The sacrifice a tragedy / by the Honorable Sir Francis Fane.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Pavilion, with the prospect of a besieg'd Fort.

Enter Tamerlane, Ragalzan, Axalla.

Tam.

HAS Europe, Asia, Afric felt the Charms Of my Victorious, but Indulgent Arms, And shall a soft Chinese Prince still dare Not to seek out his Glory by despair, Shake off those gracious Fetters which were sent By me, from Heav'n, to be his Ornament, Which his great King puts on, and wears with pride?

Rag.

At unknown Virtues Salvages are frighted.

Tam.

The Conquerors of Persia, Macedon, The Lords of Caesars reverence my Throne; Clear from the rising, to the setting Sun: What Alexander near could reach, I won: Had he subdu'd to the Chinensian Shore, Then with some reason he had wept for more; But, like a froward Child, at Meals too great, He cry'd for want of Stomach, not of Meat.

Rag.

Sir, from Iapan, to the Atlantic Main, The World lies fetter'd in your glorious Chain: Whose Life and Influence in the Heav'ns is felt, As upon Earth the spangled Milky Belt.

Tam.

Soft, good Ragalzan; we are mortal too: Heav'n cuts out work, which I alone can do.

Axal.

I'm glad the Emperor swallows not the Pill: Who offers too much Good, contrives some Ill.

[aside.

Tam.

Had Caesar liv'd, I had taught that Rebel Peace; And lash'd the stragling Demy-God to Greece, Whose bus'ness was t'enslave, but not Reform; I've cleans'd the World, and brush'd it like a Storm. To purge the World from Sots, and simp'ring Knaves, To chain Vile Monarchs, and Crown worthy Slaves, Is my great Task on the reversed Earth.

Axal.

Thanks to your Great, but Heav'n-befriended Birth.

Tam.

Right, brave Axalla. Think not that I swell, Or have out-grown the Robes Heav'n dress'd me in: If I in terms so high my Conquests raise, It is not mine, but my Inspirer's praise.

Enter a Chancellor with a Seal, takes his Seat; then a Master of Ceremonies, ushering in Ambassadors with Presents.

Mr. Cer.

The Grecian Emperor kisses your Foot-stool.

Chan.

The mighty Tamerlane accepts his Offering.

Mr. Cer.

The Persian Emperor, &c.

Chan.

The mighty, &c.

Mr. Cer.

The Emperor of China, &c.

Chan.

The mighty, &c.

Mr. Cer.

The Russian Emperor, &c.

Chan.

The mighty, &c.

Mr. Cer.

Two and twenty African Kings beg admission.

Tam.

Let the Kings wait till the Afternoon. Where's the Memorial? Read it on, Axalla.

Ax.

Daramnes, Tigranel, and Crantor.

Tam.

My Fathers old Captains: Let them have considera∣ble Pensions, besides Pay; and the first Commands that fall.

Ax.

Isfendlar, Tachretin, and Germean Ogli.

Tam.

Rich Noblemen: Let them be imploy'd in places of Honour and Magnificence, they may support themselves.

Ax.

Haly Mordecai.

Tam.

Ha! A man that opposes me; not for the publick good, but to be taken off by preferment: let him be advanc'd to the Gallows.

Ax.

Burranes and Garrulan.

Tam.

Men of more Sail then Ballast; Impudent, shallow Intruders: Let 'em be banish'd the Court. Princes, for the most part, keep the worst Company.

Ax.

Close waiting argues no sufficiency; but rather still, For want of other merits, they pay you with Offensive diligence.

Tam.

Right. Fools are fittest for Dumb-shows: While wiser men grow faint to feed on Glances.

Ax.

Arcanes, Cardamel, and Rozarno.

Tam.

Persons of great Wit, Honor, and Integrity: Let 'em be advanc'd immediately; there can be no places too good for 'em.

I love not to force Grounds; but sow my Favors In fertil Soils, and my returns ne'r fail me: 'Tis pity Virtue shou'd want stuff to work on, Or languish with Ignoble Aliments.

Ax.

Comets at first are but Terrestrial Vapors: But, when prefer'd into the upper Region, They shine out bright, and there turn glorious Wonders, Because they're of a pure and fiery substance: While the dull Clouds ungratefully obscure The Sun that rais'd 'em.

Tam.

Are there no more men that I can do good to?

Ax.

The Prince of Tanais.

Tam.

Let him Command o're all, next to thy self: A man of great Conduct, Courage, and Clemency. Give me the man that's made up like a Caesar, And he shall be one; but no Tamerlane.

