The unhappy kindness, or, A fruitless revenge a tragedy, as it is acted at the Theatre Royal / wrirten [sic] by Mr. Scot.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Enter Sorano and Evanthe.

Sorano.

THus to adore, and thus to be rewarded, Still to desire, and still desire in vain; Is there no end of all my Miseries, And of your cruel and severe Disdain?

Evanthe.

Alass! My Lord.

Sor.

Can you have eyes to wound; Yet want those eyes to see the wounds you make? Why has Heav'n giv'n you Beauty to destroy, And not a Heart to pity these you kill? A long and tedious Service have I paid you; Ev'n from your Childhood I have been your Slave, Courted the earliest glories of your Youth With the sincerest Love, before you was To others known, by me you was ador'd. Madam, I am —

Evan.

You are indeed my Lord More than the nicest gratitude can speak you, Here on my Knees to the great Gods I witness, How much I love, how much I honour you, My Father and my Friend, even then a Friend, When Heav'n it self had left me, sever'd me From the lov'd care of an indulgent Parent, Torn from my Arms all that was precious to me, All the dear blessings for which still I bow'd In daily thanks before their sacred Altars. Ev'n then, my Lord, your charitable hand Stood betwixt me and their severest anger; All this I own, and to the Gods dare speak it. But yet, my honoured Lord —

Sor.

But yet Evanthe (Ungrateful I must call her) does reject All the Endearments of an humble Love, Contemns that hand that rais'd her thus to Life: Rais'd her above the reach of Fortune, made her

The Idol of Mens Hearts, and Subject of their Tongues.

Evan.

Alas! my Lord, if a sincere Respect, Equal to that with which a pious Child Meets the kind blessings of a tender Parent, Are Marks of a Contempt, then let Heav'n witness, Let Heav'n and Earth witness against Evanthe: A more unworthy Wretch did never taste A good Man's bounty; this is all I have, How am I able then to pay you more.

Sor.

Not more? Yes more than all the world can give, More than the Gods themselves, should they vouchsafe To crown Sorano with their choicest blessings. How cunningly you would decline my Suit, And knowing all, affect an Ignorance? Are then these sighs and tears, these eyes, that speak A passion far too great to be conceal'd; No better known, no better understood? Let me then on my Knees —

Evan.

Let me on mine Entreat my Lord to pardon his Evanthe, If she confesses she can never love: Some secret power, too great to be withstood, Has thrown a fatal Bar between our Hearts, Parted our Souls never to meet in love.

Sor.

Be it so then, and by that power I swear Never to court your scornful beauties more. But know proud Maid there is a Man adores you, Not all your artful Looks, your Womans Pride, Nor the rough hand of fate itself, should that Stand betwixt him and his desires, can soften. The King, the haughty King, loves thee Evanthe, Dotes on thee ev'n to Madness, and by Force Will gather all those Virgin Sweets, which I, With my best Services, could never merit. Go and prepare you for the royal Sport, Get to your Patches and your Paint, and try By Art to please this mighty man of power. Learn to look big, and strut it in the Court; Y' have Pride enough, and there it will become you. But when y' have done the business you was rais'd for, When joys repeated dull the edge of Love, And amorous heat, then to the Stews convey you, There you may thrive, and there I hope to find you.

Exit.

Evan.

The King! the King's the Rock that must destroy me; Whose stubborn Will, blown by unbounded power, Runs o're all Bars that check him in his Course. O my Valerio hasten to my succor, Let some kind power, the Witness of our Vows, Inform thy Soul how much Evanthe wants thee. The King! he shall be serv'd; but how? not this way, Death is a ready Friend on all occasions, If I can't live a Saint, I'll dye a Martyr.

Exit.

Enter Q. Mother, Alphonso, Pisano, and Petruchio.

Alph.

Ha, ha, ha! Indeed, Madam, you must pardon me. I grant you I can see every day a musty Churchman railing at Covetousness in one Room, and his Wife gaming in the next; a merry Poet laughing at a dap∣per Courtier, and a surly Officer grinning at him again; nay, a rich old Alderman inviting the young fellow home to dinner this morning, that lay with his Wife last night, and never be mov'd: but to see a great Man, nay a Prince dancing to every Fidler —

Q. M.

Why, who ever did?

Alph.

Did you never? bless your good fortune then, for it would make your Heart ake to see as much as I have.

Q. M.

Nay, gentle Son.

Alph.

Nay, gentle Mother, I know what you would say; you would ask me what I want, and alas I want many things; 'twould puzzle a Lawyers Atithmetick to reckon how many things I want. But in the first place I want a Wife, for between you and me, Madam, what should such tall overgrown fellows, like myself, live any longer without Wives? I know you'll say they make Fools of us, why be it so, I have been my own Fool long enough, 'tis time now I should be some ones else; for would one think it, nay freinds you must bear me witness too, would one think it.

Q. M.

Think what, Son?

Alph.

Nay nothing, never think on't, my brains are almost turn'd with thinking.

Q. M.

For which of all my sins have I deserv'd this Curse?

