A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 12

by Robert Dodsley

ACT I.

Enter Agenor, Physician.

Agen. Sir, I hope Lord Lysicles is not yet
Retir'd?

Phy. No, sir, he commanded immediate
Notice should be given of your coming.

Agen. I fear my stay at the castle hath made
My duty seem unmannerly; but till
This minute I had not my despatches from the governor.

Phy. Let it not trouble you: he never shuts his eyes
Till all this other world opens theirs; nor
Does he sleep then, but with distracted thoughts
Labours his fancy, to present him objects
That may advance his grief.

Agen. What may the monstrous cause be?

Phy. It was monstrous indeed. He lost his mistress,
Barbarously murder'd by her perfidious uncle:
Her urn is in Cirrha, which my lord nightly
Visits, and presents it all his contracted
Sighs of the fled day; but at his parting
Re-assumeth more by thinking she is not:
To whose dear memory his tears and griefs
Are offered. He's now alone, and the
Religious awe which makes our priests retire,
Before they do adore th' incensed powers,
Is seen in him, who never dares approach
Her honoured tomb, till a just contemplation of
His loss hath made his sorrow eloquent.
See! he comes. If, when he parts, your haste
Will license you, I will relate the story
Of his unequall'd sufferings.

Enter Lysicles.

Lys. Do you depart to-night?

Agen. This hour, my lord.

Lys. I will not wrong you to entreat your care
In suddenly delivering these small packets;
But lest you should believe they are merely
Ceremonious, and so bear any date, I now
Inform you, I'm concern'd in nothing nearer.
My griefs excepted.

Agen. I wish your lordship's happiness.

Lys. First, wish me a captivity; for as
I am i' th' instant, if Heaven should pour
His blessings on me, their quality would alter.
Sir, good night. [Exit.

Phy. Sir, you are sad.

Agen. He has no heart to joy that can be otherwise,
That sees this glorious youth groan under his
Harsh fate.

Phy. What a sad accent had each word he uttered?

Agen. I could not mark them much; but his whole frame
Is of such making as if Despair had been
The architect. We may wish, [but] not hope,
A long life in him.

Phy. Sir, will you now take horse?

Agen. I should, had you
Not promised the original of this
Misfortune: and, trust me, it is a bold
Curiosity, that makes me search into it; for if
The silent presentation hath struck amazement
In me, how shall I guard my heart, when sad
Disasters violence my passions?

Phy. Thus then in short:—
These noble kingdoms, Thessaly and Sparta,
Have, from the time two kings commanded all,
Under both titles still been emulous,
And jealous of th' advantages which each
Suspected might be in the adverse party.
This caused a lasting war; but the fierce storm
Threaten'd not till the reign of these two kings,
Both crowned young, both of an equal age;
Both having all the passions of their subjects,
Their fears excepted. The ambassadors
That should congratulate the new-made kings,
As if one spirit had inspired both,
Came with this message, little varied—
"That each were joy'd in such an enemy;
No more the fearful wisdom of old men
Should rust their swords, that fate had given to one
Command of all." In short, their forces met,
And in ten bloody days none could decide
Which had the better cause:
The virtues of each prince so prevalent,
Fortune was but spectator. To conclude,
Urgent affairs at home compell'd each king
To leave their armies. Ours committed his
To Strimon, father of Prince Lysicles;
The Duke of Argos did command the Spartan,
Who, swoll'n with the great name of general,
Before his king had hardly left the fight
Of this great army, draws his forces out,
And fac'd us in our trenches. 'Tis not yet
Unquestion'd whether fear or policy
Made Strimon keep in his: but certainly this,
That virtue, sharpen'd by necessity,
Procur'd our triumph. Here Lysicles
Anticipated years unto his fame,
And on the wounds of his brave enemy
Did write his story, which our virgins sing.
But from this conquest did begin the cause
Of all his misery.

Agen. How from this? unless the king should judge it
Too dangerous an honour to be given to one.

Phy. He's lord of so much virtue,
He cannot fear it in a subject.

Agen. And as the common voice reach'd him in Athos,
There's none he looks on with [a] greater
Demonstration of his love.

Phy. I know not that; but this I am perfect in:
His judgment is directed by the king so powerfully,
He cannot think his virtues injured,
Though many should be nearer in his graces,
'Twould afflict him strangely if any should
Be thought to love his prince better than he.

Agen. Pardon my interruption: pray proceed.

Phy. The duke, defeated, posts unto the Court,
Where he design'd unto his dire revenge
Th' obscurest path that ever time reveal'd
Since her first glass: procures his king to throw
Neglects upon him, and to seem in doubt
Of his obliged faith. A severe search
Is made on his papers, his treasure valued
By the public officer, and himself,
Twice deprehended in a seeming flight,
Calumniated, libell'd, and disgrac'd
By his own seeking and belief of others,
Who, judging him to be their honour's ruin,
First raze his house, and then demand his life
As sacrifice unto their brothers, sons,
Nephews, and public loss. Sedition
Had now the face of piety, which (once
Receiv'd as just) can hardly be repell'd.
The king with difficulty doth assure his life
With promise of his banishment.
This he foresaw and sought, and did disguise
Himself, in fear of the incensed people:
Parts in the night, and partner of his fate
Hath his fair niece, who is so innocent
She cannot think there is a greater crime
Practis'd by men than error, which does make
Us seem more vicious than in act we are.

Agen. I want a perspective for this dark mystery;
And but your knowledge doth dissolve my doubts,
'Twould seem a riddle that a gentleman
Of his known valour [and his] reputation
Should strive to lose both for some secret end,
I cannot yet arrive to.

Phy. Sir, you know
Revenge doth master all our passions
That are not servants to her rage.

Agen. But how, unfriended, banish'd, the reproach
Of traitor fix'd upon him, he could find
The way unto't more easy, I am ignorant.

Phy. This story will resolve you. To this Court
He comes: is brought to th' king; then with a modest freedom
Relates his sufferings; hopes that fame hath taught
His story ere his coming, else he should
Continue miserable, as believ'd
Both by his friends and enemies a traitor.
Delivers that he sought protection
From him, because none else could vindicate
His innocence, which many mothers here,
Say'th he, have wept that day when fortune
Consulted fate who should be conqueror.
You brave lords (say'th he) that were present, did my sword
Parley? Did you receive wounds on condition?
Were these by compact? All my blood is lost,
Since 'tis discredited; what before was spent,
Ran in my name, and made that live: but now,
Great King, you only repeal my honour's fall
By giving death unto your enemy.
Our prince resents his fate, confirms him his
By a large pension, and too soon entrusts [him]
With all his secrets; gives him means to view
His forts, which he designs, and learns the strength
Of each particular province; and (inform'd
Of all) makes his escape, and is received
Of the Spartan king with all remonstrances
Of love and confess'd service; but before
He parted, did that horrid act which Lysicles
Must die for.

Agen. Indeed this story
Doth not much concern him, if I mistake not.