The Scene opens to Bajazet'•• Cage▪ Tamerlane goes to him.

Why will you still afflict me, Sir, to see Your malice frustrate all my Clemency. Like a soft Ball against a stony ground, Back to my self my benefits rebound. Heav'n knows your Brothers Blood, your Subjects Tears, Call'd loud for Vengeance to my tender Ears.

Heav'n turn'd the Scales, and order'd for your share That punishment you did for me prepare. Reign with more Justice, and resume your Throne.

Baj.

Now, others Scorn; then I should be my own, Shou'd I, proud wand'ring Tartar, take from Thee One Inch of ground, one thought of Liberty: Cou'd I be ground to Atoms, and each Grain Might have a Soul made up to dye again; Thy Terrors shou'd not make me own thy Laws, Nor owe Contentment of so vile a Cause. I live for my own sake, and thee De••ie: When I think fit, I'll cheat thy Pride, and Dye.

(Stamps.)

Tam.

'Tis strange, he should not seek to ease his Fate! He cannot bear, and yet desires the weight.

Enter Irene.

Here, my Axalla, take my fair Irene: Now pay thy self for all thy services, Out of this Treasury of Excellence. 'Tis a reward assign'd thee from above, For firm Allegiance and Seraphic Love.

Ax.

Shou'd Bounteous Heav'n such Presents often make, It wou'd more largely give, than Man cou'd take: Nor cou'd my Earthy Soul bear such delight, But that, like Heav'n, you rais'd it to that Height.

Iren.

Just Heav••ns forbid, that I should leave so soon The serene pleasures of a Virgin Life, For all the Joys of that unknown Condition.

Tam.

I know, dear Saint, Axalla does instill The Christian Faith, which mor••ifies the Will, And sets the Mind above all Earthly care; But, 'tis not fit the World shou'd want an Heir.

Iren.

Nor is it fit, we shou'd devote our selves To those, by vulgar Error, Nuptial Joys, Till all the World lies prostrate at your Feet, And spurns no more at your illustrious Yoke.

Tam.

The World is car'd for; but Axalla dyes, My sweet Irene: Wou'dst thou have me lose

My worthiest General, for want of such An easie Medicine? These doubts, Axalla, In private must be clear'd by you, or none: Reasons for Love, are best when Love's alone.

[Exeunt.

Rag.

Solus.

'Tis as I thought: She's lost: 'Twas well divin'd, And to the Foe the Letter not ill sent. Zeylan will sound a point of War, to grace The worthy Nuptials of this well-pair'd Hero. What Soul can bear such unheap'd loads of Scorn? Gods, lend me patience for some drowsie minutes, By your revengeful selves, I'll send the Drug back With full career, lest your vext Powers shou'd want it, And from my Fingers snatch the long'd-for Prey. My Love rejected, and my Service slighted, And the great Heiress of the World bestow'd Upon an Infidel, a Fugitive Italian; Because, forsooth, he can tell Stories of one Caesar, A Servant to the petty State of Rome! Indeed, this Caesar was a pretty Fellow To make a Bridge of Boats, or pick a hole In an old mouldring Wall, and sling the Stones On the besieg'd: to give him's due, he might Have made a pretty Scout for our Tartarian Army. But shall such puny Lessons give directions To him that leads Twelve hundred Thousand men, And has destroy'd a Hundred nobler Towns Than babbling Rome, in the Celestial China, While I conducted his Victorious Troops? And is this my Reward? The great Destroyer Therefore will I destroy, and in his Ruin Revenge the Conquer'd World, and therein found my Fame; If not the best, yet in the loudest Name.

Ex.

The Scene the inner part of a Fort. Zeylan, attended with Officers.

Zey.

Are the Men all drawn up?

Cap.

Ready to March, And pressing to engage; as eager Lovers

After long delays, or Hypocrites After a formal Fast, that whets more than Subdues, urging to pay with sinful Int'rest The mortify'd receiver of Life's Rents.

Zey.

'Tis well. But let me read this once again.

Enter Philarmia.

The mighty Tamerlane lyes at your mercy. Nothing is weaker than secure Greatness. On the South side of his Camp you may break in, up to his own Pavilion. Make use of the sudden opportunity, by the advice of

Your unknown Friend.

Phil.

What Stratagem, what wonderful Device, My worthy, frowning, speechless General, That I am not thought worthy to partake of? Are Women then presum'd to keep no secrets, Because they never yet confess'd the Truth, And, with a thousand little Arts, conceal The Friend of Nature, Love, from silly searching Man With an Heroic impudent Modesty? Can they be secret still to curb their pleasures, And cannot hold their Tongues to save their Lives? Come, Sir, you have receiv'd a Letter from the Enemy: I see your Men prepar'd; I'll sally with you.

