only griev'd, as real mothers do.— Shall this ſtale poet give the Drama law, Who poorly copied only what he ſaw? Nay, ſtole from life, in every clime and age, The characters that fill his boaſted page?— Well! as I live, 'tis he!—(looking out)—O, axe you come? Does all go well?—poor devil!—ſeal his doom. This live-long night he watches every eye, Talks, like his heroes, in ſoliloquy— Then ſtarts aſide—"What! ſomething goes amiſs?— "Sure 'tis the diſtant murmur of a hiſs!"— Alas! kind ſoul!—I pity his condition, And will in his behalf this Houſe petition:— To you, good folks above, for ever ready To ſerve a friend, all Engliſh hearts and ſteady! To you, ye men of candour, ſenſe, and wit, Who fill the circle of this awful pit; To you, ye ladies, ever prone to ſpare The bard, who love and beauty makes his care; I here commend him—take him to your favour, And I'll be ſurety for his good behaviour. FINIS.
Juſt Publiſhed, THE HEROINE OF THE CAVE; A TRAGEDY. BRAGANZA; A TRAGEDY. Written by ROBERT JEPHSON, Eſq. The PATRIOT KING; or, IRISH CHIEF: A TRAGEDY. Written by HENRY DOBBS. The CHOLERIC MAN; A COMEDY. Written by RICHARD CUMBERLAND, Eſq. THE RIVALS; A COMEDY. THE MAID OF THE OAKS; A New Dramatic Entertainment.