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

THE Ambitious Slave; OR, A Generous Revenge.

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.

ACT. II. SCENE. I.

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

Clar.

ORsanes, Oh that ever bleeding Martyr! Murder so black! enough to shame the World, And blot the Blushing Skies. Yet why, oh why Is Suff'ring Virtue that neglect of Heav'n, Not the least care of shielding Providence Steps in to guard, nor one just Bolt t' avenge it. But can my Sighs or Prayers recall his Breath! Ah no; th'irrevocable Doom's gone forth, And posting Angells speed in vain to catch it.

Enter Orontes.

Oront.

If trembling Adoration may presume T'approach so near; and these unhallow'd Knees May humbly bend to the Eternall Throne To beg down Bessings on that sacred Brow.

Claris.

Thou wish me Blessings. Fool, why dost thou lose That ineffectuall prayer, thou who hast entaild That lasting shame, and load of Curses on me; That distant Blessings and remoter Peace

Stand those wide Worlds remov'd from Clarismunda That bliss and I must never meet again.

Oront.

That I have sin'd against that Heav'nly-Fair, Committed that dire deed of Execration, That not the whole detesting World alone, But the whole Blushing Host above the Stars Confront my Impious Guilt; That I've don this, Tormenting Conscience with ten thousand Horrours Haunts all my sleepless nights.

Clar.

A sleepless night? And is that all thy punishment? Each puny Crime May wound as deep as that. But can'st thou think Orsanes Blood, and all my wrongs demand no more.

Oront.

Thy wrongs demand All all fates Bloodiest Shafts, the heaviest Load That ere crusht Guilt, or struck confusion dead, This single Criminal Head deserves 'em all. Unless a kind Reprieving Mercy dawn From those fair Twins of Life.

Claris.

Mercy to Thee, Thy Crimes, thou dire Destroyer! Can thy baseness Dare lodge so vile a Thought of Clarismunda! The Sacred Blood of the immortall Cyrus, That tame forgiving Fool.

Oront.

Alas dear Madam! —

Clar.

No King, I have a Lucrecian Soul within me: With more then all her Wrongs, my Hope, Peace, Life, All ravish't by thy worse then Tarquin Cruelty. And if perhaps I have out-liv'd her Fall, 'Tis onely to outact her Vengeance. She Poor Martyr dyed too soon. Her closing Eyes Shut out that charming scene, the rowzing Thunder Hung o're her punisht Ravishers head: she dyed Before her dear Revenge. But I would live For mine (if thou darst let me live,) live Tyrant To wake the arming World for thy Destruction.

Oront.

Oh hold my fair Accuser, think, oh, think When my mad Rage and all my brutall Fires Walk'd forth with that too hideous Arme of Death Twas onely Love that struck the barbarous Blow.

Claris.

Love!

Oront.

All commanding all resistless Love. Alas, I saw the cruell Clarismunda Deaf to my sighs and pray'rs; my happy Rivall With all the Pride of an insulting Conquerour

Even in his Chains my Tyrant, the blest Lord Of Clarismunda's Heart: Think how I saw The flaming Sword, and my seal'd Gates of Paradice. And if my burning Love and boyling Envy Swell'd my Despair too high, impute th' Effects To a too powerfull Cause. Alas, I cut Th' excluding Barr betwixt my Heav'n and Me.

Claris.

Yet hold—This Insolence outsins thy first black Guilt. What tho th' Injustice of our partiall Destiny Threw the unhappy Champion of our Cause, By Warrs rough Chance a Captive in thy Pow'r; Dares thy Barbarity make Love, great Love, A Plea for Murther? Could that noble Passion Transforme thee to a Ruffian? Had'st thou been That Godlike thing a Lover, thoud'st have seen Thy happy Rivall with more generous Envy: And in thy glorious Indignation free'd him From his vile Chains; bid him dispute his Title To Clarismunda's Heart with his drawn sword. Had he so faln, and his triumphant Conquerour Staind with his warm warm Blood—thus hadst thou woed me— But in cold Murder, his poor naked Throat Given up to Butchers Hands, thy Slaves and Hangmen! Shame of a Throne, thou eternall Brand of Empire!

Oront.

And is this all my Love must ever hope!

Claris.

Hope wretched King; why does thy tiresome Folly Force my repeated Scorne both of thy Crown and Thee Thus often to pronounce the fatall never?

Oront.

Never!

Claris.

Shoud this degenerate Breast descend so low Bu•• to Dream Kindness to Orsanes Murderer; I'de tear my Traytour Heart up by the Roots, But for so poor a Thought. Love thee! Yes, King, If to owe thee Curses more then Plagues can pay thee Thy dying Groans more Musick to my soul, Then all the Quires of Heaven, be Love, I love thee,

Oront.

Well, Madam, you have sworn my seal'd Destruction; And rather then a Doom from that fair Mouth Should want the Weight of Fate, with my own Hand, I'le ayd my Labouring Destiny. Go, Briomar, Draw out ten Thousand Horse, and in their Head, Bear that relentl••ss Beauty back to Persia, A Presentt' her avenging Brothers Arms.

Claris.

Ay, King, do This—

Oront.

Yes, go, dear charming Death.

Bring the whole summond Force of Heav'n and Earth To hunt down this Babarian. Too cruell Vengeance, at Thy Tyrant call, All thy arm'd shafts on this doom'd Head must fall; And Humble kneeling Love shall bear e'm all. But dear remorsless Fair; if all the pangs Of my poor bleeding Heart—

Claris.

All the old Hatefull Theme. No more: no more. Remember, King, I have Your sacred Promise To send me back to my avenging Brothers.

Oront.

True; I have promised, and the dread Command Of Clarismunda, though at no less price Then my Souls Death, shall be obey'd. Go; Briomar, Performe your Charge; conduct that fair Inexorable T' her Royall Brothers Arms — But tell those Brothers— Yes, lay my blushes and my shame before e'm; And tell the injur'd Majesty of Persia, My soul unman'd, and all my Reason drownd, I did that shamefull Deed. But tell e'm too, The Brute offended, but the King repents. Tell e'm instead of all their Arm'd Revenge, Death, Fire, and Sword, sack Towns, and burning Citys Kind Hymens Torch presents a gentler Fire.

Claris.

No more, vain talking Frenzy—

Oront.

Yes, beauteous Cruelty, Tell e'm that Mighty Love—

Claris.

That Mightier Vengeance—

Oront.

With all the Eloquence of immortall Truth—

Claris.

With all the Horrours of Eternall shame—

Oront.

For Mercy, Mercy, call.

Claris.

For Blood, for Blood.

Oront.

For Blood than, since no less then Blood must pay. Go, Briomar, that Voice of Death obey. Arme▪ Arme the World against this hated Head: And forge the Bolts to strike this Monster dead. Go, Fairy Treasure, Vanishing Brightness, go. But Clarismunda, If Thou must kill, why the poor Persian swords, Why arming Worlds, and angry Heav'n against me. No, fairer Deity; weil'd thy own bright Vengeance: Thy Eyes the Gods Expence of Thunder save, And lend me from their Darts a nobler Grave.

Exuent all but Celestina and Rosalin.

Celest.

Now Rosalin, what thinkst thou of my Sybill, My Scythian Prophetess!

Rosal.

Think!

Celest.

Dost not see We are moving to a fairer Feild of Fortune, The Court of Persia, Beauties bright Meridian! How looks her kind prediction now? Do's not My Royall Conquest wear a promising Face?

Rosal.

Fantom and Phrenzy.

Celest

Spight and Envy! No; Thou snarling Infidell, th' Oraculous Truth Had Heav'n in't, and I must, and will beleive her.

Rosal.

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

Celest.

Yes Rosalin, and to confirme that Faith Sleeping this night I saw the sweetest Vision. Methoughts, a glittring Troop danced all around me, Clapt their gay Wings, and in one ecchoing Voice, Stupendious Words, that lightend as they spoke, Saluted me with Hayle thou Beauteous Miracle, Go on, thou Royall Conquerour; so conquer Till Poets make thee their Eternall Song; And wanton Painters like the bold Prometheus, When they'd give Souls to shadows, from thy Heav'ns Shall Steal th'immortall Fires.

Ros.

By Love all Rapture!

Cel.

No sooner was the gaudy Vision vanish't, But straight I dreamt of that fair Grecian Dame That drew the Swords of the Contending Universe, The glorious subject of a ten years War; And the no less immortall Cleopatra, Her bleeding Antony, and persuing Caesar, With burning Troys, and Worlds for Beauty lost.

Ros.

Well, Celestina, if no less Originals Then Egypts Cleopatra, or Greek Helens, Are those fair Eyes your golden Dreams must copy, In that blest day expect my duteous Homage Amongst your kneeling slaves.

Cel.

Yes, that blest Day! Now to the Court, that Lottery of Beauty, Where all the Fair for the great Prize put in, And boldly stake their All to lose or win. And whilst one Hand at an unhappy Fling Draws but a Blank, the other draws her King. With the same Hope for the same Lot I••le go, And try if there's a Monarch for my Throw.

Exeunt.

Scene changes to a Pallace.

Enter Tygranes.

Tygr.

What art thou Love, that thus out liv'st Despair? Oh thou, whose too strong vital Pulses beat When hope thy Life is dead. Too fair Herminia, Tho' lost, for ever lost, thy haunting Form Array'd with all thy Charms glides dazling by, Whilst my devouring Soul leaps forth to meet thee And grasps at fleeting Ayr. Too dear Herminia, Yes, I will love thee still—But (oh) so love thee, Love thy bright Glory, thy unenvyed Happiness, Thy Monarchs Arms, and all thy Nuptiall Blisses, My whole unmurmuring Souls divinest Musick.

Enter Messenger.

Mess.

Sir, some Officers wait your Command.

Enter Officers.

Tygr.

Admit e'm. Well, my Warriours How fare my valiant Hearts?

Offi.

Tough as our Arms, And cheerfull as our Cause!

Tygr.

Thou speakst my Souldier—

1. Offi.

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

2. Offi.

Already, Sir, Your great Allies have joyn'd us; A noble Train of War. From Western Nile To Eastern Indus Streams, united Asia, Brings her proud Banners to your Royall Standard. By this good Sword, and this old Arm, I think More gallant Troops, nor more resolv'd Battalions, A fairer Front of the bold Sons of Glory Ne'er shook the Earth beneath them.

1. Offi.

And great Sir, May I presume to add one bold Word more. To cheer our Hearts after our last lost Battle And edg our Swords for a new fairer Game, Persia fought then, but Clarismunda now.

Tygr.

Yes, my kind Souldier, in your last lost Game A weaker Quarrell, and a fainter Arm, Only Powers wanton Luxury, Ambition, Fought then; But a Diviner Cause, wrong'd Honour, And Sacred Vengeance now.

Enter King and Herminia, Mirvan, Amorin, Guards, &c.

King.

My best Tygranes Life of my Cause, thou Eldest Son of War, And boldest Heir of Fame; my waiting Armyes Call thy Commanding Arm to lead 'em forth to Glory.

Tygr.

As far as humane Strength can push for Glory This Arm shall lead; and Sir to joyn that Arm I hope the Great Deciding Powers, that hold The Fate of War and turn the Scales of Battle, Have one kind Lawrell for the poor Tygranes. For 'tis but Justice, Heav'n; one Smiling Day For all the melancholly niggard Portion Your unkind Stars have dealt me. And for all The Massy Favours you have heap'd upon me, Great Sir permit my bending Duty fall Thus low to take up the fair Load of Honour.