Zey.

Go, dearest, go, and leave me to my Fate; The Sword has no Commission to destroy Thy sacred Sex, but feeds on courser fare: Dangers and bus'ness are cut out for Men; Women are spar'd, to Stock the World agen.

Phil.

Shall I out-live thee then? or can I do it? Are not our Threds so closely spun together, The same hand breaks them? dost thou love thy Fame And envy mine? Are Women only made To stock the Dunghil Earth; pull high-born Souls From native Seats and give them fleshly Dungeons? No, no: thou may'st as easily divorce The loving Elements from each others sides, As me from thine. Go bid the churlish Earth Shake off the Amorous Sea, that clings so close

About her ••linty Brest: Go bid the Female Air, That is incorporate with Litigious Fire, Withdraw her temp'rate alimental Aid In his Victorious unresisted marches.

Zey.

But, my Philarmia, shou'd some boistrous hand Pluck up this lovely Flower, where dwells all sweetness, Beauty in abstract, Light original; Shou'd some rough Mortals, with their Impious arms, Deface this well drawn Image of Divinity, To which all others are but Counterfeits; Or with rude Weapons force the Ivory doors Of this thy sacred Temple, to let out The fair Inhabitant, thy precious Soul, With her bright Handmaids, Beauty, Wit, and Virtue: The Sun, that borrows Beams of thee, wou'd lose Its Light and Influence, and the World go blindfold, Nature would sicken, the Creation dye. Alas! thou const not ward a fatal blow, Nor force thy way through woods of walking Steel: Why wilt thou wound me through thy feeble sides?

Phil.

Oh, but you are too bold! I can foresee Those dangers, through the perspective of Fear, Which blinding Valor, like a hot Catarrh, Deprives your sight of: Honor betrays you To perilous steps, which Womens cold Complexion And frightful apprehensions are aware of But if, inspight of all my watchful cares, You are involv'd amidst your desperate Foes; I'll interpose, like Clouds before the Sun, And steal thee from'em. If I drop to Earth, Dissolv'd in Tears and Blood; 'twas but a useless vapor: If I am lost; a Fond, but worthless Female: No Fate to me can too untimely come; Who may be kill'd abroad, must dye at home.

(Weeps.)

Zey.

Oh, stop those Tears, lest thou unman me too, Till I'm expos'd to hissing Contumelies Of Maids and Matrons, and abhor'd by thee That caus'd my Shame. Alas! thy Honor lies In seeking Safety, more than ours in Danger:

Nor can the greatest Acts, Atchiev'd by thy Unnatural Valor, wipe off half the Stains That rude Mankind will cast on thy white Innocence For herding with 'em.

Phil.

Why art thou then so good, so gently kind? Thy Soul's not made up of such course materials. If thou refuse me, I'll to th' other side: I'll kill all those that offer to kill thee, Till I have quite destroy'd th' unnumber'd Armies Of the Earth-covering and confounding Tamerlane, And all the World his Subjects, but thy self; Then I will fight with thee, and thou shalt kill me, And, if thou canst forbear to dye, live after.

Zey.

Thou hast o'rcome: Reason has lost the Day, That useless part of Man, till Love's away.

[Exeunt.

The Scene Tamerlane's Tents.

Ragl.

Now is the time: Prince Zeylan's on the Wing, And he shall seize his Prey; thanks to his unknown Friend. A lesser loss than her, cou'd ne'r have rais'd Revenge so high as his Ingratitude. Honor, that wavering Judge, here interposes, Which turns to every Tale: Honor, that spins Fine curious Paralels, that never meet: What says she then? First, I must right my self; And then, not wrong the Public. Rare distinction! Public! fine Canting word, the Public! Are my Arms, Or Legs, joyn'd to the Public? Am I in pain When this Man's hang'd, that Torturd? Do I eat The less, when this Man starves? Or when he's Froze Or burnt, do I feel that by my Fire side or Grotto? But, each man's private good lurks in the Public? Then, each man take his part, and where's the Public? Oh, but the Public is the Store-house! No: Rather the Jayl, that keeps mens private goods Confin'd. I'll get mine out, and set the rest on fire. My private Pleasure is my well-known Soveraign good: T'obey and gratifie each strong Impulse

Of Friendly Nature. What makes the Publick? Power. And what destroys the Publick? Why, Power again. Then let this Power dispose the Publick still; My private Will shall rule that angry Power.