Phy. At his arrival here, he left his niece
With this design, that, when his plots were ripe,
Without suspect he might come to the borders.
Hither he comes, and at his entrance is
By a base traitorous servant certified
Of the great love 'twixt her and Lysicles,
The compact of their vows, with divers letters
The lovers had exchang'd. He storms and cries,
If thou dost love young Lysicles, my hate
Shall strike thee dead; thy hand pluck'd back my honour
When it was mounting; be constant, and this hand
Shall by her death give thee a ling'ring one,
And my revenge in thy own house begin.
Then with a barbarous unheard-of cruelty
Murders his niece, and the same instant flies.
Fame had the next sun blown this through the city;
His house was searched, the trunk of the dead lady
Found in the hall; the head he carried with him,
In honour of his cruelty.

Agen. Sure, he was mad!

Phy. I would say so too, but that I would not
Make him less guilty of this inhumanity.

Agen. What furies govern man! We hazard all
Our lives and fortunes to gain hated memories;
And in the search of virtue tremble at shadows.
But how are you ascertain'd that he did
This horrid act?

Phy. He sent the summons of her death
By her that had betray'd her; the report
Did make her spirits throng unto her heart,
And (sure) had kill'd it, had not heaven decreed
His hand should be as black as his intent.
She begg'd some time for prayer, and retir'd;
In her own blood did write her tragedy
And parting wishes to her dear betroth'd.
Now hear the strangest mistook piety,
That ever entered in a virgin's breast,
She so much lov'd this barbarous homicide,
She would not have him guilty of her death;
And therefore with her own hands wounds herself,
And as she bled, she writ unto her lord—
At last concludes—
They will not let me make them innocent;
I'm call'd unto my death, and I repent
My wound, because I would not hurt
That which I hope you lov'd. This bloody note
Was found the next day in her pocket.

Agen. And came it to the Lord Lysicles?

Phy. It did; and if you e'er had seen
A hundred parents at one time deplore
The unexpected deaths of their lost children,
The father's sorrow and the mother's tears—
'Twould emblemise, but not express his grief.
Sometimes he shriek'd, as if h' had sent his soul
Out in his voice; sometimes stood fix'd, and gaz'd,
As if he had no sense of what he saw:
Sometimes he'd swoon; and if the memory
Of his dear mistress, even i' th' gates of death,
Had not pursu'd him, he had certain died.
Torment did now give life; at last he drew
His sword, and e'er he could be stay'd, did fall
Upon the point. This I think did preserve him;
For, not[351] being mortal, and he fainting with
The loss of blood, had not then strength enough
To end himself, until he was persuaded
To live, to celebrate her memory;
Which nightly he doth do upon her tomb,
Whither he now is gone.

Agen. I have not heard
Of such a love as this!

Phy. Nor ever shall
Of such a beauty as did cause it.
'Tis late, and I'll not trouble you with her story:
When you're at Court, all tongues will speak her merit
To your wonder. I'll bring you to your horse. [Exit.

[ACT I., SCENE 2.]

The Tomb discovered. Enter Lysicles with a page and a torch, [and then withdraws.][352]

Enter Ergasto and Cleon.

Cle. And will you marry now?

Erg. Indeed will I.

Cle. And what shall
Be done with all those locks of hair you have?

Erg. Why, I'll make buttons of 'em, and had they half
The value that I swore they had when I did beg 'em,
Rich orient diamonds could not equal them:
Some came eas'ly, and some I was forc'd to
Dig for in th' mine.

Cle. And your priz'd liberty—
What shall become of that?
You swore you would not marry till there were
A law established that married men
Might be redeem'd, as slaves are.

Erg. I was an ass when I talk'd so:
Those damned books of chastity I read
In my minority corrupted me; but since
I'm practis'd in the world, I find there are
No greater libertines than married men.
'Tis true 'twas dangerous, this knot, in the
First age, when it was a crime to break vows:
But, thanks to Venus, the scene is alter'd,
And we act other parts. I'll tell thee
The privileges we enjoy when we are married.
First, our secrecy is held authentic, which is
Assurance will take up any woman

At interest, that is not peevish; then th' acquaintance which our wives bring us, to whom at times I carry my wife's commendations; and if their husbands be not at home, I do commend myself.

Cle. For what, I prythee?

Erg. For a good dancer, a good rider, a good ----, anything that I think will please 'em.

Cle. Thou'lt have a damnable conceit of thy wife, by thy knowledge and opinion of all other women, unless you think her a phœnix.

Erg. 'Twill be my best resolution. But hark in thy ear, rogue: I could be content to think, and wish mine and all for the public good, and wear my horns with as much confidence, as the best velvet-head of 'em all, and paint them in my crest with this inscription These he deserved for his love to the commonwealth.

Cle. A rare fame you would purchase!

Erg. A more lasting one than any monument you can repeat the epitaph of; and would it not be glorious to be commemorated as the first founder of the commonalty of undisparaged cuckolds?

Cle. Yes, and prayed for by bastards, that got better fathers than they were destined to by their mothers' marriages.

Erg. And cursed by surgeons that were undone by honest women's practices.

Cle. And this done voluntarily, which you will hardly avoid, though you have a thousand guards to prevent it. I, that have been your playfellow, shall be first suspected, and first banished.

Erg. By Jupiter, never! No, though 'twould preserve a thousand smooth foreheads. If she be honest, your arts cannot alter her; and if otherwise, had I not rather adopt a son of thine than a stranger's? And confess truly, Cleon: would you not for this public benefit be content to sacrifice a sister, that we might love no longer by obligations, but affection; and seeing, liking, and enjoying, finished in a meeting.

Cle. Unless I had means to appropriate one, you cannot suspect but I should wish a title unto all. But what hopes have you of your mistress?

Erg. No airy ones of liking and affection; but mine are built on terra firma already, which her father looks on greedily, and proportions this to that grandchild, to the second this.

Cle. Is he not somewhat startled at the report of thy debauchery? For though your thickset woods and spreading vineyards make excellent shades to keep away the sun—I mean the piercing eye of censure—yet some suspicions common fame will raise.

Erg. Indeed it was my enemy, whilst my elder brother lived.

Cle. But since his death you are altered. I must confess it, for then the slenderness of your annuity allowed you but the election of some one sin: I mean a cherished sin, whilst the others repined, that thought themselves of equal dignity; in time they had their turns, yet singly still: but since your brother's death you have shown yourself a grateful gentleman, and recompensed those that have suffered for you to the full.

Erg. A pretty satire this, to whip boys of nine! Yet still I tell thee, I am another in the opinion of the world.

Cle. Another Heliogabalus thou wouldst be,
Hadst thou his power; but by what conjuration can
You bring me to think it?

Erg. By reason, which is a spirit will hardly be
Rais'd in you; but thus it is. Whilst my brother
Liv'd, my wildness was observed by——

Cle. But now you walk in shades, recluse, and shut
Up in your coach; your painted liveries
Supposed fairies, and she that you were wont to
Visit by the name of Madam Ruffiana is now
Your aunt. All this I am perfect in, yet cannot
Reach the mystery of your suppos'd disguise
You say doth mask you.

Erg. Hear me, and be converted. I say I was
Observed by those that were nearest in blood to me;
And with fear, too, lest the ruin of my
Fortune might force them to supply my wants.
This caus'd the ague, this the admonitions and
Frequent counsels—sometimes severe reproofs,
Every one curling himself from any hopes of mine,
That would assist me; and those gave largest counsels,
That would give nothing else.

Cle. Of this I am yet a sad party and a witness too.

