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

ACT I. SCENE I.

Tygranes, Herminia, and Attendants &c.

Ty.

WELL, Madam, I have play'd the faithfull Advocate, Have woo'd and won the Worlds divinest Beauty; And with the glorious Prize return'd Trium∣umphant, I bring her to an envyed Brothers Arms. But (Oh) the fatall Embassy! to crown His Joys I've Martyrd mine.

Herm.

Unkind Tygranes, These too ungratefull sounds I must not hear.

Tygr.

Not hear me! Is the Voice of Truth so frightfull! Or start your Ears at what your Eyes have done? Oh cruell Brother, in Fates blackest hour With thy commission'd Love I went th' unhappy Discoverer of that beauteous Coast of Paradice. Yes, thou Fair Treasury of Heav'n, I landed Upon the Golden shore; Survey'd that All Celestiall Fair, inestimable Brightness, And laded back with the whole freighted Mine, To plant this Jewell in a Brothers Crown,

I make him Lord, Lord of more Wealth, more Bliss Then showring Heav'n e're pour'd on kneeling Man; And my poor self the miserablest Wretch That Ruine tumbled, or Despair e're swallowd.

Herm.

Oh generous Prince, if all my blushing shame, My aking heart, and bleeding Soul, for Thy Poor suff'ring pains can be prevailing Orators, Recall thy banisht Peace.

Tygr.

My Peace!

Herm.

Thy Peace. Let my imploring Pity beg it of thee: Be thy great self, and let surmounting Reason Put out this hopeless Fire. Droop not, but wait A fairer Fate: The Guardian Gods of Virtue Bid thee look up and hope; those great Rewarders Of ever cherisht Honour, have no doubt Reserv'd some worthyer Beauty for thy Arms.

Tygr.

A second Wound, where those bright Eyes have kill'd! No; fair Destroyer, do not flatter Death.

Herm.

Cruell Tygranes, cease this fatal Language. I sicken at the sound: Commanding Honour Has seald my Ears, and I dare hear no more.

Tygr.

Commanding Honour then shall be obey'd, And you shall hear no more. Yes, fair Commissioner of Fate, thou dear All Angel Forme, I will repine no more. Since I was born to wear thee to my Grave, I but perform the Work of my Creation, And 'tis my Glory to fulfill my Destiny.

Trumpets.

But hark, the King! Now, Madam, Love and Empire Come suppliant to your Feet; Cyrus proud Heir, And fair Herminia's prouder slave, comes blest With all the Joys of a possessing Lover, To circle that fair Brow with Persia's Diadem.

Enter King attended.

King

Welcome fair Star, descending Brightness welcome. But oh— Thus kneeling let me meet the mighty Bliss. Kneel! Is that all! For every common Blessing We pay that Gratitude. But when Heav'n gives Heav'n, The blest Receiver with his bending Homage And prostrate Soul makes but too poor Acknowledgment.

Tygr.

Oh King; we Two divide the Stars; thine All

aside.

The smiling, all the blasting Planets mine.

King

But whilst my Ravisht Soul at these dear feet, All buisy in the Count of thousand Vows, My Souls long hoarded sum, to Soverain Love, Their mighty Tribute pay, endebted Honor Demands some payment too. My dear Tygranes, Thou Champion of my Love, thou ushering Phosphor To all my rising Bliss, my more then Brother, Friend, All—oh let these gratefull Arms receive thee

Embraces.

But ha! what do I see! methinks I view A Cloud hang on thy Brow.

Tygr.

A Cloud, my King, Would be a Blessing here: Indeed I want one. For I have stood too near too near that Sun, From the bright Beams of whose too fatal Fires Oh for a Cloud, dark as my Grave, to shrowd me.

King.

How, my Tygranes! Have Herminia's Eyes Brought me a Rivall home!

Tygr.

A Rivall! No. Rivall's a Title for Aspiring Gazers, Beauties bolder Homagers; Where kindled Hope, and warm Ambition burn; A Name too towring for the lost Tygranes.

King.

In this surprizing Language—

Tygr.

I have profan'd Your Royall Ear; but the offending Criminall (Pardon his First Last Fault) shall Sin no more. Here take this dazling Beauty to your Arms, Take her adorn'd with all Loves thousand Charms; Myriads of Blisses star your happy Nights Thick as the Galaxy; and Angel Quires Salute your smiling Days.

Herm.

Virtue like Thine!

aside

Tygr.