King

Rise, my Tygranes, This too humble Gratitude Orepays the Gift I make.

Tygr.

Orepays! No! Sir. You've lodg'd in this Young Arm a Trust so glorious—

King

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

Tygr.

I hope indeed I shall. This I dare promise; I go so ke••n for War, so arm'd for Battle, My Cause so Precious and my Life so worthless, That the Great Game of Death was never play'd By a less shaking Hand.

King.

So speak the Souls Of our Great Race, the transmigrating Fires That warm thy noble Breast.

Tygr.

But Sir before I go, take my Last Prayer: May all the Sweets of ever fragrant Love Heap your full Jo••s. 'Twixt that fair Heaven and You Eternall Jo Peans sing before you: Smiles wake Your Morns, and Angells lull your Sleeps.

King.

This is too kind Tygranes,

Tygr.

And when in my Rough Toyls and heavyer Marches Amidst the Shriller Louder Voice of War Some softer Trump of Fame shall sweetly Chant In my pleass'd Ears how fair Herminia loves: How that all Nuptiall Truth, all Bridall Sweetness With all the Riot o unmeasur'd blisses Crowns the dear Love of her embracing Lord; When I shall hear that dear that blessed Sound,

With open Arms I'le meet the darling Joy, And clasp it as the Mrs. of my Soul— Thus I may love Herminia—

Herm.

Love me Prince! Yes such a Love Tygranes—Oh thou matchless Originall of Virtue! Love like Thine How shall I e're return. Go then, brave Warriour, Go where bright Honour calls, and when thy Sword Thro grappling Dangers hews thy path to Glory, Be thou Herminia's Champion and I Thine. For oh Tygranes to adorn that brow And pull down Victory on that blest Head, I'le borrow from the Arms of my kind Lord A bending Knee to He••v'n for dear Tygranes.

Tygr.

And will the kind Herminia do all this, For lost Tygranes, the Divine Herminia A Beauteous Suppliant to th' immortall Throne Breath a soft Prayer, and melt the listning Gods, And all for worthless me! Then I am orepay'd For all my bleeding sighs. So blest—

Herm.

So blest, if she can give thee blessings, all my Orisons My tendrest Vows for Thy Success I'le pay, With so much Zeal the pious offering giv'n Whilst thou shalt combat Earth I'le wrestle Heav'n.

King.

Hold my Herminia, thou too Godlike Goodness, And take me with thee in this generous Contest. A Prayer for dear Tygranes! Prayers and Hecatombs: Incense and Sacrifice, all Pomp Divine; Altars shall smoak and blazing Temples Shine. United Heaven and Earth shall joyn for Thee; Thou and the World, brave Youth, the Gods and we,

Enter Messenger.

Mess.

Your Royall Sister Conducted by ten-thousand Scythian Horse Sent by the Mercy of her pitying Conquerour, Free and unransom'd is returning home.

King.

Free and unransom'd! Yes, relenting Tyrant, Like flowry Garlands to a bleeding Victim, A poor amends for Clarismunda's Wrongs.

Tygr.

For the Reception of our Royall Sister, Haste, Orimon, draw forth a thousand Horse That these embracing Arms may fly to meet her.

Exit.

King.

My dear Herminia, the soft sweets of Love Till this blest Minute have been all my Theme. But now, my fairest, I am forc'd to borrow

From the kind Arms of Joy one hour for pity. I have a mourning Sister, A wrong'd one my Herminia, whose Returne Must call one Tear even from the Eyes of Love.

Queen.

A Tear for Clarismunda! Yes my dear Lov'd Lord, if that wrong'd Sister does demand The Royall Tribute of those richer Pearle, I hope you'll give these Eyes the Leave to add Their pious Offring too.

King.

Thine, my Herminia!

Queen.

Mine, and all Eyes. At bleeding Virtues Sufferings Our Griefs are but our Sympathetick pains. Each melting Eye at that sad Object mourns: The Loadstar draws, and trembling Pity turns.

Enter Tygranes Leading Clarismunda, Celestina, Rosalin &c.

Clars.

My Brother and my King! Take to thy Arms, thy generous pitying Arms This Load of Misery, Despair and Ruin,

King.

Fair Flower of Paradice, the sweetest Rose Set in the Thorns of Life, dear Royall Mourner My Souls best half, my own immortall Veins.

Clar.

Thy Veins! No Sir that once fair Christall Fountain By the embitter'd Gall of Woes all poyson'd,

The King gazes on Celestina.

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

King

What do I see! Great Gods!

Clar.

But, oh, dread Sir, In my affrighting Wounds, my Savage Wrongs, I have brought home—

King,

Those Eyes, my Clarismunda—

Clar.

Eyes Sir!—

King.

Those Wrongs, my Sister—But proceed.

Clar.

Those Wrongs indeed! So wrong'd, There's not that ministring Saint at Heavens high Throne But midst his Scenes of everlasting Joys, Looks down on Clarismunda's hideous Ruines. Mine, mine's a Cause—

King.

By Heavens, amazing Fair—

Clar.

What says my King?

King.

Thy Cause my Sweet, go on.

Clar.

Yes, my dear Brother, and what's more then Brother My Champion and my King; By those great Names

I call and challenge thy avenging Sword, Thy Sword, my Soverain Justice

King.

Artaban?

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

Amor.

Mirvan, dost mark that Charming Stranger there?

Mir.

Ay, and that firing King too.

aside to Amorin.

King.

That Lady

to Artaban.

Art.

My dread Lord!

King.

That fair one.

Celest.

Shoot home my Charms! now my Prophetick Glory!

aside

Mir.

Shine out fair stranger

aside to Celestina.

Celest.

Boy!

Mir.

There's Honour near ye.

Tygr.

Dear Sister these Resenting Murmurs speak With such an Emphasis.

Clar.

Do they speak Brother! They must act too: These wrongs that find a Tongue Must find an Arm, Tygranes.

Tygr.

Yes Royall sufferer, Thou shalt have Vengeance, Vengeance, Clarismunda, If Arming Man and ayding Heaven can give it thee.

Clar.

Do this, and all my work of Life is done: And when thy Sword draws bloud, drink deep, my Brother; Remember nothing but a pile of Death Can build the Tomb of Love. Build thou that Tomb For Clarismunda; then I dare dye pleas'd When I have seen my blazing monument rays'd.

King.

Succeed and Challenge that Reward, my Artaban

to Arta.

Exeunt all but Celestina and Mirvan.

Celest.

'Tis don 'tis done; I read it in his Eyes; The Golden Shaft and all the whole Blind God. Now my kind Sybill thou hast fullfill'd thy Promise: And I could kneel to thank thy Charming Oracle. Oh Beauty! Love and Triumph wait thy Throne, Hold my kind Toyl but fast, the Game's my own.

Exit.

Mir.

So;—a poor Slave has Charms to snare a King: Yes, fair unknown, th' Imperiall Thunderer Hangs gathering o're thee in a glittering Shower, And 'tis but spreading of thy Smiles before him To catch the Golden God.—well! There's Love for you — Death! what was I born for! Love's not my Province: The Sweets of Life are banish't from these Lips. Kind Nature stampt me in Heavens Image, Man, Born with a Face perhaps t'have Captived Queens. Till mercinary Infamous Barbarity (An Evnuch Monster) basely rob'd my Cradle, And left me a dull Drone of the Creation.—

Since then the Gall, and Dreggs of Life, are all My Portion; to requite the spightfull worlds Unkindness, let me this one pleasure find To doal round my own Draught to all Mankind.

Finis Actus Secundi.

ACT. III. SCENE. I.

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

Song.

WHy do's the Idle World mistake, And Love a Godhead make? If Love were Heav'n, like Heav'n twou'd last, And the Immortall Joys would never dye. Ah no, false man, at ev'ry blast In broken Vows Loves fleeting Shadows fly. Down then let all his Glorys fall, His Templet, Altars, Empire, all To dirt and Ashes trod: For oh the Fools, for oh the Fools, that make blind Love a God.

So when fair Celia mournd to find Philander so unkind; She saw the Tempest yoll too fast, And all o'respread her rising Mornings dawn; Her louring Fate was quite o'recast And her Ecclipsing Glorys all withdrawn. But tho' there shine such fading Jemms In brittle Earthly Diadems, Poor Celia ne're despair: There's Starrs above, there's starrs above to crown thee brighter there.

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

Amor.

OH Mirvan, this fair Scythians Charms are sure Made up of Prodigy; and the blind God Has stockt her with such Shafts, her Eyes Disdain To play a lesser Game then Miracles,

Mir.

Miracles indeed: An unknown Stranger face Who, or from whence Hell knows, to catch a Monarch from a young Princely Bride the fair Herminia,

A Beauty scarce Enjoy'd. The very Virgin Blushes on her Cheeks Still warme; that lovelyest Rose gather'd but yesterday, And all the fragrant Sweets thrown by to day. Abandon'd, Slighted—ay and all this too By the strange Charms of such an Easy wanton That Scarce held out the Courtship of an hour. But See the glittring Pageant moves this way. With what Devouring ravenous Eyes he swallows The fair Destruction.

Amor.

Put my dear Lost Mrs. The poor Herminia, what a mournfull part Hast thou in this gay Scene. Too unkind King— Was it for this, in thy first blooming Youth, By thy Imperiall Fathers kind Commission A Visitant in the fair Court of India, That Early Votary t' Herminia's Eyes, Thou knelst at those dear Feet— Sweet injur'd Goodness My heart bleeds for thee.

Mir.

Troth so does not mine.

Amor.

How Mirvan, canst thou see our Royall Mrs. The poor neglected Queen, thus Scorn'd, thus Slighted, Without one pitying Thought.

Mir.

A pitying Thought! Faith none at all.

Amor.

Canst thou be Man and say this?

Mir.

No, Fool, were I a man I should not say this. But when the cursed Luxury of Greatness As the early brand of a Court Slave, (A dog a nobler Creature) took Man from me, It took Humanity too—Spight, darling Spight.

Amor.

But See the Queen and Princess

Mir.

Well if this fair Scythian Wanton This white she-devil do not prove at last That firebrand, that State-Firebrand, as shall one day Set Persia in a Flame:—if this she-Phaeton Prove not at last the arrantest State-grievance E're ruin'd Monarch, or Suck't Nation poor, May my Propheticks be believed no more.

Enter Queen and Clarismunda.

Queen.

The Treasure of my soul, my dear Lords Love, The hoarded Mass of a whole Ages Bliss All by one midnight Thief for ever lost.

Clar.

Indeed my Royall Sister thy sad Story Melts pity from my Eyes; and trust me, dear Herminia,

My own unhappy Load of Miseries Have drein'd these Streams so low, their did not want Thy Sufferings to rayse a second Spring.

Queen

This generous Sense of my hard Fate speaks thee So truly kind—

Claris.

So truly just, Herminia. For in the deep Resentments of thy Wrongs Mine is no common Share. 'Twas Clarismunda Was their unfortunate Cause. That infamous Creature That Scythian Devill my unhappy Favourite; By my mistaken Charity to that Deluding Face, the fatall Cockatrice Egg Hatcht by my warmth to all this brood of Mischiefe.

Queen.

Nay Clarismunda, charge not Thy fair Virtue With so unjust a Stain. Thy part was innocent. When angry Providence resolves to kill It easily finds the Means. Misery, and Misfortune still like Weeds and poysons Shoot. Alas they want a very little Root.