Erg. Since my brother's death, the names of things
Are changed; my riots are the bounties of my nature,
Carelessness the freedom of my soul:
My prodigality, an easiness of mind proportion'd
To my fortune. Believe me, Cleon, this poverty
Is that which puts a multiplying-glass upon our
Faults, and makes 'em swell, and fill the eye;
Our crimes cry highest then when they have
brought us low.

Cle. I have not known any condemn'd for playing,
But for losing.

Erg. True; and let it be thy rule for all things else.

Cle. If this be certain, 'twill be long ere I be reputed virtuous.

Erg. Thou'lt never be, unless it be this way,
I prophesy, good Cleon——

Cle. 'Tis a sad story; pray let us leave it. Have you no rivals?

Erg. None present that I can fear, having her
Father's firm consent.

Cle. Eugenio, your rival, still continues banish'd.

Erg. And I hope will, till I am full possess'd of Hermione.

Cle. Did you give him cause to draw upon you in th' garrison?

Erg. Nor knew then of any[353] offence, or his pretences,
Which his folly look'd I should divine; he met me on the guard,
And drew upon me. We had a little scuffle,
Were parted, and he banish'd for the insolence.

Cle. Prince Lysicles labours to recall him.

Erg. By all means; he was by in the nois'd battle, saw the
Prince cleave this man to the twist,[354] divide a second,
Overthrow a third; he is his trumpet.

Cle. His actions need none.

Erg. Wilt thou be happy, Cleon, believe not fame
So far, as to make thyself less than another man.
There were thousands that served for six sesterces,
That did more than both; yet sleep forgotten. 'Tis
Now time to meet the ladies on the walk. [Exeunt.

Enter Lysicles;[355] kneels to the tomb, and then speaks.

Lys. I do profane this place, for were my griefs
As great as I would boast 'em, I could not live
To tell them to the world.
Or is the passage which my soul should make,
Shut up with sorrow? 'Tis so, and a joy,
A hopeful joy, to meet her must give freedom
To my sad prisoner, when my hand shall lead
This dagger to his heart that parted ours.
And heaven, that hear'st this vow, pour on my head
Dire thunder, if I shrink in what I promise.
And, sacred'st saint, if from thy place of rest,
Thou turn'st thy eyes upon thy holy relics,
Accept my vows, and pardon me the life
Of the curs'd homicide: a full revenge
Of thy death and [of] my life's misery
Shall make him pay the time he has outliv'd
My happiness; and when he is fall'n,
Present thyself in all thy glories to me,
That my freed soul may owe her liberty
To no force, but impatient longing
Of re enjoying thee. And, holy tomb,
The altar where my heart is nightly offered,
Let my wing'd love have passage through thy marble,
And fan the sacred ashes, knowing no heat
But what he takes from them. So peace and rest
Dwell ever with thee. [Exit.

Enter Hermione, Irene, Phillida, all veiled.

Ire. Dear Hermione, pinch me, or I shall sink with laughter.

Her. What said the stranger, Phillida? I did not hear it.

Phil. Nothing, madam.

Her. Then he did talk by signs, he was long about it. What was't, Irene?

Ire. He long importuned her to show her face, which after many urgings she consented to; and he in recompense made a low reverence to her, and then thanks her for the great favour, and concludes he never did receive so great a one from any woman, since all else have done them with a reference to themselves; but hers was merely goodness, for, before he saw her, he might have suspected her face, handsomely hid, for a piece of beauty, if her virtue would have suffered him to be longer in that error.

Phil. I would I were a man for his sake.

Ire. So you told him, and he, still courteous for all your anger, promised to give you what you wanted of a man, or teach you how to make one.

Her. Thou wilt never be old, wench, if thou still keep'st this humour.

Ire. Not a sigh older these seven years, if't please Sir Cupid; for he blows our bellows. [Enter Ergasto and Cleon.] But look, yonder's your servant, there's no starting now; you must stand to't. But before he comes to interrupt us, observe with me, how in that deep band, short cloak, and his great boots, he looks three storeys high, and his head is the garret where he keeps nothing but lists of horse-matches, and some designs for his next clothes.

Phil. Where is his cellarage?

Ire. He'll show it thee himself, dear Phillida, and thine too, if thou wilt have him! But they make to us!

Erg. Madam, will you honour me and this gentleman with a sight of that which doth enrich the world?

Her. You will not take our excuses, if we should say you find us now with more advantage to our beauties.

Erg. So breaks the morning forth, but the sun's rays are not so quick and piercing as your eyes, for they descend even to our hearts.

Ire. Heaven defend! my heart would tremble, if they should.

Erg. Why, madam?

Ire. See such impieties as are lodged there in a man, and not be struck with horror! 'tis impossible.

Erg. Your wit doth make you cruel. But, madam, I have something to deliver unto you, which your father commanded no ear should hear but yours.

Ire. What have you there, Cleon?

Cle. Verses, madam.

Ire. Whose?

Cle. Of Lord Ergasto's, written in celebration of the fair Hermione.

Ire. Did he buy them, or found them without a father, and has adopted them for his own?

Cle. They are his own.

Ire. Here.

Cle. I pray read them.

Ire. What have I deserved of you, good Cleon, that you should make me read his verses in his own presence? If you think I have not already as ill an opinion of him as I can have, you lose your labour.

Cle. Read them, and I'll assure you you'll find things well said and seriously; and you will alter your opinion of him.

Ire. Pray give them me, I long to be working wonders. [She reads single words.] Rubies, Pearls, Roses, Heaven. Do you not think he has done my cousin a simple favour, comparing of her voice to that of heaven?

Cle. 'Tis his love makes him do it; not finding any thing on earth fit to express her, he searcheth heaven for a similitude.

Ire. Alas! good gentleman, 'tis the first time he ever thought on't; what frequent thunders should I hear, if 'twere as he would have it? Let me counsel you: lay them aside till they have contracted an inch of dust, then with your finger write their epitaph, expressing the mutual quiet they gave men, and received from them; or, as all poisons serve for some use, give them your physician, and let him apply them to his patient for a vomit—this way they may be useful.

Cle. However you esteem them, such an elogy would make you think your glass had not yet flattered you.

Ire. It cannot; I prevent it, and accuse it for not showing the hills of snow, the rubies, and the roses they say have being from me. But stay—heaven opens, and I see a tempest coming; your poet is a prophet.

Her. I'll call an oath to be my witness.

Erg. Madam!

Her. My own fears light upon me, if the night that eves the day of marriage, doth not shut me from the world.

Erg. Why, madam, this intemperance?

Her. 'Tis a just anger.

Erg. If you are angry, madam, with all that love you, there lives none that has more enemies, every eye that looks upon you you must hate.

Ire. Sir Cleon, our friends are engaged; pray let us be o' th' party. What has called up this choler in my sweet cousin? My lord, you have been begging favours.

Erg. Yes, of heaven, that it would furnish me with merits fit to deserve your cousin.

Ire. When it has [been] granted you, return to her, and renew your suit; but if you stay till then, you must get spectacles to see her beauty with.

Her. Why should you hinder your repose and mine? You know I never loved you.

Ire. Then he has no reason to accuse you of inconstancy.

Erg. Why are you fair? or why has my stars enforced me to love nothing else?