Enter Tamerlane, Axalla, Irene. Alarm within, and Clashing of Swords.

Tam.

What means this noise!

Mess.

The Enemy is entred, And has repuls'd your Guards. Prince Zeylan's coming to This Tent.

Iren.

For Heav'ns sake, Sir, Be gone into this inner Room: there's a back-door to't.

Tam.

Is Zeylan come? I'll to my Rebel Guards, And teach th' advent'rous Rebel to be tamer.

[Exeunt.

Alarm without, Fighting on the Stage.

Zeylan is beat off.

Re-enter Tamerlane, Axalla, Ragalzan.

Tam.

What a bold Rebel's this! No more of mercy, Since 'tis despis'd; Axalla, Give order for a general Assault: I'll to the Temple, and give thanks to Heav'n For this success.

[Ex. with Axalla.

Rag.

But I'll be there before you; To just Revenge, one disappointment shall Not stop my Progress: Now I'll trust my self. I know the Mummy Priest, a cunning fellow; By's Nature much, but by's profession more: He's one of those that deal 'twixt Gods and Men, A Commerce yet well never understood, And so they Cheat accordingly. But has Revenge such pow'rful pleasing Charms? Receiving Good, 'sa Toy to doing Harms. Revenge, the Gods best Dish, their close-kept Dainty▪ 'Tis their Ambrosia, not to be tasted By groveling Mortals; and forbid to all,

But bold Promethean Souls; borrowing, because Able to re-imburse the Gods again With lofty Passions of immortal Wrath. Equally powerful still are Contraries: Hate's the reverse of Love; Revenge is hates fruition: Nor do I know what's sweetest, or to have My Mistress in my Bed, My Foe in's Grave.

The Scene the outer part of a Temple.

Enter Tamerlane, Axalla, Ragalzan.

Tam.

I like their Temples, but I loath their Idols: To all those Beings, that our Senses reach not, Forms are injurious; much more to the Greatest.

Ax.

I hate no less weak superstitious Fools; Who, with fond Attributes, th' eternal Being Reproach, and make more Antic than Mankind. Like Boys, they fear the Bugbears that they dress.

Tam.

True. Heav'n delights more in the sweet variety And liberty of thought, than Slanderous Piety: As a great Monarch him to favor chuses Who pleasant, but well-manner'd freedom uses, But hates a sowre, tho an obedient Clown Who loves his Smiles, less than he fears his Frown; So Heav'n's great Soul, dress'd in impervious Rays, The Object of our Wonder and our Praise, Laughs at our holy Gambols from above: But those do chiefly his affection move Who play in's Beams with a well-guessing Love, For the Great Nature takes delight, to see The Foot-ball▪ play of Human Sophistry, Nor willing to be known, loves Men shou'd doubt, Guess at his Riddles, but not find them out.

Music. Ragalzan appears at a corner of the Stage, with a Priest.

Rag.

What, am I well disguis'd?

Priest.

Mummy it self, Sir.

Here is a Vault, and here's the Trap-door to't; It has a thousand Labyrinths within, Not made for nothing: Let 'em search till Doomsday, They'l never find you. Pugh! the Western Priests Are not the only Laughers at Mankind.

[Exit, with Ragalzan who takes his place among the Mummies.

The Scene opens, and discovers an Amphitheatre of Crown'd Mummies.

Iren.

These Mummies are more Curious and Magni••icent Than those we saw at Cairo.

Ax.

And much more numerous: Which answers not amiss, to the prodigious space Of time, suppos'd by their Chronology.

Tam.

Of all the Arts that short-breath'd Man affects To patch and piece up ruinous Humanity, Aping of Immortality in Dust Sure is the noblest.

Ax.

Yet they are Death's Trophies. 'Tis strange, that Man should glory to be conquer'd, And boast his losses to all after Ages.

Tam.

Proud of his pickled Principality, When Fame finds nothing in his life, to blow Her Trumpet for, and wake the list'ning World.

Ax.

And Fame's as false: Cheats us of present Sums, The daily Rents of Pleasure and of Ease, To pay in Honor's Airy dry Reversion, And disputable Titles; Good, or ill, By dead men unperceiv'd, by th' living undistinguish'd.

Enter Mummy Priest, habited like a Conjurer, &c.

Priest.

Greatest of Emperors, draw near, and see The richest Wardrobe of Mortality The world affords: Here stand Time-daring Mummies Of China Monarchs for ten Thousand years.