Clar.

Sweet murmuring Turtle hush thy mournfull plaints And bear thy Soul above the Worlds poor spight. Let thy dark shades make thy fair Truth more bright. 'Tis the True Diamond that shines by night. And then the frowns of Fortune we out brave When Grief is not our Tyrant but our slave.

Exeunt.

Enter Orontes disguis'd attended onely by Briomar.

Oront

Yonder she moves, my louring planet moves. But why do I not follow her, run to her, Run to my doom, and catch her blasting fires. Bid all her blazing Bolts of Thunder turn; Court the Keen Lightning of her Eyes, and burn.

Briom.

Oh Royall Sir, think to what threatning Danger Will your Rash Love expose your Life and Glory. Yes, if bold Truth may speak, to what unprincely Nay what unmanly Dangers.—

Oront.

Preaching fool No more profane Reflections on a Cause So sacred.—

Briom.

Can there be a Cause so sacred To draw you forth from your abandon'd Kingdoms, And in this poor Disguise to quit your Throne?

Briomar

Oront.

Quit Thrones! quit Worlds, quit Earth and Heav'n my Run mad, despair, and dye.

Briom.

Dye Sir!

Oront▪

Yes, dye. To Deaths short pain from lingring Tortures fly: Plunge the Vast Deep, and launch to that blest shore Where Clarismunda's Scorn can kill no more.

Briom.

Death I confess is Woes last certain Remedy.

But when the Great seek Death, they ought to meet him In the fair Paths of Glory. Poorly dying Is worse then basely Living. Sir, consider You're born to Empire, hold the Charge of Kingdoms, A Royall Cause, and a protected people; Besides behold a gathering Storm before you, Arms at your Gates, and Vengeance round your Walls, Advanceing Enemies, and pushing Fate. That Death thou seek'st, seek nobly, King. Crown'd Heads Should not fall crusht like poor despairing slaves, But build their Monuments when they digg their Graves.

Oront.

Kind Briomar, I thank thy honest Love. 'Tis true the Charge of Empire lyes upon us. Yet Heav'ns Vicegerents are not so all Gods But we have a little of the Man about us. Shackled with Soveraignty, and tyed up to Honour, We are not so fast to golden Fetters curst, But Love one Link of the long Chain may burst. Oh Briomar— I have that last Account yet to make up To that Fair Tyrants Ear before I dye. That as thou valuest my Eternall Peace, By all thy Loyalty I must conjure thee, Under the shelter of this kind Disguise, To gain me an Access. But one blest Minute At Clarismunda's Feet.

Briom.

But in this kind Disguise can you so rule Your master'd Passion, as to keep your shrow'd, No frantick start to burst your guardian Cloud. Sir, dare you promise me.—

Oront.

Yes I dare promise. Shall I performe my Briomar?

Briom▪

How Sir.

Oront.

No more; I'le be obey'd.

Briom.

Then Sir, my Duty shall dispute no more; Th' Access shall be obtain'd: Though I much fear Effects too dismall.

Oront.

Leave Effects to Fate: Love spurs the Leap, and Danger Checks too late.

Exeunt.

Scene a Room of State.

Enter Celestina, Rosalin and Women.

Ros.

Madam, five hundred Talents from the King,—

Cel.

Have Kist my Hand this Morning.

Ros.

From Great Love A fair presented Sum.

Cel.

To buy me pins. A small Oblation. But my Royall Vassall Remembers his Allegiance; knows his Duty, And pays my Eyes their Tribute— Now, my Rosalin, How dost thou like the Port our Greatness bears?

Say is a Monarchs Heare a Toy worth wearing?

Rosal.

Your Conquest is a perfect Raign of Wonders.

Cel.

Nay, I have conquer'd now: And such a Conquest, That surfeited Delight, and gorged Ambition Have drunk so deep, that they can thirst no more.

Ros.

Madam, the Princess —

Cel.

Ha! What brings her here. —perhaps The Consciencious Fool comes to Preach Honour, Herminia's Wrongs, and Celestina's Fraylty; If so; I am resolv'd I will receive her Like my great self, the Mistress of a Pow'r The World's too weak to shake.

Enter Clarismunda.

Claris.

I stoop beneath My self when I descend To talk with Sin and Shame. But sweet Herminia A Champion in Thy Cause commanding Justice Forgive the Faults offending Honour makes No; the proud Theif, the Syren has undon thee Shall not move off with Her Rich prize so tamely. I'le talk with the gay Sin, and glittring Infamy.

Cel

These happy Walls and their more happy Mistress Thus honour'd and thus grace'd! Beleive me Madam, You've so surprized me with this wondrous Goodness, Took me so unprepared for a Reception Worthy of such a Guest—

Claris.

Hold, there's no need Of so much courtly Ceremony. All I came to meet I've found, thy self; and wish The Visitant I bring thee may receive But half this promis'd welcome.

Cel.

If I am All You came to seek, I am proud that you have found me, And prouder to receive whate're Commands Honour can give, or Honour can obey. As such, no doubt, you bring me, speak Your pleasure.

Clar.

Honour! Oh thou hast named the richest Jem That e're adorn'd the Fair True Honour, Beauties Inestimable wealth; whilst we wear Thee We have inexhausted Mines of endless Treasure, Enough t'enrich the world. Where Honour Shines, Our Eyes are Sparks of Heaven, 'Tis that kind Sun That lights 'em into Stars. The Great just Powers Made us the fairest work of their Creation, Till our own faults our own defacing Shame Unmakes the work of Gods.

Celest.

Ay, now you charm my Ear with ravishing Musick, Honour our Sexes warmest Pride, Our whole

Devotion, Saint, Heaven, All we kneel and pray to. And Madam, if those Powers you name have made Beauty the Master-stroak of their Creation, I thank their Generous Moulding Hands These Eyes Are not their poorest stamp. And to do Justice To Heavens unfinisht Peice, I shall take care In the bright sphear to which my charms have rais'd me, Not to unmake, but mend the work of Gods.

Claris.

The Sphear thy Charms have rais'd thee to! No thou Gay gilded Vanity, call 'em thy Sorceryes, The 'infatuating, false deluding Fires Of Sin plumed up with Power, thou vile Usurper.

Celest.

Usurper! That diminitive Imp of Majesty, That puny poor Prerogative! no Madam Your kinder Justice sure can find my Glories A fairer name.

Claris.

A fairer name!

Celest.

perhaps The little Murmures Envy and Ignorance, Have been too buisy with your Royall Ear, And breath'd my Name with their unhallow'd Lips. But to correct th'ill manner'd Grin of Fools Let the Kings Heart, and these victorious Eyes Tell the vain babling world I raign by Conquest.

Claris.

What do I hear! Oh thou amazing Front Of blushless Guilt! Thou sit'st enthron'd in Sin then. Hold'st thy black seate of shame by Claim and Title, And stampst a Royall Soverainty on Damnation.

Cel.

Madam, this Language—But no more You are too blame, mistaken angry Princess; For when I shall enform that Peevish Snarler For whom thou playst the Champion, what good Offices I've done her with the King, She'le have but small Occasion of Complaint, For I must tell you As my peculiar Grace I have given him Leave T'allow her a fair Court, Guards and Attendants, And all the Decency that suits her Quality. Nay, and to shew you I'm more generous still I have permitted him to pay her the Civilityes of a Wife.

Claris.

Civilityes!

Celest.

And let me tell you. 'Tis not A Common Condescension in a Mrs. To give a Wife that Liberty.

Claris.

Great Gods! This is beyond all mortall Patience. She gives her Husband Leave; 'tis she allows her;— Her Favours all— Oh poor Herminia, whither art thou fall'n,

aside.

Brought thy rich Royall Veins from thy fair India, To be a Pensioner to a vile Wanton; Raign the Precarious Partner of a Throne. But thou rank Weed, thou poysonous plant of Death, Oh that thou'dst give thy Soul but so much Leisure As even to think—

Cel.

Think! I have Thought. For Thinking's half the pleasure

Claris.

No, thou too hardend Brow, didst thou but know What tis to be—

Cel.

The Mrs. of a King— Yes, very well.

Clar.

The Mrs. of a King! no fair Perdition Change that gay name and call thy self a Prodigy.

Celest.

A Prodigy! Right; all made up of Wonders. The very Thing I would be.

Claris

Barbarous Creature! Is thy Lethargick Sleep of Death so deaf To all th' Alarms of Infamy and Vengeance; That not one frighting Dream nor waking Horror Tells thee what hideous Loads of Woe thou hast heap'd On Wayling Innocence, the wrong'd Herminia; Snatch'd a lov'd Lord from her embracing Arms, And left her mourning Days and widow'd Nights: Rob'd all her Dearest Joys.

Celest.

'Tis, true, I have so. And I confess the Loss is something hard. But to repair that Loss, tell the fair Mourner, Her Charms are not so lost, but thousand Cupids With thousand Darts, and every Shaft a Heart, Attend the dayly Triumphs of her Eyes.

Claris.

Oh my Chast Ears!

aside.

Cel.

What though th' ungratefull King Has play'd the Wanderer; can that fair Shrine Want Homagers! The world is not so poor.

Claris.

Hold profane Insolent! stop that sulphurous Breath. Rooted with horrour I have heard thee out; And a chill Damp about my trembling Heart Has but just left me blood enough to blush That thou wert born of Woman. Quick Let me fly that cloven footed Treason, Least yawning Earth, and swallowing Graves receive me.

Exit.

Cel.

Poor angry thing farewell; such chattring Daws Dismount my Eagle Flight! That bugbear Conscience! No, I've Loves whole Feast before me. And let those

Dull puny squeamish Fools that dare not carve Hug their Lean Virtue, pine, Despair, and starve.

Exit.

Scene Changes.

Enter Herminia and Amorin.

Herm.

Art sure this is the Kings Retiring Hour, And this the place to meet him?

Amor.

Ev'ry Minute His Presence is expected. But dear Madam I have one humble pray'r, that this small service Of your Obedient slave be kept a Secret; This is forbidden Ground, and 'twill be more Then half the price of my poor Life to serve you.

Her.

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

Ex. Amo.

Forbidden Ground! Is Love a Crime so mortall? And am I grown that poyson to his Eyes! Oh for the Spirit of the great Semiramis To meet my wrongs, and stemm the storm that sinks me No, I've too much the Mothers Milk within me, Weep like a Girle, and bend beneath my sufferings; Nature intended me some humble shepherdess, A Creature born to breath her plaints to Woods And helpless Groves, to mix her feeble Tears In murmuring Brooks; too weak to weild the Thunder, And rowze the sleeping Rage of injur'd Majesty.

Enter King.

King.

Herminia! Ha! That Face, and in these Walls! Methinks I feel a chilling Damp within me, A secret check from those accusing Eyes— Let my retiring shame—

going back.

Herm.

My Lord, my King!

King.

Madam—

Herm.

I have a Grace to beg. Not that I'd ask Ungratefull Favours from You. But methinks From all your long long Hours of happier Blisses, Herminia, sure, may beg one borrow'd Minute—

King

That painfull Minute

aside.

Her.