Ire. If your love were considerable, what an obligation had your cousin to your stars? Then these remonstrances of yours are impulsive, and not voluntary.

Erg. I cannot tell; but when I seriously direct them to you, I'll swear I am bewitched.

Cle. Madam, this is repugnant to your other virtues, that you should hate a man for loving you. Before he did profess himself your servant, I know you did receive him with indifferency at least. Whence then proceeds your hate?

Her. From his expression of his love.

Cle. A cruel son sprung from so mild a father, if he did urge you to anything, might blast your honour.

Ire. She would not hear him; and as it is, how much does he oblige her? He's now her servant, and would entreat her to let him be her master; a request strangely modest!

Cle. If I were he, I'd take an honourable composition, let her choose whom she pleas'd for husband, and continue her secret servant still.

Her. You are uncivil.

Enter Pindarus.

Cle. Pardon me, madam, this mirth's a liberty; your cousin doth allow me. Here comes your father.

[Pindarus whispers with Ergasto: he
speaks to Hermione.

Pin. How long is't you have undertaken to be your own disposer?

Her. Sir!

Pin. After my cares had sought you out a man that brings all blessings that the world calls happy, you must refuse him!

Her. Sir, I have taken an oath.

Pin. I know the priest that gave it. Do you not blush, being so young, to know how to distinguish the difference of desires! And this so wildly, that you will put off your obedience rather than lose one that you dare not say hath interest in you; but by my hopes of rest, I'll use the power custom and nature give me to force you to your happiness.

Enter Lysicles.

Lys. How now, my lord? What miracle can raise a tempest here, where so much beauty reigns?

Pin. My lord, you are not practised in the cares of fathers: I thought to have seen this gentleman my son to-morrow; and she does refuse him. But——

Lys. It must not be; pardon me, virtue, that I begin an act will set a stain upon my blushing brow. Yet I must thorough. Lord Pindarus, my fortunes carry a pardon with them, when they make me err in acts of ceremonial decencies, they have been so heavy and so mighty, they have bent me so low to th' earth, I could not cast my face upwards to hope a blessing; the cause you are perfect in.

Pin. 'Tis a noble sorrow; but your deep melancholy gives it too large a growth.

Lys. Thus all do press it; yet had my grief relation only to myself, I would not part them from; my heart and memory they justly do possess. But my father hath no more issue save myself, for to confer his name and fortunes on.

Pin. Our Greece would mourn if such a glorious stock should end in the most flourishing branch.

Lys. If you do wish it a continuance, 'tis in your power to make it last to ages. Since my Milesia's death, I have not loved a lady equal with your Hermione; in her I hope to lose my swollen misfortunes, and find out a joy that may extinguish them. 'Tis now no time to tell her how much I am her servant; for this lord here, that does pretend to her fair graces, before I had declared myself his rival—perchance you would believe me if I had said, he no way doth deserve her.

Pin. Where you pretend, who can? But heaven, that designed a blessing to my child, it had been pride to hope for, hath made her still averse to his pretences; but giving her the liberty of refusing, I know he is removed.

Lys. Thus then to-morrow I'll wait on you. Ladies, I am your servant. [Exit.

Pin. My Lord Ergasto, you see with how much candour I have embraced your love; yet, though I do put on a father's strictness in my daughter's presence, I cannot force her to an act whereon for ever will depend her happiness. My house shall still be open to you as my heart. My business calls me, get you home; your servant. [Exit Pindarus.

Cle. Ergasto, my Lord Ergasto, what, have you left your tongue with your heart?

Erg. Is she not strangely fair?

Cle. You'll not believe me if I should say the contrary.

Erg. D'ye think that there are such faces in Elysium?

Cle. I'm sure many better go t'other way, if they be not marred in the voyage. But do you remember where you are to meet with Phormio?

Erg. Nor anything else; her beauty makes me forget all things that has no reference to it.

Cle. Heyday! if within these two hours you do not forget the cause of this forgetfulness, I'll be an eunuch. What, if the prince should be your rival? I cannot tell, but my Lord Pindarus on a sudden fell from his anger to his daughter to a ceremony to you might be suspected.

Erg. 'Tis a fear that makes me tremble.

Cle. Courage, man! If you have not lost your memory, your remedy is certain. There are more handsome faces will recompense this loss. Let us meet Phormio. [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[351] [i.e., The wound not being, &c.]

[352] [This is the second scene of Act i., though not so marked. The entrance of Lysicles, with his page and torch, was in dumb-show, the tomb having been apparently placed in the back of the stage while the curtain was drawn.]

[353] [Old copy, any of.]

[354] [Fork, Fr. fourchure.]

[355] [He must be supposed, from the preceding direction, to have been in the back of the stage.]

---

[ACT II., SCENE 1.]

Enter Hermione, Irene, and Phillida.

Ire. Have you sent for the Egyptian lady?

Her. I have; and she'll be here within this half-hour.

Ire. She speaks our language.

Her. Her father was of Greece a wealthy merchant, and his business enforcing him to leave his country, he married a lady of that place, where he lived, who, excellent in the mystery of divination, hath left that knowledge to her daughter, enriched with thousand other modest virtues, as is delivered to me by those are frequent with her.

Ire. Do you believe what Phillida say'th is the voice of all your friends?

Her. What is't?

Ire. That you shall marry with Prince Lysicles.

Phil. I heard your uncle say the governor did receive it with all appearances of joy, in hope this match will free him from this deep melancholy: and 'tis determined the next feast joins your hands.

Her. The grave must be my bed then.
With what harsh fate doth heaven afflict me,
That all those blessings which make others happy
Must be my ruin! But if this lady's knowledge
Shall inform me that I shall ne'er enjoy Eugenio,
Darkness shall seize me, ere [the] tapers light
My blushes to the forsworn Hymen's rites.

Ire. Why should you labour your disquiet, cousin?
Anticipating thus your knowledge, you will make
Your future sufferings present; and so call
Lasting griefs upon you, which your hopes might
Dissipate, till heaven had made your mind
Strong enough to encounter them.

Her. Dear Irene,
Our stars, whose influence doth govern us,
Are not malignant to us, but whilst we
Remain in this false earth. He that hath courage
To divest himself of that, removes with it
Their powers to hurt him; and injur'd Love,
Who sees that fortune would usurp his power,
I know will not be wanting. See, the lady

Enter Acanthe the Moor.

Comes! Madam, the excuse that justifies sick men
That send for their physician, must beg my pardon,
That did not visit you to have this honour.
Here you see a virgin that hath long stood
The mark of fortune, and now's so full of misery
That, though the gods resented what I suffer,
Yet I fear that they have plung'd me to extremes,
Exceed their own assistance.

Moor. Fear not their power.

Her. I do not; but their will to help me I must doubt;
For those that know no reason of their hate
Must fear it is perpetual.
And let the ensigns of their wrath fall on me,
If e'er by any willing act I have provok'd
Their justice. To you now, in whom 'tis said,
As in their oracle they speak, I come to know
What mighty growth of dangers are decreed me.

Moor. First, dearest lady, do not think my power
Great as my will to serve you; 'tis so weak
That, if you should rely on't, I shall seem
Cold in your service, when it does not answer
What is expected from it. All I know
Is but conjectured; for our stars incline,
Not force us in our actions. Let me observe your face.