Shou'd I relate you all, their Deaths and Lives, Their Arms, their Arts, their Children, and their Wives, 'Twou'd tire your patience, or to hear, or see, And Conquer, Sir, your Magnanimity.

Tam.

Troth, I believe thee. What a Canting Tone, And what a monstrous Tale!

Ax.

They 've long Traditions; And Lye by old Records as well as Hear-says.

Tam.

No, no. Printing has been here in use some Thou∣sand of years, no wonder they have so many Lyes. Whose Mummy's this?

Priest.

This is Viteio, The builder of an University, Who liv'd one hundred and Fifty years.

Iren.

And whose is this?

Priest.

Ochanti; the Inventer of Printing.

Iren.

And this?

Priest.

Tzinzummey. The Inventer of Gun-powder: that frighted hence a certain rambling Prince, Call'd Alexander, from the Oxidrace; Which he, good Man, mistook for Thunder, and For Lightning.

Tam.

A small excuse wou'd serve a Western Conqueror. This crook-back'd Prince here?

Priest.

Huy Hannon. He that found out the Philosophers Stone.

Tam.

And this?

Priest.

Pintatei: his unfortunate Successor, that lost it.

Ax.

This fellow Drolls.

Tam.

No; 'tis their Tradition.

Iren.

Who is this here?

Priest.

Auchosan. He that invented Wagons, to Sail with the Wind.

Axalla walks forward

Tam.

Are all your Princes then Philosophers?

Priest.

No. But whosoever finds an admirable Art, Is strait made Governour of some wealthy Province, And his Invention is a••crib'd unto The King, whose Reign he liv'd in.

Tam.

Hansome exchange, and nourishment for Virtue!

Priest.

Here stands the great Tzionzon, builder of the Wall.

Iren.

He stares, and turns about his head. Oh horrid!

Tam.

'Tis strange!

Priest.

Marvel not, Sir; 'tis usual with him: He seems offended at your Conquests here.

Ragalzan leaps down, Stabs at Tamerlane: Irene inter∣poses. He and the Priest leap down the Trap-door.

Tam.

Treason! My Guards! What, vanish'd through this door?

Ax.

Ha! What's the matter? where's the Mummy-shower?

Tam.

Ah, Generous Girl! Art thou not hurt, Irene?

Iren.

No, not at all. The Dagger struck upon this Bracelet Here, of Beads.

Tam.

A piece of Piety well plac'd: Thanks be to Heav'n.

Enter Guards.

The fellow was in haste.

Ax.

Where is the Villain? Guards, go search him out,

Tam.

'Tis to no purpose: they have endless Vaults. Excellent Maid! how durst thou interpose Thy tender Limbs, that elsewhere art afraid Of thy own Shadow;

Iren.

It was my Duty, Sir, and my Desire To save your Life, tho ransom'd by my own,

Tam.

Never was Child so fond, and so indearing! When at the Siege of Bagdat, in my Tents A Saracen, with an invenom'd Knife, Had Stabb'd me in the Arm, the subtil Poyson Hasting through all the Crimson Salliports To reach the Throne of Life: She strait, with greedy Piety suck'd out, And with her Balmy breath heal'd up the part, Which all the helps of bold, but needy, Art Had ne'r effected.

Ax.

I have heard the Story; And she untainted. Who can hurt an Angel? I know, I feel her Virtues. But, what mean you? Shall I not fetch more Soldiers?

Tam.

'Tis work for a whole Regiment: go call 'em, And let'em scou•• the Vaults for many Miles, And seize on all those wretched Priests they meet with. I'll turn their Idol Temples all to Mosques, Or Christian Churches: The Devil here is Worship'd In greater State, than elsewhere his Creator. All Impious Priests are vile, but weak dissemblers; They brave the Gods, but purblind Mortals fear: Juglers, that in Sear'd Mouths take holy Fire, In whom Religion, Physic of the Mind, By which true Souls are purged, and refin'd, Grows so familiar that it never works, But feeds ill Humors, and like Venom urks.

Enter Soldiers.

1 Sol.

We shall have brave Plund'ring and Firing here! Heigh Boyes!

2 Sol.

I; and hanging up these Conjuring Priests.

3 Sol.

For my part, I do not like this Sacrilege.

4 Sol.

Why, is it Sacrilege, to take away That which was given in God's name, to the Devil's use?

3 Sol.

Ha! God-Almighty made a Trustee for the Devil! Nay, then have at 'em. Searches, and is frighted.

The Soldiers search; Devils meet 'em at one hole, and fright'em, then another: then flashes of Lightning and Smoak.

The Scene shuts.