And now if my small Services deserve it, And this young Arm may be that bold Petitioner, Grant me the Glory in your Royall Cause, Against your Honours and your Kingdoms Foes To wield a Sword. Yes send me to the Wars, The walks of Death, and Scenes of Desolation; Far, far from Courts; that I may live remov'd From those destroying Eyes. For, oh, my King, I would not stay within that dangerous Air Where the least Rebell Murmur may but rise To envy your fair Bliss.

King.

I am all Confusion!

Tygr.

So dear, so sacred your Divine Felicity, I wou'd not blot my Soul but with a Thought

My King can be too blest.

Herm.

Oh Prince Thy generous Goodness loads me with that shame As fires my glowing Cheeks. But if thy heart Thy poor lost Heart has play'd th' unhappy Fugitive Into that barren Starving Feild of Love, By all my Hopes I'le drop a tear to Heav'n To call the wanderer home.

Tygr.

A Tear!

Herm.

A Tear, Tygranes, Shed from that melting pity, till the Gods Soften'd to Mercy a kind Ear encline, And grant thee peace or else deny me mine.

King.

Thou Miracle of Truth, and Life of Honour, There's something in this moving Tale of pity, Breaths with so sweet an Accent, that if ought Less then resigning the Divine Herminia Cou'd bless thy soft Desires, my bounding Soul Shou'd leap all Bars to crown thy tenderest Wishes.

Tygr.

This is too kind.

King.

But since a Sword, a Sword Is all the Boon thy modest Prayers can ask, And Love can give no more; Thou shalt have thy Desire. Yes, my Tygranes, I have a Cause that wants an Arm like Thine. For in thy Absence I have lost a Battle. Persia's proud Foe, th' insulting Scythian Tyrant Wears my lost Honour on his conquering Sword. Nor is this all, I have lost a Sister too.

Tygr.

And with that Sister, Sir, the noblest Martyr Tyrannick Sword e're butcher'd, poor Orsanes That Royall Syrian, our unhappy Friend, By Wars rough chance the barbarous Scythian's Prisoner; By his inhumane Rivall Jaylors Rage, In his cold bloud sent t' his untimely Grave. My Dear wrong'd Sister, thou too wretched Mourner, The Lord of all thy Vows that bloudy sacrifice, So loud thy Ruines, and so deep thy Wounds, That bleeding Persia groans for thy Revenge. Thine, Thine's a Cause—

King.

Reserv'd for brave Tygranes; For Thee, young Worthy; thy Illustrious Arme Sh••ll lead my fighting Legions to the Field. Wash thou the Persian Stains, and Scourge that Tyrant; Whilst Clarismunda's Wrongs edge thy keen steel,

With mine and Heav'ns Commission'd Vengeance strike.

Tygr.

Ye Gods I ask no more.

King.

Yes; go my Souldier, Go where Fame calls. But thus, far far from Courts Whilst to rough Wars a Rivall I remove, Think how I send thee to a Lawrell Grove, To plume in Honour, whilst I blush in Love.

Exeunt

SCENE, changes to a Pavilion.

Enter Briomer, meeting Celestina and Rosalin.

Briom.

Good morrow my Sweet enemy; the Smiles Of a kind Morn gay as your Eyes Salute You. I come my pretty one, t' inquire the Health Of that bright Excellence, the fair Clarismunda. Say is your Princess waking?

Celest.

Is she sleeping Had been a properer Question to her Miseries.

Briom.

Then, Madam, in my Royall Masters name Sycthia's proud Monarch, but her humblest Suppliant —

Celest.

Her Tyrant, thou woud'st say: be honest fawning Parasite And give thy proud Barbarian Lord his Titles.

Briom.

Her Tyrant then; if that hard Name befits Her humble Kneeling Slave.

Celest.

Hard name! Can there Be names too hard for brave Orsanes Murderer! What though that Royall Beauty, and her dear Illustrious Lover by th' unhappy Fortune Of a lost Battle wore the Tyrants Chains. Could his too Barbarous Rage descend to that Low-Spirited Murder to remove a Rivall By such a shamefull Blow? unparalled Infamy —

Brim.

'Tis true I own, wild Rage and wilder Love Have play'd the Savage. But t'atone his Crime Has not the sense of his Detested shame Touch'd his Relenting Soul so near, till kill'd Even by the wounds of his own bleeding Sacrifice He Dies where he 'has destroy'd, so dies —But she Deaf to his Wound and blind to her own Happiness, By what infatuating Female Folly, Her own caprichious Frenzy best can tell, Disdains his Love, and all his offer'd Diadems, And strangly flies that only Bed of Honour Where her dryed Tears, and her hush't Wrongs may sleep

In a long Halcion Rest of endless Glory.

Celest.

