Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia: a tragedy. As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent-Garden. By John Hoole.

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 Hap|piness, 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 Ar|setes, borne by two soldiers; next Teramenes, and last a bier with a dead body, covered with a man|tle, 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 un|mov'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 vice|gerent 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 sor|rows.

(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 dark|ness, 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.