Her. Do, and if yet you are not perfect in
Your mysteries, observe mine well; and when you meet
A face branded with such a line, conclude
It miserable: when an eye that doth
Resemble this, teach it to weep betimes,
That so being lost, it may not see those miseries
Must be its only object. [The Moor starts.
Are my misfortunes of that horrid shape
That the mere speculation doth affright
Those whose compassion only it concerns?
I, that must stand the strokes then, what defence
Shall I prepare against them? Yet a hope
That they be ripen'd now to fall on me,
Lightens a desperate joy to my dark soul:
For the last dart shall be embrac'd as remedy
To cure my former wounds.

Moor. It is not that;
I was surprised in considering I must
Partake of all your fortunes; for our ascendants
Threaten like danger to us both.

Her. Are then my miseries grown infectious too?
Must that be added? Pardon me, gentle lady; this
Sad crime I must account amongst my secret faults:
I meant no more but to communicate,
Not part my sorrows with you.

Moor. [O,] would you could; with what great willingness
Should I embrace a share of what afflicts you?
I'd haste to meet and ease you of your fears.
Now if to one, whose interest doth force her
To advance your hopes, you dare deliver
The cause of your disquiet, you shall find a closet,
If not a fort, to vindicate your fears.

Her. You shall know all. I have exchang'd my heart
With a young gentleman's, now banished
His country and my hopes; his rival labours
To make me his; my father resolute I should
Consent, till fortune chang'd, but lessen'd not
My sufferings; for our prince, Lysicles,
Ruins me with the honour of his search.

Moor. Does Eugenio know you love him?

Her. No.

Moor. Why does he doubt it?

Her. A womanish scorn to have my love reveal'd,
Made me receive his declaration of it
As an affront unto my honour, and when
He came to take his leave, I left him
In the opinion I would obey my father.

Moor. I have heard as much; but [these] contradictions
In the prince's actions do amaze me:
They say he loves your friend, and labours now
For to recall him; and that every night
He courts his former flame, hid in the ashes
Of his lost mistress.

Her. By this judge how miserable I am?
That my malignant stars force them to change
Nature and virtue too, that else would shine
Unmoved, like the star that does direct
The wand'ring seaman. Must then nature change,
And will not fortune cease to persecute? Good gods!
I will submit to all but breach of faith.

Moor. They will not hear us, madam, unless we
Contribute to their aid our best endeavours.
I have thought a way may for a time secure you:
You must dissemble with the prince, and seem
To love Ergasto.
'Tis not impossible, but he, seeing you
Prefer one so far beneath him, may provoke
A just neglect from him. Then for Ergasto,
Besides the time you gain, there may succeed
A thousand ways to hinder his pretence.

Her. Can my heart e'er consent my tongue should say,
I am for any other but Eugenio?
No, my dear love, though cruel fate hath sever'd
My vow'd embraces, yet hath death ice enough
To fright all others from them.

Moor. I see love is a child still; what a trifle
Doth now disturb him! You will not get your health
At the price of saying you are sick. I know
There is another remedy more proportion'd
For your disease, but not for you that suffer,
Which is this:
Tell the prince that you're engag'd, but he
That broke with vows and friendship for your love,
Will not desist for such suppos'd slight lets;
And then your father will force you t' his will.

Her. If the prince leave me, it is most certain
He'll use his power to make me take Ergasto.

Moor. Those that in dangers that do press them nearly,
Will not resolve upon some hazard, and
Give leave to chance to govern what
Our knowledge cannot hinder, must sit still,
And wait their preservation from a miracle.

Her. I am determin'd; for knives, fire, and seas
Shall lose their qualities, ere fate shall make
Me his: and if death cannot be
Shunn'd, I will meet it boldly.

Enter Irene.

Ire. Cousin, the prince is come to see you.

Moor. Good madam, use some means that I may speak
With him before he goes: my heart doth promise
I shall do something in your service; and
Be sure, when he first speaks of love, seem not
To understand him. [Exit.

ACT II., SCENE 2.

Enter Lysicles.

Lys. Madam, I've begg'd leave of your noble father to
Offer up myself a servant to your virtues.

Her. It is a grace our family must boast of
That you descend to visit those that style
Themselves your creatures, made such by your goodness,
Which we can only pay by frequent prayers,
That your line may last as glorious to
Posterity, as your now living fame is.

Lys. Madam, you were not wont by a feign'd praise
To scorn those that admire you; or would you
Thus insinuate what I should be by telling
Me I am, what I must ever aim at?

Her. Were there proportion 'twixt our births, my lord,
'Twould ill become a virgin's mouth to utter,
How much you do deserve; that will excuse,
When I shall say our Greece ne'er saw your equal.

Lys. I did not think I ever could be mov'd
With my own praise; but now my happiness
So much depends, that you shall truly think
What now you utter of me; that I glory
My actions are thus favour'd by your judgment.

Her. We must forget our safeties and the gods,
Whose instrument you were of our deliverance,
When we are silent of the mighty debt
This kingdom owes your courage.

Lys. This declaration of your favouring me will plead
My pardon, if I do omit the ceremonial circumstance,
Which usually makes way for this great truth
I now must utter. Madam, I do love
Your virtues with that adoration,
That the all-seeing sun does not behold
A lady that I love with equal ardour.
Our friends, who have most power over us, both
Do second my desires of joining us
In the sacred tie of marriage.

Her. My lord, I thought at first how ill my words
Became a virgin; but give 'em the right sense:
They were design'd, which was to speak you truly,
Not with a flatt'ring ambition
They might engage you to the love of one
So far unequal. If I have ever gain'd
Anything on your goodness, I'll not lose it
By foolishly aspiring to that height
You must in honour dispossess me of,
When I was seated. Marry you, my lord!
The king, our neighbour princes, all good men
Must curse me as a stain to those great virtues
You're the single lord of. If you speak this to try
What easy conquest you can make of all
You faintly but pretend to, I'll confess
The weakness of our sex would be prouder
Only to have the shows of your affection,
Than real loves of any they can hope
With justice to attain to.

Lys. Whatever I deserve,
The gods have largely recompens'd my intent
Of doing virtuously, if it hath gain'd so much
Upon your goodness as to make a way
For my affection.

Her. My lord, I do not understand you.

Lys. Pardon me, dearest lady, if my words
Too boldly do deliver what my actions
And frequent services should first have smooth'd
The way they are to take. My happiness
So nearly is concern'd, you shall approve
Me for your servant, that I trembling haste,
To know what rigours or what joys expect me,
But ere you do begin to speak my fate,
Know whom you do condemn, or whom make happy:
One, that when misery had made so wretched,
That it ravished his desires to change,
Whose eyes were turned inward on his grief,
Pleas'd with no object but what caus'd their tears,
Your beauty only rais'd from his dark seat
Of circling sorrows, lighting me a hope
By you I might receive all happiness,
The gods have made, my heart capacious of.

Her. Good my lord, give me leave again to say,
I dare not understand you; you are too noble
To glory in the conquest of a heart
That ever hath admir'd you; and to think
You can so far forget your birth and virtue,
As to believe me fit to be your wife,
Were a presumption that swelling pride
Must be the father of, which never yet
My heart could be allied to. Continue, prince:
Be the example of a constant love,
And let not your Milesia's ashes shrink
With a new-piercing cold, which they will feel
I'th' instant that your heart shall be consenting
To any new affection; and give me leave to say,
Your mind can ne'er admit a noble love,
If it hath banish'd hers your memory.