Alph.

What you weep now, and perhaps 'tis for my Father; and yet I have seen some women, and they wise ones too, do as much for the loss of a Lap-dog; but, Madam, tell me, did you ever see a Lawyer with a Fee in both hands?

Q. M.

Belike I have.

Alph.

Why then you saw the Picture of Justice, you'll find his Breviate pinn'd to his back.

Q. M.

Alas, my Son, these are disjointed Speeches, The issue of a rackt distemper'd brain.

Alph.

That's as much as to say I am a Fool, or a Madman; but go tell my

Brother on't, he'll thank you for the discovery; for let me tell you, if 'twas not for Fools, what business would Knaves have in this world.

Q. M.

To see him thus, his Soul thus lost in darkness, Is worse than death: ye Gods why did his youth Disclose such early hopes of future greatness, That blasted e're age cou'd secure 'em to us. Why in the Man do we with sorrow miss, What in the Child we did with joy admire?

Alph.

If the King would make me a Privy Councellor, as I may grow great before I dye, I'de advise him to think more, and talk less, 'twill be∣come his greatness, for now adays there is but this difference betwixt your Wise man and your Fool, the Wise man laughs at other mens Jests, and the Fool always at his own, like a Cat playing with her own Tail, and so tickles himself with his own fingers.

Q. M.

Observe him Gentlemen, and whatsoever A poor unhappy woman's Love can pay You may rest well assur'd of.

Pis.

We thank your Grace, our best care shall attend him.

Exit Q. M.

Alph.

So now I'm free, was ever Love and Pity Unwelcome to a Wretch like me before? Then when she follows, and pursues me most, Then when she courts me with her tenderest love, I shun her most. A Mother's blessing is become my curse.

Pis.

My Lord your causeless fears create this trouble, Whilst ev'n to her you dare not own your self, Whom above all the world you ought to trust. Disclose your self in time, and make the Queen A happy Partner of the mighty secret.

Alph.

No, tho a Queen she is a woman still, A tender Mother, and who knows, my Friend, How far her womans weakness may betray her Whilst my Head wants that Crown, to which she bore me, And I live thus neglected and despis'd, To her I must be mad Alphonso still. But when my honourable friends we have finisht The glorious task the Gods have laid out for us, Then like her first born Son she shall behold me, Confest a Monarch, and the Lord of power, In whate're you command we shall obey. Methinks I see this proud imperious Traitor, This beast of Prey that ruines all about him, Thrown by the hand of Fate from all his glories,

Th' untimely fruits of Parricide, and Treason. Villain that in the midst of feign'd pretence, And smooth expressions of fair Filial duty, Whil'st on his Knees he begg'd a Fathers blessing, Dar'd do a deed wou'd damn one but to think on.

Pis.

Thus mischief ever wears the clearest brow, And like deep waters appears calm and gentle.

Petr.

'Twas difficult to hide his practices; Blood cries aloud, and had it once alarm'd The Peoples Hearts, sure Frederick had wanted That Crown which through such villanies he catch'd at.

Al.

The People? a dull senseless lump of Clay, Rude and unform'd, fitted for any impression The cunning Artist will impose upon it. You know the Story (To Pisano) how by subtil poison He took my Brother's life, attempted mine, But the infusion met with a resistance Too strong to be o'repower'd: howe're he thought I lost, what more than Life Men ought to value, My Reason; For by your Father's Counsel I put on This outward form of madness, to secure me From any second blow, the event answer'd Our expectations, for being thus despis'd I live below his fears.

Petr.

But sure my Lord, The Sword of Justice, and Brandino's power, Had been a safer, and far nobler refuge. Why did you not inform your Royal Father, Of that dire Plague, that Instrument of Hell, Which at last fell on his devoted head?

Alp.

Alas we did, but we did all in vain. For the curst Traitor, skill'd i'th' arts of Court, Had so prevail'd, so won on his belief, That 'twas as easie to perswade my Brother To be what he was not, as make Brandino Believe him what he was; besides my Father Had nothing but the empty name of King, The shadow left him; for my Brother knew The Power lay lodg'd in bold Sorano's hands, The curst complotter of his dark designs. But no more, fate that by them thought fit to punish me, By me at length, I hope, will punish them.

Petr.

My honour'd Lord, where e're You lead we'll follow With an assurance that becomes our cause.

Alp.

Nay 'tis a glorious one, and may be worthy The admiration of succeeding ages. 'Tis such a one those brave Old Roman Hero's▪ Did they now live, wou'd gladly be embark't in. Who is there living, that e're heard of honour, Or own'd the motions of a generous Spirit, Wou'd tamely lye under th' imperious hand The proud disdain of an Usurping Tyrant. Whip him ye Gods! aim all your Thunders at him! Let furies haunt his Dreams, distrust and care Hang on his thoughts, and poison all his pleasures.

Petr.

My Lord, old Pedro, who has plac't his Men In the most secret corners of the City Will'd me t' inform you that the time calls on us▪ That all things now are ripe for Execution; This morning he commands the Guard, by which means The Gates will all be open to receive 'em.