There was once a day When underneath my Native Royall Roof, Th' Imperiall Towrs of the proud Indian Court, To my first Virgin Charms a gawdy Train Of suppliant Kings, all Captives to my Eyes Knelt at my Feet, unless their Sighs deceive'd me, (For they were men and 'tis a flattering World) I think (if you have not quite forgot) my Lord Was one of that fair Train, and loved me too,

Or else my Virgin heart was poorly won. I think you lov'd— But if I am mistaken, Correct my Fault, and I will weep and mend it.

King.

This is too much thou murmuring Sweetness: Dry up thy Tears, and weep no more.

Herm.

No more!

King.

No more; for trust me It is a showr too rich to fall for me.

Herm.

Ah King, to dry these ever streaming Sorrows, Is not my work but Thine. To stop these Fountains Shut thou the springs that feed 'em. Ah my Lord, Remove the fatal cause of all these Tears And then I'le cease to mourn.

King.

Alas Herminia! Upbraid my Guilt no more; but think me punisht Even in my very Sin: for when I am false To so much Truth, a Love like thine; 'tis with That conscious Shame, and those accusing Horrours—

Herm.

That pleasing Pride and those transporting Charms: Thou woud'st say—Poor Herminia, has no Charms Or if she e'er had any, even their very Remembrance, like a last nights Dream, the thin And vanishing Shaddow gone, they are all lost In Celestina's Arms, that fatall Ravisher Of all my hopes, my Joys, my Life.

King.

Ah Madam, Cease this too killing Theme: consider me As a poor helpless Wretch driven headlong by An unaccountable resistless Power. Alas, I wou'd be faithfull if I cou'd. All that I can, command my bleeding heart, My bending Neck, my Head beneath thy Feet: These I can grant; but do not ask impossibles.

Herm.

Impossibles! nay then I read my Fate.

King.

If it be Fate 'tis past our humane power To reverse Destiny, and in submitting T' immutable Decree exalted Virtue Exerts her noblest Wisdom Patience.

Herm.

Patience.

Enter Tygranes.

Yes Sir you take the nearest way to teach it me, For when your strange unkindness gives me death, I shall be husht all Patience in my Grave.

King.

Madam, my Charity takes me from your sight The greatest Height of pity we express To shut our Ears from Greifs we can't redress.

Offring to go.

Herm.

Oh stay upon my Knees I do conjure you.

Move not that way: That killing passage leads To Celestina; And in all your Cruelty Shew that poor Mercy to the lost Herminia, To stay one little Minute from her Arms.

Tygr.

Oh King, can so much Beauty plead in vain? All those rich pearle, those dear fair Streams of Life Drop from those Eyes and unreguarded fall.

King.

My Brother!

Tygr.

My dread Lord, coud'st thou but think What Glory waits on Majesty, where Virtue Shines the bright Jem of Diadems, that sweetness Need not have Knelt thus long.

King.

Tygranes!

Tygr.

Thou dear all Soveraign Goodness, turn but one Kind look, and veiw that lovely Kneeling Mourner Charming in Tears, and beauteous even in Ruines.

Herm.

Kind Prince, no more: spend not thy prodigall Breath On a poor Outcast Wretch, not worth his Thought.

Tygr.

But one one Look. Think but what charms invite thee. Humanity, Religion, Nature; the Whole pitying World intreats thee back to Love. Oh Sir consider rayse your mounting Thoughts To the exalted charms of Godlike Vertue: Think what soft Down in Loves rich Bed of Honour, Fills the calm pillows of embracing Innocence.

King.

Oh my Tygranes.

Herm.

Yes my dear lov'd Lord In these incircling Arms these chast Embraces No guilty Dreams the starts of frighted sin And pangs of aking guilt will wake your sleeps, But fair all Heav'nly Forms seale your clos'd Eyes, And Quires of Angells lull your Golden slumbers.

King,

Alas my poor Herminia,

Herm.

Oh my Stars! I see a dawning pity in his Eyes Break forth my rising Sun and make it all Immortall Day and ever shining Joys. Take Take your kneeling Mourner to your Arms; Take me to love, be kind and bid me live, And stab my bleeding breaking Heart no more.

King.

Thou talk'st, sweet Murmurer—

Tygr.

Oh Sir embrace the blessed Minute, Return to her dear Arms, return to all The Joys of Earth and the Rewards of Heav'n: Think but what shining Host of Supliant Saints Expand their Arms t' embrace thy blest Repentance.

King.

My dear Tygranes, My Fame, my Crown, and my Imperiall Cause Call thee to Arms, to Arms: My muster'd Legions,

And marching Armies wait thee in their head. Go forth my Son of War: the great To morrow Leads to the Field.

Tygra.

Doubt not that great To morrow; Be you but Just to day. Run to her Bosom: Oh run, and take her to your pitying Mercy, Myriads of Joys and thousand thousand Blisses—

King.

Battles and Arms! Hark the Shrill Trump Tygranes, The Alarm of Honour calls.

Tygra.

The Trump of Virtue, King; 'Tis that that sounds to call thy wandring Heart To these abandon'd Arms.

King.

The Scythian Tyrant, And Clarismunda's Wrongs.

Tygr.

The Scythian Sorceress,

Exit King forcing him∣self from them.

And lost Herminia's, Wounds.

Queen.

Too cruell King. Sure I am not the first unhappy Woman That wept for Broken Vows, and faithless Man: Yet sure the first that ever wept so soon: So Young, so early lost, ith' very Morn Of Love for ever sett— Put generous Prince. So much I owe thee for this wondrous Goodness; What kind Return can this vast Debt defray? What I am too Poor I must beg Heav'n to pay.

Exit.

Tygr.

Such charms and this unkind Return! Ah King, Had those dear Eyes but smiled on blest Tygranes How had I lov'd! Oh Beauty, in thy whole Divinity How narrow is thy Attribute of Mercy; Thy Soveraign power of Life and Death so shackled, That in a thousand Bleeding hearts before thee, Thy kind repreiving smile can save but one! Nay, and that very single Mercy too Is often dealt with that unlucky Hand, Made some ungratefull tastless Infidells prize, Whilst perishing Truth stands by and starving dyes.

Exit.

Finis Actus Ter••ij.

ACT. IV. SCENE. I.

Celestina and Rosalin.

Cel.

TH' Embraces of a King! Poor Satisfaction! A Monarchs Darling, but a Kingdoms Loathing. All a dishonourd Blot, the Worlds cheap Theme, And common Tale of every grinning slave. The Queen!— Ay, she ev'n in her lowest sufferings Outshines my tallest Pride. The peoples Love And th' universall pity of mankind Like perfum'd Sweets embalm her fragrant Fame. But me their Hate and Scorn; my very Sex Stand at a Bay all frighted at my Name And drive me like a hunted Fugitive From out the Herd of Life. I cannot bear it.

Ros.

Dear Madam—

Cel.

Oh thou lying Oracle, where's My promist Mountains, all your Boasted Miracles! No; Flattring falshood, tell thy Lord of Darkness There is no Faith in Hell. Did'st thou not Promise False Prophetess, that I should raign in Pleasure.

Ros.

If Soveraignty, Dominion; if to hold A King in Chains, and Crowns in Vassalage, be To raign in Pleasure, she has perform'd that Promise.

Cel.

A King my Slave! poor narrow-bounded Throne! Thin empty Bliss; for in Possessing His, I have lost the Hearts of all the World beside. Nay what has all my mighty Conquest made me That little despicable Wretch a Harlot. Oh the foul Blister, Cankers and Diseases! Is there that humblest of my cringing Flatterers, That waits th' uprising of my morning Smile, And pays me his (All Hayl) for the snatch'd blessing, Even with those Lips that kiss the Earth I move on, No sooner is his fawning Face turn'd from me, But with a low reviling Eye puts forth His forked Tongue and hisses at my Shame.

Ros.

Why all this foolish Murmur! Thus concern'd For that Course Vulgar Blast the Popular Breath! Does your exalted Greatness want Their Love! It is enough they fear you. Fear the noblest Prerogative, 'twas Fear that first made Gods.

Cel.

No, Girle, this Shallow Sophistry —

Ros.

Nay Madam

Your Witches and your Propheycing Devils I'm sure have done their Part. And if you have still A giddy roving uncontented Thought, E'ne blame your own unsatisfyed desires: If Womans vain Ambition covets more Then all Hell has to give, 'tis not Hells Fault but Womans.

Cel.

But oh my Rosalin, I cannot bear This publick Odium of the World and live. Only the Mistress of his loose Desires. His burning Kisses all but Sooty Fires. That little Outly of his Love, his Mistress.

Ros.

His Mistress! Why wou'd you be his Queen?

Cel.

His Queen! Ay, that's A name indeed, that Sacred Post of Honour; Myriads of pleasures wait the hallow'd Brightness; A Solid Heaven of Constellated Blisses, Substantiall Power, untainted Glory: Then I should have Hearts as well as Knees to serve me.

Ros.

His Queen!—Why truly Madam, since your Wishes Must soar so high, I know no wondrous Stops That hold their Flight, considering your Ascendant, The Eyes you wear, and the fond Heart you govern

Cel.

Ha▪

Ros.

Were the Gordian Bar remov'd between you. The golden Fruit would meet your reaching Hand, And fairly bid you carve your own Desires.

Cel.

The Gordian Bar remov'd! and fairly carve My own Desires!—What Bar but poor Herminia? That feeble Thred—Thou dear inspiring Devil! Oh what a mountain Thought of vast Ambition— Comes pouring ore me like a rolling Deluge.

Ros.

Madam, Young Mirvan the Queens favourite Evnuch. Waits for Access as your petitioner.

Cel.

Mirvan! Admit him.

Enter Mirvan.

Mir.

Madam, amongst the universall Knees All bending to salute the rising Sun, Might poor I dare t'implore one smiling Beam.

Cel.

Push thy fair suit, and try thy generous Fortune.

Mirv.

Then Madam, I've a Brother, and a Brother Not born like me to curse his riffled Cradle: A Brother that writes Man, and would write Man In Characters of Blood. A Youth that dares As much as Courage can, or Honour ought. And tho' his praise suits not my Mouth, to give Fair Truth her due, he wears a Sword, he thinks Too brave to rust, a Boy that wou'd lead Men; And therefore begs by me your gracious Interest

For a Commission for him.

Cel.

If thy Brother, Sweet Boy, but fights with half the Grace thou suest He might lead Armys: Well, kind Advocate, He shall have a Commission, and a Noble one.

Mirv.

Thus low my Kneeling Gratitude—

Cel.

Rise Mirvin.— This Boy well manag'd—

aside.

Rise, my pretty Suppliant, Thou look'st and talk'st so winningly, there's nothing I can deny to that petitioning Face.

Mirv.

My Face! 'Tis well I have a Face to beg a Ladys favour.

aside.

Cel.

Well, gentle Boy, such early Wit as Thine Tells me thou know'st the World. How dost thou like The pleasures of a Court!

Mirv.

How shou'd I like What I want pow'r to taste?

Cel.

Nay, fye, my Boy. Thou wrongst my Innocent meaning.

Mirv.

Then to answer Your Innocent meaning with an Equall Innocence, That downright Truth your Bounty merits from me How can I love the Court who hate the World?

Cel.

Thou hate it. What have Thy young Years to quarrell at, That thou should'st hate the World!

Mirv.

I had a Father in't. And for his sake I hate it.

Cel.

For his sake!

Mirv.

A poor meanspirited Slave, that got me Man, And for a wretched Bribe of the Court Gold Unmade the Thing he got me — For which I owe him My honest hearty Curses in his Grave, And for his sake hate the whole loath'd Creation.

