ACT IV. SCENE I.
The Governor's Palace.
Antoninus on a couch, asleep, with Doctors about him; Sapritius and Macrinus.
Sap. O you, that are half gods, lengthen that life
Their deities lend us; turn o'er all the volumes
Of your mysterious Æsculapian science,
T' increase the number of this young man's days:
And, for each minute of his time prolong'd,
Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold
With Cæsar's stamp, such as he sends his captains
When in the wars they earn well: do but save him,
And, as he's half myself, be you all mine.
1 Doct. What art can do, we promise; physic's hand
As apt is to destroy as to preserve,
If heaven make not the med'cine: all this while,
Our skill hath combat held with his disease;
But 'tis so arm'd, and a deep melancholy,
To be such in part with death, we are in fear
The grave must mock our labours.
Mac. I have been
His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes
As I have seen my mother watch o'er me.
Stand by his pillow, and, in his broken slumbers,
Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea;
And, when his arms fly open to catch her,
Closing together, he falls fast asleep,
Pleased with embracings of her airy form.
Physicians but torment him; his disease
Laughs at their gibberish language: let him hear
The voice of Dorothea, nay, but the name,
He starts up with high colour in his face:
She, or none, cures him; and how that can be,
The princess' strict command barring that happiness,
To me impossible seems.
Sap. To me it shall not;
I'll be no subject to the greatest Cæsar
Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease
To be a father.[Exit.
Mac. Silence, sir; he wakes.
Anton. Thou kill'st me, Dorothea; oh, Dorothea!
Mac. She's here
Anton. Here! Where? Why do you mock me, sir?
Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet,
Yet I'm an old man, a fond doting fool
Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty,
(In truth I am bewitch'd) offer my life,
And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers:
Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out
A hand of pity.
1 Doct. Let him have some music.
Anton. Hell on your fiddling!
[Starting from his couch.
1 Doct. Take again your bed, sir;
Sleep is a sovereign physic.
Anton. Confusion on your fooleries! Where's the rest
Thy pills and base apothecary drugs
Threaten'd to bring unto me? Out, you impostors!
Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill
Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill.
Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend.
Anton. Myself, Macrinus!
How can I be myself, when I am mangled
Into a thousand pieces? here moves my head,
But where's my heart? wherever—that lies dead.
Re-enter Sapritius, dragging in Dorothea by the hair, Angelo following.
Sap. Follow me, thou damn'd sorceress! Call up thy spirits,
And, if they can, now let them from my hand
Untwine these witching hairs.
Anton. I am that spirit:
Or, if I be not, were you not my father,
One made of iron should hew that hand in pieces,
That so defaces this sweet monument
Of my love's beauty.
Sap. Art thou sick?
Anton. To death.
Sap. Would'st thou recover?
Anton. Would I live in bliss!
Sap. And do thine eyes shoot daggers at that man
That brings thee health?
Anton. It is not in the world.
Sap. It's here.
Anton. To treasure, by enchantment lock'd
In caves as deep as hell, am I as near.
1 Doct. Shall the boy stay, sir?
Sap. No matter for the boy.
[Exeunt Sap. Mac. and Doct.
Dor. O, guard me, angels!
What tragedy must begin now?
Anton. When a tiger
Leaps into a timorous herd, with ravenous jaws,
Being hunger-starved, what tragedy then begins?
Dor. Death; I am happy so: you, hitherto,
Have still had goodness sphered within your eyes;
Let not that orb be broken.
Ang. Fear not, mistress;
If he dare offer violence, we two
Are strong enough for such a sickly man.
Dor. What is your horrid purpose, sir? your eye
Bears danger in it.
Anton. I must——
Dor. Oh, kill me,[Kneels.
And heaven will take it as a sacrifice;
But, if you play the ravisher, there is
A hell to swallow you.
Anton. Rise:—for the Roman empire, Dorothea,
I would not wound thine honour. My father's will
Would have me seize upon you, as my prey;
Which I abhor, as much as the blackest sin
The villany of man did ever act.
[Sapritius breaks in with Macrinus.
Dor. Die happy for this language!
Sap. Die a slave,
A blockish idiot!