Lys. Must that be argument of cruelty,
Which should be cause of pity? And will you
Assume the patronage of envious fortune,
By adding torments unto her affliction?
Must I be miserable in losing you,
Because the gods thought me unworthy her?
Did I so easily digest her death,
That I want pity, and am thought unworthy
Of all succeeding love? Witness my loss
Of joys; if sorrow could have kill'd me,
I had not lived to show your mercy.

Her. Protect me, virtue! [Aside.
Pardon me, my lord! I know your griefs
How great and just they are, and only meant
By mentioning Milesia to confess,
How much unworthy I am to succeed her
In your affection which, though you bent
As low as I durst raise myself to reach,
'Twere now impiety for me to grasp,
I being no more my own disposer.

Lys. Ha! what fate hath taken you from yourself?

Her. The Lord Ergasto's importunity;
Who, though at first no inclination
Of mine made me affect his vows,
Hath vanquish'd my determination.
I finding nothing in myself deserving
The constancy of his affection to me,
Besides my father's often urging me
To make my choice obeying[356] his commands,
And threat'ning misery if I declin'd the least—
Knowing his violent nature, I consented
To a contract 'twixt me and the Lord Ergasto.

Her. O, the prophecies of my just[357] fears, how true
My heart foretold you!
Madam, it cannot be you should affect
One that hath no desert but what you give,
By making him a part of you. My hopes,
Though always blasted, could not apprehend
A fear from him. I should be happy yet,
If any worthy love shadowed my shame
Of being refused by you.

Her. Give not my want of power to serve your grace,
The cruel title of refusing you.

Your merits are so great, you may assure yourself
Of all you can desire, that's possible
To grant, whom thousands worthier than myself
Would kneel to.
By my life, if my faith were not given, I would
Here offer up myself to be dispos'd by you.
Though no ambitious pride could flatter me,
You could descend to raise me to your height.

Lys. Must this be added to my former griefs
That, in the instant you profess to pity
What I must suffer in your loss—your virtue,
For which I [most] admire you, must exclude
My hopes of ever changing your resolves?
Yet let my vows gain thus much of you,
That for a month you will not marry him;
I know your father will not force you to't,
For he, not knowing what hath pass'd between you,
Consented to this visit.

Her. By all things holy, this I swear to do,
Though violent diseases should enclose me,
Till the priest join'd our hands; yet, if you please,
Let not my father know but he's the cause,
I dare not look upon the mighty blessing
Your love doth promise.

Lys. May I not know the reason?

Her. That he may know that his unquestion'd power
Hath forc'd me to that error which himself
And I must ever mourn unpitied.[358]

Lys. Now you throw oil upon the wound you make:

I may be ignorant of all things else,
But of my want of merit to deserve
I am most perfect in: be happy, lady,
He that enjoys you shall not need that prayer—
My father's business calls me.

Her. Let me entreat you, that you'll see a lady,
Whose virtue does deserve the honour of
Your knowledge.

Lys. What is she?

Her. An Egyptian lady, lately come to Cirrha.

Lys. I have heard of her; they say she knows
Our actions pass'd and future.

Her. When you her know, you will believe,
That virtue chose that dark inhabitation,
To hide her treasure from the envious world,
I'll call her to your grace. [Acanthe!]

Enter Acanthe.

Her. Madam, this is the prince. [He salutes her.

Moor. You need not tell me it, though this be the first
Time that I saw him since I came to Cirrha,
His fame doth make him known to all that are
Remotest from him.

Lys. My miseries indeed
Have made it great; for all things else I should
Be more beholden unto silence than
The voice of my most partial friends.
Why do you gaze upon me so?

Moor. Have you
Not lately lost a lady that did love you dearly?

Lys. If you do measure time by what I suffer,
My undiminish'd grief tells me but now—
But now I lost her; if the sad minutes
That have oppress'd me since the fatal stroke,
It is an age of torments I have felt.

Moor. Good sir, withdraw a little, I shall deliver
What you believe none knows besides yourself. [They whisper.

Lys. Most true it is! What god, that heard our vows,
Hath told it you? But if your eyes
Pierce farther in their secrets than our
Weak fancies can give credit to, tell me,
If, where she is, she can discern and know
My actions?

Moor. Most perfectly she does,
And mourns your loss of faith, that now begin.
After so many vows, so many oaths, you would
Be only hers, to think of a new choice.

Lys. This may be [a] conspiracy; I'll try
It further. [Aside.

Moor. Had you been snatch'd from her.
And for her sake murder'd, as she for you;
Your urn's cold ashes should have hid her fire
Of faithful love. Pardon me, my lord, her injur'd spirit inspires me
With this boldness.

Lys. I am certain
This is no inspiration of the gods;
It cannot be she should consent my faith
Should be the ruin of my name and memory:
Which necessarily must follow, if virtuous love
Did not continue it to future ages.

Moor. Fame of a constant lover will eternise it
More than a numerous issue; would you hear
Herself express her sorrow?

Lys. If I should desire it, it were impossible.

Moor. You conclude too fast: if this night you'll come
Unto her tomb, you there shall see her.

Lys. Though she bring thunder in her hand, I will not fail to come,
And though I cannot credit that your power can procure it,
My hopes it should be so will overcome
My reason. Ladies, I am your servant. [Exit.

Moor. Madam, I cannot stay to know particulars
Of what hath pass'd betwixt you and the prince:
Only tell me how he relish'd your saying you
Were promis'd to Ergasto?

Her. Respects to one
I seem'd to have made choice of made him
Forbear his character: but shall not I
Be punish'd, seeming to prefer one so unworthy
Both to Eugenio and this noble prince?

Moor. The gods give us permission to be false
When they exclude us from all other ways
Which may preserve our faith.
Longer I dare not stay. I am your servant. [Exeunt severally.

Enter Ergasto, Cleon, Phormio.

Erg. Now we are met, what shall we do to keep us together?

Phor. Let's take some argument may last an hour of mirth.

Cle. If you'll have Ergasto be of the parley, it must be of the ladies; for he is desperately in love.

Phor. If the disease grow old in him, I'll pay the physician; but be it so, and let it be lawful to change as often as we will.

Erg. What, the ladies?

Phor. The discourse of them and themselves too, if we could arrive to it. But what is she you love?

Erg. One that I would sacrifice half my life to have but a week's enjoying of.

Phor. At these games of love we set all; but the best is, we cannot stake, and there's no loss of credit in the breaking. Cleon, hast thou seen him with his mistress?

Cle. Yes, and he stands gazing on her, as if he were begging of an alms.

Phor. 'Tis not ill-done; but does he not speak to her?

Cle. Never but in hyperboles; tells her, her eyes are stars, which astronomers should only study to know our fate by.

Phor. 'Tis not amiss if she have neither of the extremes.

Cle. What do you intend?

Phor. I mean, neither so ill-favoured as to have no ground for what we say, for there belief will hardly enter; nor so handsome as to have it often spoke to her. For your indifferent beauties are those whom flattery surpriseth, there being so natural a love and opinion of ourselves, that we are adapted to believe that men are rather deceived in us, than abuse us.