Alph.

Then e're to Morrow's dawn my Brother sets, For ever sets in a dread Cloud of Blood Naples once more shall raise her drooping head, Whose rugged Vertues, hard'ned by Afflictions, Shall be the wonder of this lower World, And like old Rome give Laws to th' Universe.

Pis.

My honour'd Lord pardon your Loyal Slave, Who with the foremost wishes to behold That happy day, and never will know quiet Till we are Masters of our great design; Yet in my humblest duty I affirm This day 'twill be impossible to effect 'em.

Alp.

Impossible! were he like Jove himself Clos'd round with Thunder, a guard of Gods, Whose every look might awe the Universe, Yet then it wou'd not be impossible: What can be so to minds resolv'd like ours? But do's he not lye open to destruction▪ Do not his Friends, that live upon his smiles, Rais'd by his favours from the lowest Earth, Do not ev'n they both fear, and hate the Tyrant? Nay like base Slaves wou'd help his ruine forward. Is there a Sword in Naples will be Idle, Will not strike home, when the great Gods shall call,

And lead us on to Liberty and Peace?

Pis.

My Lord, all this I grant, and more, but yet—

Alp.

But what? Grant me but this, and what more can we ask for The Gods are kind, we wanting to our selves; Unstable unresolv'd; like heartless fools, That still in expectation loose fruition. I will not trust my fate to another hazard, To be as great as fortune e're can make me. At length we have got th' unruly beast at bay, On ev'ry side hem'd in with sure destruction, And shall we now forego our certain hopes, Trust to the bounty of another hour, When this has giv'n us more than we dar'd hope for?

Pis.

My Lord, You us'd to be more moderate.

Alp.

I'm moderate still, but Vengeance cries aloud. Blood! Treason! Parricide! Who is there living Can think of these, and keep his usual Temper? Yet after all the labours of my Soul, Th' Indignities I have with patience born, To make revenge my own, which now seems ripe; Waits on our Swords, and sues for Execution, Thou goest about to blunt the edge of Justice, And calmly criest it is impossible.

Pis.

My Lord, I hate this Tyrant more than you, My Fathers Murder, Brothers Banishment, My own disgrace, have sworn me to his ruine. Yet when you have heard the reasons I shall urge, Not to rebate or slacken your just Anger, But to draw back your arm, that with a force Greater and surer it may execute, What Heav'n, and your resentments have determin'd: You'l think your Servant has not judg'd amiss. 'Tis on this day th' Young Soldier brave Valerio, Whose active Sword deserves a worthier Cause, In warlike form makes his triumphant entry:

Alp.

Still, still the better; Can we chuse a day Fitter for our design? but that I've known thee Of an experienc'd faith, I shou'd mistrust thee. Then when his Slaves in their repeated Io's, Their l ud applauses, raise him to the Skies, And place another's Laurels on his brows, Then, then to clip the Wings of this proud Falcon,

When he soars highest, and sink him down to Hell, Will be added to mount us up to Heav'n.

Pis.

But Heav'n is sooner scal'd than this perform'd, I mean this way, for sure my honour'd Lord Has not forgot the custom of his Naples; On the return of her Victorious Sons, Who have with foreign Nations fought her battles, None are t' appear in Arms, the day of Triumph; Throughout the City or the Court, but those The General shall appoint; to show, That he who fought so well abroad, deserves To rule at home: Shall we then to trust our fortunes To the success of such a rash attempt? Suppose us arm'd, yet how can we prevail 'Gainst such a multitude that will oppose us?

Alp.

No matter, we are now by much too forward To talk of going back, it will not be, Surely fate interposes, and unravels What our best care has been so long designing. Must then my Soul be still lock'd up in Prison Furl'd up in darkness and the Womb of Night, Ne're to walk forth again in her own Majesty? Why have I reason and yet dare not use it? A Soul for Empire born, yet live a Slave? I'le do't my self: methinks I do behold My Royal Father, and my murder'd Brother, From yon' blue orb inciting me to action. Now their pale Ghosts, all trembling full of horror, Just as they fell, bloated with rankest poison, In pitious action urge me to revenge: Rest, rest in the cold beds of silent death, 'Till loud revenge shall raise you, to behold, And wonder at my Justice, then in a peal of Thunder Let conscious Heav'n applaud my ministring hand.

Pis.

My Lord, the day succeeding this o'th' Triumph, It being that on which he first was Crown'd, The Tyrant dedicates to ease, and pleasure, What hinders but we then compleat his ruine? The Gates lye open to receive all Strangers, That come to grace his Pride, and praise his Fortunes.

Alp.

O my best Friend, had I the World to give, It shou'd be thine for such another thought: To do it then, will look as if high Heaven

Had still presided o're our pious Counsels, And th' hand of fate had led us to his ruine. Hast my Petruchio, tell old honest Pedro, The Gods are met in Council to determine, And bless our high resolves: the Circle of his Reign Begins to be compleat; the Sun, that gave His Empire birth, must light him to his Grave.

Exeunt.