Mac. Dear sir, vex him not.
Sap. Yes, and vex thee too: where's this lamia[46]?
Dor. I'm here; do what you please.
Dor. Come, boy, being there, more near to heaven we are.
Sap. Kick harder; go out, witch! [Exeunt.
Anton. O bloody hangmen! Thine own gods give thee breath!
Each of thy tortures is my several death. [Exit.
SCENE II.[47]
The Place of Execution. A scaffold, block, &c.
Enter Antoninus, supported by Macrinus, and Servants.
Anton. Is this the place, where virtue is to suffer,
And heavenly beauty, leaving this base earth,
To make a glad return from whence it came?
Is it, Macrinus?
Mac. By this preparation,
You well may rest assured that Dorothea
This hour is to die here.
Anton. Then with her dies
The abstract of all sweetness that's in woman!
Set me down, friend, that, ere the iron hand
Of death close up mine eyes, they may at once
Take my last leave both of this light and her:
For, she being gone, the glorious sun himself
To me's Cimmerian darkness.
Mac. Strange affection[48]!
Cupid once more hath changed his shafts with Death,
And kills, instead of giving life.
Anton. Nay, weep not;
Though tears of friendship be a sovereign balm,
On me they're cast away. It is decreed
That I must die with her; our clue of life
Was spun together.
Mac. Yet, sir, 'tis my wonder,
That you, who, hearing only what she suffers,
Partake of all her tortures, yet will be,
To add to your calamity, an eyewitness
Of her last tragic scene, which must pierce deeper,
And make the wound more desperate.
Anton. Oh, Macrinus!
'Twould linger out my torments else, not kill me,
Which is the end I aim at: being to die too,
What instrument more glorious can I wish for,
Than what is made sharp by my constant love
And true affection? It may be, the duty
And loyal service, with which I pursued her,
And seal'd it with my death, will be remember'd
Among her blessed actions; and what honour
Can I desire beyond it?
Enter a Guard bringing in Dorothea, a Headsman before her; followed by Theophilus, Sapritius, and Harpax.
See, she comes;
How sweet her innocence appears! more like
To heaven itself, than any sacrifice
That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes
Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful
In my belief; nor can I think our gods
Are good, or to be served, that take delight
In offerings of this kind: that, to maintain
Their power, deface the master-piece of nature,
Which they themselves come short of. She ascends,
And every step raises her nearer heaven.
Sap. You are to blame
To let him come abroad.
Mac. It was his will;
And we were left to serve him, not command him.
Anton. Good sir, be not offended; nor deny
My last of pleasures in this happy object,
That I shall e'er be blest with.
Theoph. Now, proud contemner
Of us, and of our gods, tremble to think,
It is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee.
Not all the riches of the sea, increased
By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch'd mines,
(Mammon's unknown exchequer), shall redeem thee:
And, therefore, having first with horror weigh'd
What 'tis to die, and to die young; to part with
All pleasures and delights; lastly, to go
Where all antipathies to comfort dwell,
Furies behind, about thee, and before thee;
And, to add to affliction, the remembrance
Of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted,
Hadst thou not turn'd apostata[49] to those gods
That so reward their servants; let despair
Prevent the hangman's sword, and on this scaffold
Make thy first entrance into hell.
Anton. She smiles,
Unmoved, by Mars! as if she were assured
Death, looking on her constancy, would forget
The use of his inevitable hand.
Theoph. Derided too! despatch, I say.
Dor. Thou fool!
That gloriest in having power to ravish
A trifle from me I am weary of,
What is this life to me? not worth a thought;
Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it
To win a better: even thy malice serves
To me but as a ladder to mount up
To such a height of happiness, where I shall
Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world;
Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above
The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory
To think at what an easy price I bought it.
There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth:
No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat,
Famine, nor age, have any being there.
Forget, for shame, your Tempe; bury in
Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards:—
The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon,
Which did require a Hercules to get[50] it,
Compared with what grows in all plenty there,
Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve
Laughs at your happy Araby, or the
Elysian shades; for he hath made his bowers
Better in deed, than you can fancy yours.
Anton. O, take me thither with you!
Dor. Trace my steps,
And be assured you shall.