Erg. Your limitation takes away much of my answer: but grant all that you say, I have no hope of obtaining my mistress.

Phor. Then thou hast yet a year of happiness: but why, I prythee?

Erg. She is so deserving, she thinks none worthy of her affections, and so can love none.

Phor. You have more cause to doubt that she will never affect you, than that already she is not in love: what, a young handsome lady, that carries the flame of her heart in her cheeks, not have yet seen any one to desire? 'Tis impossible.

Erg. I was of your mind, till I had experience of the contrary.

Phor. Conceit[359] of yourself makes you of the opinion I mentioned. You think 'tis impossible for all men, what you cannot attain to; what arts have you used to gain her?

Cle. He knows none but distilling sighs at the altar of her beauty.

Phor. If he be subject to that frenzy, I will counsel him to take any trade upon him rather than that of love.

Erg. And do you think there is anything fitter to call down affection than submission?

Phor. Nothing more opposite; for languishing transports, whinings and melancholy make us more laughed at than beloved of our mistresses—and with reason: for why should we hope to deserve their favours, when we confess we merit not a lawful esteem of ourselves?

Cle. I have known some their mistresses have forsaken, only because they were certain the world took notice they were deeply in love with them.

Phor. And they did wisely; for, the victory being got, they were to prepare for a new triumph, and not, like your city officers, ride still with the same liveries. Some (I confess) have miscarried in it, but 'twas because their provision of beauty was spent before they came to composition.

Erg. Thou wert an excellent fool in a chamber; if you continue, you'll be so in a comedy. Dost believe thou can'st swagger them out of their loves?

Phor. Sooner than soften their hearts by my tears; and though a river should run through me, I would seal up my eyes, before a drop should come that way: for our unmanly submissions raise them to that height, that they think we are largely favoured if they hearken to us with contempt.

Erg. 'Tis safer they should do so, than hate us for our insolence.

Phor. If thou hadst ever been used to talk sense, I should wonder at thee now; why, I should sooner hope to gain a lady after the murder of her family, than after she had an opinion I deserved to be slighted by her.

Cle. 'Fore Venus, he talks with authority. I know not well what he has said; but methinks there is something in it: prythee, let's hearken to him.

Phor. Do; and if I do not dispossess you of all your opinions, let me be——

Erg. You must deal by enchantment then; for I am resolved to stick to my conclusions.

Phor. 'Tis the best holdfast your foolish devil has; but strong reasons shall be your exorcism. Tell me first, what is she you love?

Erg. Would I could.

Phor. Then, for all thy jesting, there's some hope thou art yet in thy wits.

Erg. You mistake me; I mean I could not tell, because no tongue can speak her to her merit.

Phor. Heyday! if the ballad of the rose and honeycomb do not do it more than she deserves, or almost any woman, let me be condemned to sing the funerals of parrots.

Cle. Would the ladies heard you!

Phor. They would believe me, though they would be sorry your honours should. But what, this love—has it transformed us all? Cleon, you can tell who 'tis he thus admires?

Cle. Yes, and will; 'tis Hermione, Pindarus his heir.

Phor. What, Epictetus in a petticoat! She that disputes love into nothing—or, what's worse, a friendship with a woman?

Cle. The same; and I know you'll confess she's deserving.

Phor. Yes; but the mischief is, she'll ne'er think so of him. If polygamy were in fashion, I would persuade him to marry her, to be governess to the rest; but not till then. Wouldst thou be content to lie with a statue, that will never confess more of love than suffering the effects of thine?

Cle. And have his liberties in the discourse of her friends, that her retiredness may be more magnified.

Phor. Believe me, Ergasto, these severe beauties, that are to be looked on with the eyes of respect, are not for us: we must have them, that love to be praised more for fair ladies than judicious.

Erg. You mistake me, gentlemen; I choose for myself, not for you.

Phor. Faith, for that, whoever marries, must sacrifice to fortune; and she, whose wisdom makes her snow to you may be fire to another. Some odd wrinkled fellow, that conquers her with wit, may throw her on her back with reason. Take this from the oracle, that for the general calamity of husbands all women are reputed vicious, and for the quiet of particulars every one thinks his wife the phœnix.

Erg. You have met with rare fortunes.

Phor. Calumny is so general, that truth has lost her credit. But to th' purpose—what rivals? what hopes?

Cle. A potent rival takes away all: Lysicles does woo her.

Phor. Good night. I will dispute it no more, whether thou shouldst have her or no; for I now conclude it is impossible.

Erg. I had her father's firm consent before he declared himself.

Phor. Though thou hadst hers too, be wise, and despair betimes. In this point women are commonwealths, and are obliged to their faiths no farther than the safety and honour of the state is concerned. If thou wert the first example, I would excuse thee for being the first cosened. But stay, who's here?

Enter Phillida veiled, beckons to Ergasto.

O' my conscience, an embassage from some of your kind mistresses, that would fain take their leaves, before you go to captivity.

Erg. Is't possible?

Phil. She desires you to see her, and believe that ambition cannot gain more upon her than your affection.

Erg. Take this ring, and this.

Phil. I dare not, sir.

Erg. I'll pay thy dowry then within this half-hour: I'll wait on her. [Exit Phillida.

Cle. From what part of the town came this fair day in a cloud, that makes you look so cheerfully?

Erg. Alas, gentlemen! I was born to know nothing of love but sighs and despairs. I can be servant to none that can have the election of two.

Cle. Unriddle, unriddle.

Erg. 'Twas the servant of Hermione that came to have me wait upon her lady.

Cle. Phormio, what do you think of this?

Phor. I won't think at all, for fear I judge amiss. The mazes of a woman are so intricate, no precept can secure us. Yet this I'm resolved on: she will not love you.

Cle. Why sent she for him, then?

Phor. The devil that advis'd her can tell you: they
Will not lose a servant whilst he lives,
Though they command him to be murder'd. 'Tis the
Woman-art—if they perceive a lover to desist
Through fear, distrust, or harsher usage, they
Open him the heaven of their beauty in smiles
And yielding looks, and with their eyes do melt
The ice of doubts their fears contracted: perhaps
Prince Lysicles spurs coldly whilst he rides
Alone, and you must strain to make him go
The faster. Eugenio, too, was servant to your
Mistress, and Lysicles and he parted good friends.
Should I think all the ways they have to cosen
Us, 'twere endless. But I'll along with you,
And guess at more. [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[356] [In obedience to.]

[357] [Old copy, unjust.]

[358] [Dodsley printed unquitted.]

[359] [Old copy, conceites.]

---

[ACT III., SCENE 1.]

Enter Hermione, Irene; Pindarus following.

Pin. Tell my Lord Lysicles
I will attend him in the walks. Where's this
Ungrateful child whom the just gods have curs'd
So much, they will not let her take the blessings they
Do offer?

Her. Here, sir, on
Her knees, begging your pardon or your pity.

Pin. Canst thou hope either from my injur'd patience,
Vex'd by thy folly into rage and madness?
What colour now to cover disobedience?
Is Lysicles unworthy? or your knowledge,
Does it pierce farther than the eyes of all
Into Eugenie's virtues? I tremble,
When I think thou may'st have cause
To know him to thy shame. Do not confess it!
By the just gods, if I do come to know it,
I'll sacrifice thee on thy mother's tomb.