Cel.

How Mirvan if thou hate'st the whole Creation, Thou must hate me, and 'tis not safe to talk with thee.

Mirv.

Nay Madam (and beleive I Scorn to flatter) Of all the hated World I love you best: Because I fancy all those Charms were given you To do a little Mischeif in the World, That darling Mistress of Eyes dear Mischief.

Cel.

Hate the whole world beside? and I alone The favourite! Nay this is kind indeed. But may I trust that Kindness?

Mir.

Trust me Madam! Now by those Eyes I swear, those brig••t Incendiaryes What is't I dare not do to serve that fair Destruction. Play the proud Juno and command me Labours Like a young Hercules; and if I shrink or tire Say I've a Soul as abject and as base As the poor frame the Imp of man that holds it.

Cel.

This is so generous—

Mirv.

Trust me say you. Nay I will trust you First; and with a secret Of that prodigious weight.

Cel.

The rarest Tool!

Mirv.

Know then the Queen, the more then Widow'd Queen, Too sad a Mourner at your fatall Triumph In pure Despair for her deserting Lord Resolves this very night—

Cel.

Oh my big Hopes!

aside.

Mir.

In a disguise to leave the Court and Kingdom; And bury all her Sorrows in a Cloyster.

Cel.

To my best wish!

[aside.]

Mir.

For this Religious Voyage Who should she choose her Pilot but my self; Her singular Trust of my confiding Truth, Has pickt out Me, her only leading Guide T' her Melancholy Cell. Peruse this Letter, Committed to my Care to leave behind her As her last farewell to her unkind Lord.

Cel.

Reads.

Letter.

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

Herminia.

Mir.

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

Cel.

Oh Mirvan! now I must beleive thou lovest me. This is so kind a Trust. Thou toldst me too That thou lov'dst Mischief.

Mir.

Faith, won'd You durst try. How much I love it.

Cel.

Sayst thou so, my Boy! Nay then darst thou be kind, and let me in A Party to this Plot, a kind Assistant To hand this Mourning Wanderer to her Cell! Say, darst thou let me choose her Cloyster for her?

Mir.

With all my Soul. If any Noble Spight Glow warm within your Breast, set it a blazing. At that sweet Game form your own dearest Wish, And mould Your slave to serve you.

Cel.

To my Arms Thou kindest little Engine, serve me, but As the Rewards I'le pay thee shall deserve, And melt me into Gold.

Mir.

Alas dear Madam, There needs not a Reward to buy my Faith. Be but your Great Designs what I can wish 'em, Without the needless Bribe of Gold or Treasure, I wou'd give Wealth to purchase such a pleasure.

Exeunt.

Scene Changes. Enter Orontes disguis'd.

Oron.

From Scythia's Throne, and my proud Armies Head, From softer Majesty, and rougher Wars All glittering Plumes, all my once bright Regalia Stript to this narrow Shrowd to wrap my Woes, And bring my Death to Clarismunda's Feet. Oh Love! How unaccountable's thy Power.

Enter Clarismunda attended.

Clar.

From that loath'd Name—

Oront.

From that loath'd Name Orontes To that lov'd Heaven, his cruel Clarismunda, He has commanded these Commission'd Knees To beg one listning Minute.

Clar.

Your Petition Is an Ungrateful Theme. Yet I am not So deaf to my worst Foe, but my kind Patience Shall lend the Ear thou ask'st.

Oront.

Thus then by me That Sentenc'd Criminal speaks. If by that fairest Hand Death shakes his Glass, and waves his Brandish'd Shaft; If executing Destiny's gone forth, And meager Graves with all their hungry Yawn Wait their last Gorge of poor Orontes Blood: To his ador'd destroying Angels Ear, Thus breath his Dying Accents.— Oh Bright Madam! If Tears that would melt Rocks, if Groans enough To wake the Sleep of Tombs; if tortur'd Conscience Above the very Pangs of lost Eternity. And to all these a Penitence so true, Enough to unlock Heaven.—If these, all these Might beg his Life from Cruel Clarismunda, —

Clar.

Could all these beg his Life —

Oront.

And with that Life His Clarismunda's Love

Clar.

My Love!

Oront

Thy Love, Dear, all Divine! For without Love 'tis Death still. Oh could that dear forgiving Mercy take A pardon'd Penitent to those dear Arms, Not Ransom'd Slavery, not Life Reprieved, Not Crown'd Ambition, nor translated Martyr, Half, half so bless'd as he! To those fair Eyes He'd raise those Monuments of mighty Love Should out-live Worlds; and finishing Time close up His last Recorded Volume with the Story How bless'd Orontes loved.

Clar.

Mistaken Advocate

To have tryed the Eloquence of those soft Sounds, They should have spoke before Orsanes Death.

Oront.

And does that Louring Vision wake for ever; The lost Orontes Crime so all impardonable!

Clar.

So impardonable, that To leave the World with my loud wrongs unrighted, When I shall meet my great Forefathers Souls, 'Twould make me blush in Heaven.

Oront.

Too Cruel Fair!

Clar.

Sir, I must hear no more. Go bear your Master This Answer, as my fix'd Eternal Vow, I will have my Revenge: But tell him too So much I owe to his Repenting Tears That when my Arming Wrongs that hunted Blood Shall spill, I'll give the Executing Blow, Calm as the Priestess at an Altar Kills, Yet still must Kill.

Oront.

But can that Beauteous Priestess Accept no gentler Sacrifice, no less Appeasing Victim than the poor Orontes All streaming Blood? And is one Thought of Mercy That strange Impossible?

Clar.

So much Impossible, Perhaps beyond the Grave I may forgive him, On this side Death I must not.

Oront.

Then dear Cruelty,

Discovers himself.

Take, take my thirsted Blood.

Clar.

Good Gods, Orontes! Oh King! How poorly thou hast thy self undone? Hast put thy wretched Life into my Power; And I must tamely take it. Hadst thou met My Nobler Vengeance in thy Armies head, Thrust thy bold Breast against ten thousand Javelins, Thou might'st have fall'n with Honour, Honour, King! But now, now I must take this poor Advantage. (Thou kill'st Orsanes poorly) Forget thou art a King, Uncrown'd, Unthroned, Led like a Vulgar Slave, bound in Vile Chains, And at the Tomb of the great Cyrus, there, There through thy humble naked yielding Throat Hew out my Vengeance, carve thy bleeding Heart A Sacrifice to Clarismunda's wrongs. My Guards, my Slaves there.

Enter Attendants, Guards.

1 Attend.

Madam, Your Commands?

Clar.

If your lost Honour, and your bleeding Country,

An injur'd Monarch, and a Kingdoms shame, Can rouze your Swords—

Oront.

Strike, strike 'em through this Breast. Yes, generous Persians, behold before ye The black Orontes, Scythias Tyrant Lord, Stain'd in the Blood of Thousand, Thousand Persians; And the deplored Orsanes barbarous Murderer. But bear me to the Tomb of your great Cyrus; There hew your Vengeance, carve my bleeding Heart A Sacrifice to Clarismundas Wrongs.

Clar.

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

Oront.

So much in Love, that on my Knees I'll meet it. I wear a Load of useless Life about me; And thou'rt so kind to ease me of my Burthen. Now Gentlemen, perform your Royal Charge: Bear me to Death, to Death with the Vile Monster. Loaded with Chains, led forth a publick Spectacle To pointing Infamy and hissing Scorn: For that fair Doom will have it so.

Clar.

Will have it so!

Orant.

Quick, quick, ye tedious Slaves Can she speak Death, and you want Wings to execute? Let not Crown'd-Head, nor King, those titular Sounds Tye up your Hands, those forfeit Names my Crimes And this wrong'd Fair— But bear me to my Death, to Scaffolds, Gibbets, Stript to a Naked Dungeon Malefactor, Tread my crush'd Soul.—

Clar.

Stand off ye Impious Villains! A Monarch's Blood, and shed by Hangmens hands! Oh, whither was my Fleeting Glory going! His bending Neck like a tame bleating Sacrifice, A stroke beneath my Scorn— But haste Arsaces. Raise all my Persian Guards, and in their Head Go, bear him back, back to his moving Armies, Safe to his headed Legions. There Orontes, At the Proud Front of all thy Royal Squadrons, With Groves of Spears, and walling Shields around thee, Rich in thy Crested Plumes, and Glittering Steel, Worthy the Persian Swords, and Clarismundas Vengeance, Strike then my Arm of Fate.

Oront.

Oh wondrous Honour! Even in amazing Cruelty!

Clar.

Yes Scythian. Though all the Persian Bolts

Are levell'd at that Heart, thy Blood Orontes, My whole rich Game of Death; yet not to snare My hunted Lyon in Ignoble Toils— No, King; Return, return; thy Crown, thy Arms, And Royal Standard want thy leading Sword.—

Oront.

So brave a Foe!—

Clar.

Reserve thy Sword thy Answer: Arm'd at the head of slaughter'd Fields, there Scythian Fall thy great self, Die warm my Royal Enemy; To morrows hotter Veins my Vengeance pay: Thy Blood Orontes is too cold to Day.

Exit.

Oront.

Die warm! Yes, Generous Foe, thy envy'd Glory Shall light my Fire; Despair to Fury turn: In my last Flash my brightest Blaze shall burn. Through Blood and Death move on 'gainst all thy odds, Thy Wrongs, the Arming World, and battailing Gods! For by those Eyes a Sacrifice decreed, 'Tis just I should a glorious Victim bleed.

Exit.

Scene Changes. Enter Celestina, and Rosalin.

Cel.

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

aside.

Ros.

Madam, I'm all Amazement at the News!

Cel.

Amaz'd, at what? To hear a mad young wife Has took a Midnight's Ramble!

Ros.

But the Queen! Oh Madam! Certainly some strange Despair Has caused this Secret Flight, perhaps to seek Some solitary Grot to Sigh and Die.

Cel.

To Sigh and Die! Poor innocent Simplicity! What if she's stoln to some retiring Solitude, To meet a private Lover?

Ros.

How! a Lover!

Cel.

Mark the Truth, I tell thee That very thing a Lover.

Ros.

'Tis impossible! Such Tears, and so much Nuptial Faith —

Cel.

Why, All That's nothing: Womans Truth like Womans Beauty, Is not a thing Immortal.

Ros.

But dear Madam, Herminias rigid Principles of Honour, And her fond Sighs even for her Faithless Lord, Admit a Lawless Love!

Cel.

Though it be Lawless Is it not Love still, Fool?

Enter King.

King.

Dear Sovereign of my Soul,

Asia's fair Pride, and Persia's more than Conqueror, Thou all amazing Brightness to my Bosom.

Cel.

Oh Prince! Encircled in these Arms, methinks The Transport of my Joys bears my wing'd soul so high Till I look down on Under-Worlds beneath me.

King.

Look down indeed, thou dear Triumphant Fair, Whilst those poor Under-Worlds all blushing own Their whole Creation cannot match these Eyes.

Cel.

Nay, now you flatter.

King.

By those sweets I cannot. For thine are Charms above the reach of Flattery. But, Madam, t'add one Trophy to your Eyes, The poor Resenting Queen (wouldst thou believe it) Is this Night fled from Court.

Cel.

Alas, poor pittied Sweetness!

King.

Prithee be kind, and Read this murmuring Scrole, A Farewel Letter she has left behind her.

Celest. Reads.

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

Herminia.

King.