Well, talking Sir, if her too deep Resentments, And tender Sense of her dead Lovers Bloud Pours down this Scorn on his unpardon'd murderer; Scythian, what then? Art. Thou, thou bold impeacher, A Judge of Honour; Is Imperial Vengeance A Depth for every groveling Fool to fathom?

Briom.

How Celestina, thou'rt a Scythian Born, And dar'st thou plead a Cause against thy King! Have Clarismunda's Smiles, her darling Minion, Brib'd thee this partiall Advocate for Cruelty?

Cel.

Against my King! Against the World an Advocate In Beauties Quarell, Beauty that commands When Kings but kneel: that more then Soveriagn power, That holds the Scales of Crowns.

Briom.

Well Celestina, thou correctst my Fault. But to perform my Kings Commission; (that I hope's my Province) in his name I beg Thy powerfull Intrest with thy Angry Princess To gain him his Admission to her Feet. Tell her 'tis his last Prayer: Nor dares he use A Conquerours Right to gain him his Access. Love has disarm'd that power; and now no more Then her Petitioning Slave, th' Approach to those Offended Eyes is only on his Knees.

Celest.

Well Scythian, tell him my prevailing Eloquence Shall gain him his Request.

Exit Briomar.

So Rosalin, Thou look'st as thoud'st survey me. If thou hast read me round, which think'st thou best My Face or Pride becomes me? Or dost think That the kind Clarismunda's Royall Smiles Have rais'd me higher than my Beauty merits, Or my Ambition covets!

Rosal.

Truly neither. If Beauty can deserve, perhaps, that Face Has a fair Title; and for thy Ambition; I durst defy all the once bold Aspirers That battayl'd Heaven to match thee.

Celest.

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

Ros.

'Tis not thy Beauty, (that's the gift of Chance) Nor is't thy Towring Pride (for that's but woman) No, Celestina, 'tis thy wondrous Fortune That takes up my amazement.

Celest.

That, such wonder!

Ros.

With Thy course Veins, an humble low born Creature, That hardly ownst a Mother, or a Name— (You see I love plain-dealing)

Cel.

Yes, I find so.

Ros.

With nothing but a Face, all the whole Patrimony Thy little unknown Father had to leave thee, Perk't up the Darling Favourite of a Princess.

Cel.

A Princess Favourite; Ay, and a Kings too, If Fortune play me fair. I'm not the First Of my soft Sex, perhaps with Birth as mean As Celestina's and a stock of Charms Not more then mine, has baited Hooks for Monarchs, For Monarchs Girle, Imperiall Slaves, my Rosalin; Whilst the fair Hand of the poor Spawn of Cottages Has struck a Royall Game, and troll'd out Princes.

Ros.

'Tis true, such Gamesters there have been; and, faith, 'Tis pity but Thy Hooks should be so baited. For if those Eyes were born to catch a King, Not the fair proudest She, that carthborn Flutterer, Rig'd up in Ermine, and trick't out with Title, That ever betray'd Monarch, or sold Kingdom, Could bear her upstart power with half thy Vanity.

Celest.

Why Earth-born Flutterer! still thou gratest hard On that mean Shame my Birth.—Why must this Beauty Be a base Cottage Brat!—They talk of Fairies That snatch the sleeping Infant from the Cradle, And leave a witless Bastard of their own For the poor Cheated Mother.—And who knows Instead of some course half-sould Fairy Changeling, The kinder Hand of some diviner Genius In my poor Cradle made a Nobler Change? And in my Sooty Mothers Raven nest Hatch'd a fair Eagles Egg!

Ros.

Why, truly, some Such wondrous Change might be. For (give thy due) Thou hast those tow'ring hopes, wou'd out-soar Eagles.

Cel.

And I have reason for those towring Hopes. For by a famous Reverend Scythian Sybil, Even in my Infant Dawn, my Beauties Nonage, Nay in my Native shade, I have been told These Eyes the Soveraign Arbiters of Fate Are born to Conquer Kings and Ruin Kingdoms.

Ros.

A very large Prediction! But art sure Thy Witches Oracle spoke Truth?

Cel.

Truth Girle!

Ros.

Art sure her Prophecying Devills are honest?

Cel.

Yes, dear kind Heaven I hope so — Oh Loves soft Fires, my Eyes, my snares, my Charms, Lodge but some doating Monarch in these Arms, To mount me a Court-Star, fill my fair Seat, The Fear of Slaves, and Envy of the Great, Round my bright Sphear my rapid Gloryes hurld, In Powers proud Orb to drive the truckling World; But This one Blessing let my Prayers implore, And curse me Heaven, if ere I ask thee more.

Exeunt.

Finis Actus Primi.