Sap. With my own hands
I'll rather stop that little breath is left thee,
And rob thy killing fever.
Theoph. By no means;
Let him go with her: do, seduced young man,
And wait upon thy saint in death; do, do:
And, when you come to that imagined place,
That place of all delights—pray you, observe me,
And meet those cursed things I once call'd Daughters,
Whom I have sent as harbingers before you;
If there be any truth in your religion,
In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten
Your journey thither, pray you send me some
Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of.
Anton. Grant that I may go with her, and I will.
Sap. Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself?
Theoph. The gates to hell are open.
Dor. Know, thou tyrant,
Thou agent for the devil, thy great master,
Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it,
I can, and will.
Enter Angelo, in the Angel's habit[51].
Harp. Oh! mountains fall upon me,
Or hide me in the bottom of the deep,
Where light may never find me!
Theoph. What's the matter?
Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witchcraft.
Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak!
Harp. I dare not stay:
Should I but hear her once more, I were lost.
Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place,
To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,)
Hell's torments are sweet slumbers! [Exit.
Sap. Follow him.
Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose him.
Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch,
Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die,
Till my return. [Exeunt Sap. and Theoph.
Anton. She minds him not; what object
Is her eye fix'd on?
Mac. I see nothing.
Anton. Mark her.
Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve!
(For thou art more than mortal,) is 't for me,
Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave
Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest,
Though glorified, to take my servant's habit?—
For, put off thy divinity, so look'd
My lovely Angelo.
Ang. Know, I am the same;
And still the servant to your piety.
Your zealous prayers and pious deeds first won me
(But 'twas by His command to whom you sent them)
To guide your steps. I tried your charity,
When in a beggar's shape you took me up,
And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed,
As you believed, my famish'd mouth. Learn all,
By your example, to look on the poor
With gentle eyes! for in such habits, often,
Angels desire an alms[52]. I never left you,
Nor will I now; for I am sent to carry
Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal,
Your martyrdom once suffer'd; and before it,
Ask any thing from me, and rest assured,
You shall obtain it.
Dor. I am largely paid
For all my torments. Since I find such grace,
Grant that the love of this young man to me,
In which he languisheth to death, may be
Changed to the love of heaven.
Ang. I will perform it;
And in that instant when the sword sets free
Your happy soul, his shall have liberty.
Is there aught else?
Dor. For proof that I forgive
My persecutor, who in scorn desired
To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to;
After my death, as sent from me, be pleased
To give him of it.
Ang. Willingly, dear mistress.
Mac. I am amazed.
Anton. I feel a holy fire,
That yields a comfortable heat within me;
I am quite alter'd from the thing I was.
See! I can stand, and go alone; thus kneel
To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand
With a religious kiss. [Kneels.
Re-enter Sapritius and Theophilus.
Sap. He is well now,
But will not be drawn back.
Theoph. It matters not,
We can discharge this work without his help.
But see your son.
Anton. Sir, I beseech you,
Being so near our ends, divorce us not.
Theoph. I'll quickly make a separation of them:
Hast thou aught else to say?
Dor. Nothing, but to blame
Thy tardiness in sending me to rest;
My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul
Begins to take her flight: strike, O! strike quickly;
And, though you are unmoved to see my death,
Hereafter, when my story shall be read,
As they were present now, the hearers shall
Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes,
"She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies."
[Her head is struck off.
Anton. O, take my soul along, to wait on thine!
Mac. Your son sinks too. [Antoninus falls.
Sap. Already dead!
Theoph. Die all
That are, or favour this accursed sect:
I triumph in their ends, and will raise up
A hill of their dead carcasses, to o'erlook
The Pyrenean hills, but I'll root out
These superstitious fools, and leave the world
No name of Christian.
[Loud music: Exit Angelo, having first laid his hand upon the mouths of Anton. and Dor.
Sap. Ha! heavenly music!
Mac. 'Tis in the air.
Theoph. Illusions of the devil,
Wrought by some witch of her religion,
That fain would make her death a miracle;
It frights not me. Because he is your son,
Let him have burial; but let her body
Be cast forth with contempt in some highway,
And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. [Exeunt.