That she is gone, and th'angry Cause that drives her, Her Letter speaks too plain. But whither gone? That she has wrap'd in Mystery. I suppose I must be kept in Darkness from that Secret.

Gel.

Darkness and Mystery! Why is there any thing In this plain, easie, naked, honest Letter Writ in that Cypher that it wants a Key to't?

King.

Why, Canst thou Read her meaning?

Cel.

Fie, my Lord, Can you not Read it?—Why this idle Question? You will not Read it, Sir.—And 'tis so generous I love you for this goodness.

King.

Will not Read it!

Cel.

Ay, will not, must not: And 'tis Noble in you. A little innocent Ignorance is sometimes A Manly Virtue, worthy even a King.

King.

Madam, This is all Riddle!

Cel.

Riddle!— Nay, Sir, as if you did not know Where, and to whose Embracing Arms she's gone.

King.

Arms, and Embraces!

Cel.

Ah poor Lady! We little guess the pains of slighted Love. But her Despair has took the wisest remedy. Her Griefs found a very gentle Cure. Nay, she's so kind to make it her Confession, And you're more kind to wink at little Frailties

King.

Still you talk in Clouds. Has she made you the Confident of her Flight, Or is there ought coucht in that mystick Scrole My shallow Reason has not depth to fathom! If so, 'twere kind you would instruct my weakness.

Cel.

Nay, if you'll force me then to play th'Interpreter, T'explain a Ladies blushing weakness. Mark Sir— She tells you first she lov'd t' a Superstition, Planted her very Heav'n in your embraces. And when that slighting unkind Heav'n forsakes her, Tells you, as honestly, to supply your room, She'as chose the Arms of a much kinder Heav'n; And pray what Heav'n, what Arms, but kind Tygranes?

King.

My Brother! ha!

Cel.

You know he's gone to th' Camp: And she's as kindly gone to meet him there.

King.

God's! 'tis impossible▪

Cel.

Nay, to convince you. 'Tis now stale news, even Boys and Varlets talk it.

King.

Confusion!

Cel.

The young Mirvan, Sir's, my Oracle. That ushering Squire to her amorous Errantry; The Boy (as Boys will talk) the mighty Secret Alas, too weighty for his tender strength, Amongst his small Companions at their parting, Dropt it behind him, and the Tale thus handed Amongst my laughing Slaves it reacht my Ear.

King.

So hot my Minion, A follower of a Camp, A Leaguer Devil.—

Cel.

Nay, now you're too unkind. What has she done! Remember, Sir, she brought you Youth and Beauty, And scarcely tasted Love before she lost it; And if poor Lady, forsaken thus unkindly, It takes some harmless freedom. Is't so great A Fault in our poor Sex to look abroad Only to borrow what we've lost at home!

King.

My Brother too, that Preaching Saint her Stallion!

Cel.

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

King.

Damnation! This is Impudence enough To fire the Veins of Statues. Had she plaid The private Wanton, took her scapes in Covert, In Groves or Shades—But in the face of Day. To run t' a Camp, and publish my Dishonour Before Two hundred thousand Witnesses, Like a trail'd Scent for the whole Hunting World To run me down a Monster—

Cel.

Now the kind Gods defend your Sacred Peace. Why all this Rage?

King.

Death! At an Armies head; The Din of War to tune her sporting Dalliance, 'Larm'd to Lust, and Trumpeted to Infamy!

Cel.

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

King.

Now, by the Fame of all my Royal Ancestors That sleep beneath the Dust, or wake above the Stars If I show Mercy on 'em —

Cel.

How, Sir, Mercy!

King.

Bring the returning Fiends but to my reach; Not ••••terceding Victory, Crowns, Laurels, The Conquer'd Scythia, nor Orontes Head Shall buy their forfeit Lives.

Cel.

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

King.

Madam, forgive me one retiring Minute, And think no common Fire my Bosom warms, When it has pow'r to snatch me from these Arms.

Exit.

Cel.

Both, both their Lives! A hearty Promise King, And I'll take care thou shalt perform as heartily. Yes, through their Hearts my path to Empire lies; Chalk'd out so plain my Devils must booty play, If in so fair a Walk I miss my way.

Exeunt

Scene, A Camp Enter Herminia and Mirvan.

Mirv.

Command the Chariot to attend.

Queen.

Where is't thou lead'st me, Boy!

Mirv.

To a Cloyster, Madam. The silent Cell for your reposing Sorrows.

Queen.

But Boy, is this my way! Methinks I hear, The sound of neighing Steeds, and ecchoing Trumpets, And view a spacious Plain before me, cover'd With Tents and Standarts, say, my gentle Boy Where am I?

Mirv.

In the Camp?

Queen.

Ha! In the Camp.

Mirv.

The Persian Camp.

Queen.

Oh Boy, What hast thou done?

Mirv.

Nothing, dear Madam; only executed Your dread Commands.

Queen.

Mine!

Mirv.

Since the Glorious choice Of your retiring Solitude, a shrine Worthy so bright a Saint, was Charge, too weighty For my young Years, I have conducted you This way, that kind Tygranes—

Queen.

How! Tygranes!

Mirv.

Yes, Madam, that that generous Prince's care May be your Nobler Guide, and kindly finish That Sacred Trust my weakness undeserves.

Queen.

Good Heaven! The Prince!

Mirv.

Madam, I have sent for him. Pardon th'officious Zeal of your poor Slave.

Queen.

Thou rash unthinking Boy

Enter Tygranes.

Mirv.

And see he's here.

Tygr.

Madam, a pleasing, but surprizing Message Told me, that that all beauteous Excellence My Camp thus Honour'd with her Royal Presence, Was pleas'd t'have some Commands for poor Tygranes.

Queen.

Commands, Tygranes! No; that idle Boy, That naughty thing — Oh Prince, I am all Confusion.

Tygr.

Let not a faint desire check your fair Thoughts. Nor doubt your Vassals Honours, nor Obedience If there's ought lodg'd within that Sacred Breast, There needs no more than that dear Breath of Life, To speak and to create.

Queen.

Alas Tygranes, I know not what to say: And yet my Silence Has such a guilty Look Forgive my Blushes, And I will speak, Oh Prince, despairing Loves Tormenting Pangs have brought this wretched wanderer, Stoll'n from a hated Court.

Tygr.

How, Madam!

Queen.

Stoll'n From all the Syrens Songs, and Circes Bowls That from these Arms have stoll'n my dearest Lord. I have left th'uneasie Load of tarnish'd Diadems, In some lone Cell to seek my Peace and Grave — But this unlucky Guide, this foolish Boy—

Mirv.

My Royal Mistress too much Honour'd Confident. But the important Charge too great, my Zeal For her dear Service has surpriz'd her hither, Only t'implore your kind assisting Hand —

Tygr.

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

Queen.

Done Tygranes! Left Infidelity, Ingratitude, False Oaths, gay Sin, and glitt'ring shame behind me.

Tygr.

Yes left Shame, to meet Shame.

Queen.

What says Tygranes!

Tygr.

What all Mankind must say. Oh Madam, think, Think what reflecting Names the censuring World Must give so frail a weakness. Fled from Court, Run, poorly run!

Queen.

Yes, with my wrongs.

Tygr.

Wrongs, Madam! Are Wrongs so heavy as to out-weigh Honour!

Queen.

And is it that dishonourable Flight To quit the World, to seek the Arms of Heaven?

Tygr.

Heaven must be sought as Heaven prescribes our seeking Thou art a Wife, Herminia; and the Seal Of plighted Faith, entail'd Obedience on thee. Is this Commission'd Flight thy Lords Command? Or 'cause he breaks his Vows, must thou break thine?

Queen.

What's this I hear?

Tygr.

Wou'dst thou seek Heaven, Herminia, A noble Patience is thy Scale to mount it. Is it a pain to live too near thy wrongs, To see thy Lord run Faithless from thy Arms To an Adultress Bed? Let thy wet Eyes Turn from his Shame, and weep for his Conversion. If he be False, wait his return to Truth: But if he ne'r return, perform Thy part: Finish thy lingring mourning Race of Martyrdom And 'win the Crown of Love.

Queen.

Oh Prince, thou talk'st—

Tygr.

As thou shouldst Act Herminia. But this mean Ignoble Flight will blemish all thy Brightness. Thy Fame, thy Virtue, thy Religion, all stand frighted at the Thought.

Queen.

Kind Prince, no more.

Tygr.

Yes, one thing more, let my prevailing Pray'rs Recall thy wandring Reason, and return thee To thy ungrateful Lord.

Queen.

Enough, dear Prince, You've wak'd my Shame, and touch'd my Soul so near, That I must follow where such Glory leads:

Tygr.

Then instantly I'll dispatch a kind Express T'excuse thy blushing Fault, and smooth thy way. Till then, this Night accept a poor Pavilion;

Too mean a Palace: But Respect and Reverence Shall make up what the humble Roof has wanting.

Queen.

Dispose me as you please.

Tygr.

To Morrow's Sun decides the face of Scythia. If Victory shall please t'attend my Chariot, I'll be my self thy proud returning Guard. But if I fall, with my last dying Breath To the surviving World I will bequeath thee, A charge worthy the World, protected Innocence.

Mirv.

It goes on rarely.

Tyg.

Look up, dear Madam; Heav'n may still have Joys; Reserved. But if of all all hopes bereft, Thy wrongs are all thy mournful portion left; Shine through thy Clouds, bear thy fair Head above The frowning World, and mount a smiling Star. In all thy Loads, too low disdain to stoop 'Tis brave to suffer, when 'tis poor to droop.

Queen.

Herm. Oh Prince, thou hast read me so Divine a Lesson▪ And painted Ruine in a Face so lovely, That thou hast tuned my Soul to all the Musick Of a whole Quire of Angels, Yes Tygranes, To my too cruel Lord I will return Return to all the Pangs, to all the Miseries Of ever mourning Love; Life's bitter Draught Lift to my Lips with that unshaking Hand — For oh thou hast taught me to be greatly wretched To be Divinely Blest.

Tygr.

Do this Herminia!

Queen.

No more my wandring Pilgrimage, no, Prince, I'll build my House of Sorrow in a Palace, Under my Roof of Gold a Hermit dwell; A Court my Cloyster, and a Throne my Cell.

Exeunt all but Mirv.

Mirv.

So now the Toil is set, and dear Destruction Comes rolling on apace. What a vast Pile Of Ruine shall I build. 'Tis hard Herminia, And I could pity thee—Why should I pity? My bloody Cradle, and my barbarous Parents, And shall I feel remorse; when ev'n my Father To his own Blood ne'r felt it. No, vain pity, Seek softer Breasts; mine has no room to lodge thee. Besides, I move by that commanding Influence I know not, Celestina, by what Charm But thou hast bound my Soul, and Nerv'd my Arm, Joyn'd in thy Cause, we that bright Comet Reign, Thou the Fair Star, and I the Blazing Train.

Exit.

ACT V.

Enter Celestina, Mirvan, and Rosalin.

Cel.

REturning home Victorious!

Mir.

If to leave A hundred thousand Foes in Battle slain. If Conquer'd Scythia, and the great Orontes Led home in Persian Chains can write Victorious, Tygranes wears that Title.

Cel.

And to grace His Victory he brings the beauteous Fugitive A fair Attendant t'his Triumphant Chariot, To court the Kind forgiving King's Reception Of the returning Wanderer.

Mir.

If her Religious Ramble (as I've manag'd it) Has not a little pav'd her Path too rough, Some such good natur'd Office he intends her.

Cel.

And thou my little Harbinger kindly com'st Before 'em to prepare me for their Welcome.

Mir.

Yes, Madam, That's my Errand. For to give My self, and dear sweet Villany their due, Mischief and I have both rid Post to serve you.

Cel.

My dearest little Devil, how I love thee! But, Mirvan, after this first lucky hit, Darest thou be generous, and play out thy Game!

Mir.

Dare! Can you doubt my Courage, or my Constancy? Is glorious Treason a design too great, Or this Young Arm too dastard? Have I launch'd Thus far and stood thus firm to stagger now? By my fair Truth this poor Suspicion wrongs me.

Cel.

It does indeed, sweet Youth, forgive my Fears: I know thy honest Truth too well — to trust it.

aside.

But my kind Boy, I am afraid I have kept thee Awake too long. I know this Nights hard Travel Has tired thy tender Limbs, and thou want'st Rest. To Bed, my Boy; and when thou hast repos'd awhile I'll send, my pretty Engineer, and call thee. Retire sweet Boy, and Sleep —

Exit Mirvan.

—Thy last; young Fool. Thy Bed, thy Grave. Yes, my kind honest Traytor Thy hand has done me too much faithful Service To leave thee a dangerous Tongue alive to spoil it.

Besides my little Tool, my ripining Plot Has business for thy Death: And bet thy Glory: As thou hast liv'd, so thou shalt serve me Dead. And therefore sleep thy last.—Now my designs Are all in my own Breast. Treason's a Jewel When the rich Cabinet has but one Key. They're only truly Great who are safely so.

Ros.

Well, Madam, Your Propheticks are all Oracles: And the mad roving Queens amazing Ramble Has fill'd the World with wonder.

Cel.

Fame indeed Talks something loud.—

Ros.

'Tis true, the Prince has sent a soft Express, And smoothly laid it all upon Religion.

Cel

Religion in a Camp.— Ah, Girl, if the Soft King has easie Faith enough about him To think no warmer a Devotion hatch'd This gentle Pilgrimage, than Zeal and Prayer-Books. No, Rosalin, he's not that blind believer; I fear thou'lt find that rougher Faith about him, A gathering that black Storm as will rain Blood.

Ros.

Herminia's Blood, and Celestina's Glory, Her Scaffold, and your Coronation.

Cel.

Right; That fullen Hour that wraps her head in Dust Wreaths mine in Diadems. Herminia's Grave The Basis of my Pyramide. 'Tis true, It is a little hard, thou poor Herminia, To cut so keen as I must. But Ambition, Ambition gives the blow; and when that strikes Remorse nor Pity, no faint check controuls That two-edg'd Fate tho' bar'd with Lives and Souls.

Exeunt.

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

1 Atten.

A nobler Game of Glory ne'er was play'd: Fortune set high, a Kingdom on a Battle, And one bold Throw has swept the mighty stake.

2 Atten.

By this dear Light that Sun that smil'd to see The richest Crimson that the Earth e'er dy'd, Not the proud Jove from the defeated Gyants Return'd with fairer Laurels than Tygranes.

Tygr.

Enough my generous sharers of my Fame; Your lavish Goodness plays too much the Prodigal. My Victory dares not challenge half this Triumph. 'Tis true, the Fortunate Tygranes fought,

But 'twas the Justice of his Quarrel Conquer'd. Courage is only ours, Success is Heav'ns:— And for thy Fate, Orontes —

Oront.

Mine, Tygranes, Is to curse Life and Thee; my Life alone Too much to bear; but Life and Shame together, That double load of Misery — Oh Prince! When thy keen Sword cut through my Conquer'd Kingdom, Had it been kind, and carv'd my Heart too, dying I could have loved thee, but must hate thee Living.

Tygr.

If thou repinest at thy ill Chance of War, Blame thy bad Cause. If overtaking Destiny Has dealt thee that hard Lot that does not please thee, Remember King thy Ruine is no more Than thy Desert, thy Punishment, Orontes: And sufferers are not choosers of their pain.— But to perform my last just Rites of Victory, Thou Orimon, go Visit our wrong'd Sister; And in a Brothers Name bear her that Trophy: A present from her own Triumphant Vengeance.

Oront.

To Clarismunda! My too generous Conqueror, This is so kind, I'll thank thee for this Goodness Even in my Grave: For Oh! a Grace so high, Thou givest me leave at those dear Feet to die.

Exit Guarded.

Tygr.

But hark, the King approaches. My Beauteous Charge I am thy Champion now: A prouder Cause than all my Scythian Conquests.

Enter King attended.

My Royal Lord, low at your Sacred Feet With the fair Harvest of your own rich Field, Thus prostrate kneels the proudest of your Vassals, By your great Cause, that fair inspiring Genius Led forth to Victory.

King.

Mine, Tygranes, my Inspiring Genius! No; a little, sure Of that fair Cause, that soft Inspirer.

Tygr.

How, my dread Liege!

King.

That Beauty, those fair Eyes, They were so kind to See you Conquer.

Tygr.

Sir!

King.

To stand the kind Spectator of your Victory: Oh the fair Hand of a soft melting Venus! To buckle on the Sword of her proud Mars; To plume his Crest, and send him forth to Battle.

Tygr.

Death and Confusion!

Queen.

Oh my blassed Ears!

Tygr.

Oh thou amazing Voice of Royal Thunder Break forth from thy dark-Cloud, thou louting Heav'n, And say what mean these Mystick Sounds of Horror?

King.

Mean! Is that a Question At this loud Hour of all thy Ecchoing Treason, The crying Shame of that incestuous Devil.

Queen.

Good Gods!

Tygr.

Oh King! what false infernal Malice Dares blast the Fame of that all beauteous Truth.

Queen.

For the last Blow to all my bleeding Sufferings, My Loyal Faith, and all my Mourning Innocence Transform'd into this hideous Gorgon!

King.

Innocence! But my tame Justice sleeps too long. Sieze this brace of Monsters.

Tygr.

Hold angry King! Oh stop your headlong Fury! Till the wrong'd Virtue of that brightest Saint Has wiped the spots from her fair Ermin Whiteness, Stab'd the foul Falshood through the Canker'd Throat, And Seer'd the Tongues of Blasphemy.

King.

No doubt on't. Run to a Camp to cool her burning Hell, And in the height of the ingendring Crocadiles Whine Heav'n and Sanctity.

Queen.

How can I hear these dismal Sounds and Live?

Tygr.

Plot, rank Conspiracy! The Camp! That undesigning Chance the foolish Error Of an unlucky Boy. But if so slight A shadow can assume a shape so dreadful, Sir, let the Boy be call'd, the fatal Cause Of this accurst Mistake, young Mirvan.

King.

How! that young Bawd! Dost thou call him thy Witness! No, thou Grand-Fiend, thou know'st thy wiser Politicks Have husht that Traytor with a Dose of Poyson.

Tygr.

Riddles and Death! Still more mysterious Horror. Poyson!

King.

Yes Poyson! Your Midnight Purveyor, your trusty Pandar, In a return for all his faithful Services, Your dark designs too great for that weak Counsel-keeper; By a kind Drug sent Sleeping from the World. But your thin Arts and all your Cobweb-Veils —

Tygr.

Some most accursed Engine of Damnation.—

King.

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

Queen.

Yes, Royal Sir, Hear your poor wrong'd Herminia. By yon fair Lamps, and fairer Heav'n that lights 'em, By all the hopes of my Eternal Peace—

King.

Whining Syren— But Treason ne'r wants a Knee, nor Guilt a Tongue, Sighs, Prayers and Tears are the false Tools they cheat with. Take 'em away; and house 'em in a Dungeon.

Tygr.

Yet hold your mad blind Rage Till some kind God, the guard of pittied Innocence In the dear Cause of that all Angel Goodness—

King.

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

Exit.

Tygr.

Oh thou all-ruling Providence, what an Ungovern'd World thy great first Mover turns, If Truth has this Reward—And Thou bright Virtue, Thy most inhumane Wrongs, hard-fated Fair, — Oh how can the Almighty Justice give Prevailing Hell this strange unbridl'd Pow'r

Queen.

Yes, Prince, Hell has prevail'd, and 'tis a sad Sad Portion, but if the Divine Dispenser Has so ordain'd, 'tis not our part to quarrel Omnipotence; we may wail Misery, But must not murmure at it.

Tygr.

Miracle, Of Goodness.

Queen.

No, Tygranes, if the Toil Of Fate is set, and our pursuing Blood hounds Have caught our hunted Lives, our Stars have dealt us The hardest-Lot on Earth, only to purchase The fairest Crown in Heaven.

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

Mes.

'Tis the King's Pleasure That Execution be dispatch'd immediately. The Queen and Prince are both those popular Darlings, Delay may be unsafe; and for that reason He calls this hastning blow.

Officer.

Curse on the Office.

Aside.

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

Kneels to the Queen and Prince.

And the ungrateful Duty I must pay, May hope a Pardon. —

Queen.

If the King Commands Rise and Obey: Thy Part; poor Slave, is innocent, If he must Kill, and guiltless Veins must bleed, The Axe is blameless, 'tis the Judge that's cruel.

Tygr.

But, cruel King, thou merciless Arm of Fate. Have all my Laurels, And what's more than Laurels? Has that chaste Mourner deserv'd his hard hard Fate?

Queen.

What we have deserv'd, Tygranes Is ours no more; What we must suffer, Prince, Is all our Business now? We must prepare For Death. Death! Is that all! Witness ye Pow'rs, That I dare Die—The only pain in Dying Will be to leave a blotted Name behind me, The branding Blazon of Recorded Infamy.

Tygr.

No, thou fair Saint, To Die's too much; fear not a Second Murder. Treason and Perjury may have pow'r to Kill The Innocent, but not Innocence. The Martyrdom Of Honour, Slander'd Truth, and traduced Virtue Are so Divine a Charge, that care of Providence, That if no earlier Justice wakes to right 'em, The very Prodigies of Heav'n and all Their aiding Miracles rise up their Champions. Thy Fame, Herminia, must not dye, though thou must.

Queen.

Shall my Fame live? Nay, then to death lead on. Lye white my Winding-Sheet, and soft my Grave. But Prince, must thou bleed too? Herminia's Ruines Pull down thy Fate with mine. Thy Blood Tygranes! This is too much, ye Gods. How shall I make My last great Audit at th' Eternal Throne, For thy unhappy Death. At my own Grave There I can smile, but I must weep for thine.

Tygr.

A tear, that fair rich Pearl of Life for me! My poorer Veins not worth the care of Heav'n! When such neglected brighter Virtue bleeds. But, if the generous Fair, must play the Prodigal, Oh! let me teach thee how to give me Blessings Beyond the price of Lives: When on thy Throne Thy radiant Throne of Stars those Eyes I meet T'obtain in Heaven what was on Earth too great, Shall I have leave to kneel at those dear Feet?

Queen.

Yes Prince, thou shalt kneel there. And if there be One richer, fairer Coronet above For wondrous Truth, and more prodigious Love, O're that dear Brow with the Jemm'd Wreath I'll stand, And Crown thee Martyr with my own kind Hand.

Tygr.

Nay, then to Death, to Life, to Glory, all At one kind Blow.

Queen.

And oh to meet that Blow

With all the pomp of Martyrdom we'll go; And Shine above, to Light the World below.

Exeunt.

Scene Changes, Enter Orontes and Clarismunda.

Oront.

To Heaven the dearest, and on Earth the Fairest, Thy Guardian Gods have done thee Justice now. A Hundred thousand slaughter'd Scythian Ghosts, In the fresh Blushes of their Crimson Gore, Walk the black Strand, to tell the trembling Shades The wondrous Tale of Clarismunda's Vengeance.

Clar.

Yes, King, my Stars at last are just.

Oront.

So Just, that all yon bright Eternals, The Pow'rs that gild the Night, and guide the Day, Rank'd their embattell'd Fires for Clarismunda, All the proud Champions in thy darling Cause: So keen the Sword that arming Beauty draws.

Clar.

If aiding Heav'n has battel'd on my side, It has no more than plaid its own Revenger; Mine are Heavens wrongs, their own Divinest Image Stabb'd in my Wounds, and their own scourge has punisht 'em

Oront.

If their own scourge has punish'd 'em, and all The pouring Vials of immortal Wrath Have fill'd the whole embitter'd Draught of Woe, May I have leave to ask that beauteous Judge Is her avenging Sword of Fate yet satisfied.

Clar.

Satisfied!

Oront.

That Sword, thou dear Divine Destroyer. After such streams of Blood, and piles of Graves, Is the keen Death, the reeking Point still drawn At poor Orontes Heart?

Clar.

Indeed thou askst that Question—

Oront.

I would have thy Mercy answer. Say, thou All-Angel Sweet, if angry Heaven Has emptied all its Quivers on this Head, Has Clarismunda still new Bolts to Kill.

Clar.

New Bolts! No, wretched King, those righteous Pow'rs Have made my Wrongs that ample satisfaction, I now can ask no more.

Oront.

If those kind Pow'rs Have paid thee all the whole indebted Summ, May I presume to ask that fair Offended, If a poor punisht Criminal, his stains, Wash'd with the Bloud of thousand thousand Lives, From tott'ring Pow'r, and falling Empire lost,

From all the glitt'ring Wreaths of Royal Honours Crusht to base Chains, a vile inglorious Slave, Say, is this little Out-cast of the World Still that strange hateful Monster?

Clar.

No, Orontes, Thou'rt faln so low, I must not hate thee now.

Oront.

What says that Breath of Life?

Claris.

Must hate no more. No, suff'ring Wretch, thou hast met thy Crimes Reward: And Justice, when her executing Aim Has struck the Blow, turns her yeil'd Eyes away And sees the Guilt no more. On thy proud Throne And tow'ring at thy prouder Armies head When Death met Death, and Thunder grapled Thunder, Orontes then in all thy circling Glories The Tyrant Lord of Pow'r was worth my Frown, I could look up and hate thee, down I must not.

Oront.

Then farewell Empire, Thrones, Dominion, all The plagues of Pow'r, and curse of Crowns farewel. And my dear Chains, and Glorious Misery Welcome. For now she hates no more, Chant that blest Sound, Ye great Angelick Quires, immortal Sweets Perfume the hallow'd Breath, and bear it round The ecchoing Skies, and all the list'ning Globe That Clarismunda now can hate no more. My Chains, my Fetters! No, thou Dear all Heav'n, My Bracelets, strings of Pearl, and links of Gold— But thou all Sacred Sweetness, cou'd that kind Unclouding Brow to all this infinite Goodness Add one rich Blessing more, cou'dst thou love too —

Clar.

Love! Love!

Oront.

Yes, Love, thou All-descending Goodness: Turn not those beauteous Eyes away. Oh Arm Those pointed Deaths no more. I am no longer The black Orontes now: 'twas Seythia's Tyrant Pride and Ambition's Purple Devil, all The burning Hells of Power that sinn'd against thee. But I am now no more. No, thy kind Brother Like the Great Jove has crusht the tumbling Giant, Script all my guilty Greatness to a little Poor naked Slave, an humble crawling Wretch. The Scepter'd Savage, and Imperial Monster,

Those hideous Names all banisht from the World, And I am nothing now but kneeling Love. And if that pardoning Mercy—

Clar.

Oh Orontes. Thy Tears, thy Penitence, and to Crown all Thy murmuring Love pleads with that courting Eloquence— But ha! What says my Heart?

Oront.

Oh speak thou dearest Oracle of Life, Breathe the Celestial Sound — Methinks I saw The pitying God in those relenting Eyes Just issuing down with all his glitt'ring Mercy, But those seal'd Lips shut up the lovely Paradise, And cruelty hold back the kind descending Heav'n.

Clar.

Well Prince, if I must speak,—But oh forgive My blushing weakness, when these Eyes must tell thee, That thou hast conquer'd, thou hast conquer'd, King, My tenderest melting Souls all softest Pity.

Oront.

And cou'd that softest Pity —

Claris.

Aske no more: For beyond Pity 'tis all vast Eternity, The All my utmost Life can ever give thee.

Oront.

The All.

Claris.

Alas! my Love's beyond my Pow'r. But I have given too much. Hence from my Sight; For from this Hour I ne'r must see thee more.

Oront.

No more!

Claris.

Retire without Reply, lest my reviving Wrongs, Recall my prodigal blushing Mercy back. Yes, Fly to some far corner of the Earth Whilst I have pow'r to give thy pitied Sufferings This last kind Tribute from my melting Eyes, Go, and bear with thee round the wander'd World A Sigh from Clarismunda.

Oront.

'Tis enough. That Sigh, that Pity, all Eternal Bliss, And, Gods, I ask no more.— But, Madam, when I fly from those dear Eyes, The wander'd World will be too short a Walk. No, Clarismunda, Love's last Race must run, Beyond the narrow Travels of the Sun; Far above Worlds, and Days dull mortal Light: Thus he takes Wing, and thus sets out his Flight.

Stabs hiw∣self.

Clar.

By thy own Hand thy Hearts last pouring Flood. Oh King! so kind a Stream, this rich atoning Sacrifice Has wash'd thee all so White, and touch'd my Soul so near, That I must whisper in thy dying Ear; Had I a Heart to give 'twere all thy own.

Oront.

Oh Divine Harmony! Now I am blest.

Clar.

Oh generous Prince! thou fill'st my painting Veins With all that tender'st warmth: But hast, oh haste! Mount the bright Stars, and bear this Message with thee: When thou shalt meet thy own great Martyr there; Tell him, thou hast left His Clarismunda a Divided Heart: Thine all my Pity: all my Love Orsanes.

Oront.

Yes Madam, I'll obey your blest Commands; Speed, speed my Posting Soul, and when we meet, Orsanes, I'll Rival thee in Heaven. But oh! how much are all My Sighs o'erpaid to die in these blest Arms; How worthless is dull Life, when Death's all Charms.

Dies.

Clar.

Now all the work I had on Earth is done! My Dear Orsanes, that long waiting Bridegroom, Holds an immortal Chaplet for my Brow. Shut from the World, then to a Cell I'll fly: There my dear Winding-sheets, my Robe of Glory, Sweet Death's kind call with bending Knees I'll stay, The Trump to my great Coronation-Day.

Exit.

Scene Changes. Enter Celestina and Rosalin.

Ros.

What can this mean! Not Lunacy more wild! Her wander'd Reason, and distracted Senses Stung with that strange Tarantula —

Cel.

Hush, Mirvan! Not a word.— Should Boys tell Tales— Not for a thousand Worlds. I'll have the Secret Shut in a Marble Chest, lock'd up in Graves, Deep as the Center of the groaning World, That not one angry murmuring God shall hear it— But ha! we are betray'd, betray'd dear Mirvan! See there that grinning Tarquin in the Hangings, Looks with a listning Face— and yonder Parrot, Oh 'tis a prating Bird—The Air will breath it, Winds whistle it, Ravens croke it—

Ros.

Dear Madam—

Cel.

Rosalin! Ha, art thou here!

Ros.

Yes, Madam, a poor Mourner.—

Cel.

Oh fie, in Tears, and on my Wedding day! This is unkind: Ay, Girl, I am to be Married, Dost thou not see the Courting kneeling King! Oh 'tis the fondest fool to make a Husband. That kind believing thing. See he presents me A Bracelet strung with bleeding Lovers Hearts, And every Pearl a Tear of dying Innocence— Poor Herminia, Dost not thou hang a blushing Ruby there.

Ros.

Gracious Heav'n!

Cel.

Who talks of Heav'n? Oh 'tis a Golden Palace, Where my kind Mirvan, Jove's dear Darling Ganimede, Fills the proud Thunderers Imperial Bowl, To quaff the World's Confusion.

Ros.

Oh my Fears! There's something talks in these wild Dreams!

Cel.

Fear Rosalin! What canst thou fear, my Wedding Robe won't please me! Ah no! 'tis dyed in that deep Royal Crimson Not all the Waters of the Sea can whiten.

Enter King, Attendants, and Guards.

King.

What's this I see! Why this disorder'd frame! Is this a Dress? Is this a Brow, when Diadems Wait your receiving Hand. The canker'd Sweets Of Lawless Joys no more, Prepare to mount the bright Crown'd Queen of Persia.

Cel.

The Queen of Persia! Queen of Hell, dull Fool— Look, Rosalin, look—

Ros.

Look, Madam!

Cel.

Dost not see Yond' wrinkled wither'd Witch, the sooty Proserpine! She with that dowdy Face, Great Pluto's Queen, Enthron'd the Glorious Partner of Damnation; And Celestina but a puny Devil! No, by yond' spightful Stars, I cannot bear it. I'll dash the tumbling Hag from her proud Seat, Snatch from her flaming Brow her blazing Diadem, And mount her burning Throne.

King.

All raving Frenzy. But tell me honest Rosalin, how long Have these strange Phantoms all these waking Dreams Shook her soft peace?

Ros.

Since fair Herminia's Death.

Cel.

Who names Herminia's Death: I will not hear it. There's Treason in the sound.—But see! Oh see! She comes, she comes, she comes!

The Ghosts of Herminia and Tygranes descend in Glory.

— Oh my sick Eye-balls! How have I sin'd to, wake these hideous Forms! Have I done more than all my Sex beside? Alas, the poorest Lowborn Peasant Girl, That never heard of Crowns above a Garland, Yet but to Reign the Sovereign of the Plains, And have the bending Knees of Swains and Bores, Wou'd cut through Hearts and Lives to be a Queen: And I have done no more.

King.

What says my Fairest?

Cel.

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

King.

Death and Confusion! There's something in this dark mysterious Horror That strikes my aking Soul.— Pray Heav'n the poor Tygranes and Herminia—

Cel.

Are a blest pair of ever Royal Martyrs. Innocence, Innocence, Innocence! Betray'd by me, And by thee Murder'd!

King.

Murder'd! Oh—

Cel.

But look all Heavenly Fair, cloath'd and enrob'd With the rich Beams of pure immortal Day. Myriads of Angels, and Eternal Quires All waiting for their Coronation Glory. Yes, mount fair Stars, ye radiant Twins of Light, Whilst I must set in Everlasting Night.

Dies.

King.

Dead! Thou fair Curse and Painted Sin farewel. Oh that my shame and Guilt were with thee Dead. Ah no! a thousand Racking Tortures live To tear my sinking Soul. Oh Blood Blood! Blood! Herminia! Poor wrong'd sweetness, could the price Of Crowns or Worlds restore thee to my Arms— No, Lovely Truth, too late we find thy Charms.

Exeunt omnes.

FINIS.