Her. What secret sin calls down this punishment?
That I should be accused of a fault
I dare not hear the sound of. Add not, sir,
Suspicions of new crimes unto your rage;
The faults I have committed are enough to arm
Your justice. Bring me to the tomb,
And kill me there; my mother's ghost will smile
To see my blood shed to preserve my faith.

Pin. Your faith!

Her. Yes, sir.
Nor is my disobedience so swoll'n
As you esteem it by your passion:
I now obey your general commands,
Of doing virtuously in loving him
You did applaud whilst my poor brother liv'd.

Pin. But you are not the same; 'twas never meant
He should enjoy you if your brother died.

Her. I was not made acquainted with so much;
But, strengthen'd by your approbation,
Gave up my will to his, and vows to heaven,
To know no other man for husband.

Pin. Nor I no child, if you continue thus:
Nor will I argue more to make you doubt,
I am not resolute in my intents:
Alive or dead, I'll give thee to the hands
Of Lysicles. [Exit Pindarus.

Her. Good gods' if you are mov'd with tears,
Grant this a trial only of the weak proportion
Of virtue you have lent me, not the overthrow.

Ire. How is it, dearest cousin?

Her. As with a martyr, almost as much pleased with
Knowledge [of] what I dare to suffer for Eugenio,
As griev'd with my affliction. Fortune in her
Malice has given me yet a field to exercise
My faith and love to him I do adore.

Ire. Whilst you believe you have such cause to grieve,
All comforts seem importunate; but yet Prince Lysicles——

Her. But what! Forbear; I fear thy thoughts
Are poison, which thou wouldest fain infuse
To wound my constancy.

Ire. Sure, there is magic in that mystic name;
It could not else divide us from our reason:
What law, what faith, can bind us to remove
Love of ourselves and reverence to our parents?
You must forgive this; your Eugenio,
If he were here, must speak as I do now,
Granting his love be great as his profession,
For that must have reflection on your peace,
Not bargaining for his own happiness
With the price of the entire destruction
Of yours. What is't you fear? Report?
It will reproach your being obstinate.
Or breach of faith d'you fear?
The gods for you have made it not a fault,
Proposing such an object as Prince Lysicles.

Her. Who ever had a misery like mine?
All that are griev'd have yet the liberty
And ease of their complaints, or pitying friends;
I am excluded both; for my misfortune
Is mask'd with happiness, and if I grieve,
Such comforts as we give to those complain
Of being too rich, have I—smiles of contempt.

Ire. If it be thus, retire into your reason,
And for a time forget your passion.
D'you think that all the names of virtue shrink
Into the sound of constancy? Must this
Make you forget the debt that you do owe
Unto your father, friends, and to yourself;
Their house's honour and your happiness?
Is Lysicles less worthy than his rival?

Her. No more: their virtues, that exceed all other men's,
In them are equal.

Ire. But yet their fortune is not?

Her. It is confess'd. Nor ever any man
Had juster claim than he against her;
Rich in all virtues, that make men desir'd,
Her narrow hand excludes him, unwonted to bestow
Her treasure there, where an excess of merit
Would make her gifts but seem the pay of virtue,
Not favours of her partial love.

Enter Acanthe the Moor.

O, you are welcome! Here behold a rock,
That stands the shake of the impetuous winds
And the swoll'n seas.

Moor. Have there been any new storms since I went?

Her. O yes; and more endangering songs of Sirens!
A flourishing land propos'd, on which I might
Have shipwreck'd with delight.

Moor. I think I understand you.

Her. You must needs:
It was Prince Lysicles, presented in his lustre,
'Gainst whom I arm'd the virtues of my friend
And my own faith, irresolute to whom
The victory should yield. At last I left
My heart, the prize to both divided.

Moor. To both divided!

Her. Yes, the prince hath the adoration of my heart,
Eugenio the love.

Moor. What fires, what seas, must your Eugenio pass,
To make him worthy you? Methinks I feel
His soul sigh for a trial of his faith.

Her. We both have had satiety of that:
But can you bring no comfort? Have the gods
Shut up their oracles as well as mercy?
Though they will give no ease, they might advise,
That we may put off misery by death.

Moor. They seldom let us know what is to come,
That we may still implore their aid to help us:
Yet something I can tell; if hope or force
Shall make you deviate from your resolve,
You are the subject of their hate: or if
You measure your or their affection
By merit or advantages of fortune,
You are the mark of all disasters.

Her. I have complained unjustly of the gods:
They favour me so much, they do applaud
My resolution for Eugenio.
Merit in others! I will close my eyes
From the bless'd sun, before they shall take in
An object that may startle my firm faith.

Moor. Be constant, and be happy; when you meet
With opposition that may shake your judgment,
Remember what affliction 'tis to weep
A fault irreparable; and think not
Reason can pacify your father's rage;
You must oppose your passion unto his,
And love will be victorious, being the noblest.
To-morrow I will bring more certain counsel. [Exit.

Her. Where cannot virtue dwell? What a still shade
Hath she found out to live securely in,
From the attempts of men? Come, my Irene,
Though thou hast spoken treason 'gainst my love,
Because[360] thine did produce it, I must thank thee.
Let's in, and fortify ourselves with some sad tale
Of those whose perjur'd loves have made them live
Hated, and die most miserable. [Exit Hermione.

Enter Phillida.

Phil. If I should weep, as my lady does, for all the servants I have lost!

Ire. Thou wouldst weep in thy grave, Phillida; yet the worst is, thou wilt lose more within this seven years than thou hast got in ten; for men are changeable, sweet Phillida.

Phil. And our faces were not, 'twere no matter. They should make haste, or we should overtake them, or prevent them. A commodity of beauty, that would last forty years, would bear a good price, madam.

Ire. By Venus, would it, Phillida! as high as that of honour.

Phil. But is not my lady a strange woman to weep thus for one servant, when she has another in his place? For my part, I could never find such differences in men—to be sad when I had any.

Ire. And thy word may be taken as soon as any wench's in Greece, or there be slanderers in the world. But she affects constancy.

Phil. Some ill-favoured woman, that meant to preserve her last purchase, which her want of beauty forfeited, invented that name.

Ire. Thou'rt in the right, Phillida; this inconstancy is a monster without teeth, for it devours none, makes no son wear happy mourning, nor mother childless: and, for my part, I am of opinion that the gods give a blessing to it; for none live happier than those that have greatest abundance of it.

Phil. What is got by this whining constancy, but the loss of that beauty for one servant, which would procure us the vows, [the] sacrifice, and service of a thousand?

Ire. Enough of this; wert thou with Ergasto?

Phil. Yes, and told him that my lady sent for him: but to what intent did you make me lie?

Ire. Thou art so good-natured, that thou wilt pardon such a trifle for one reason; but I have two: the first is, I would fain speak with him; the other, knowing my cousin to be in an ill humour, if he press to see her, I hope she will give him such an answer, that he shall never dare to speak to her more.

Phil. These men have less reason than mice: they would know else how to shift places, and shelter themselves from a storm. If I were a man, and lost the happiness of seeing my mistress two days, I should lose the desire the third. [Aside.] Do you sigh, madam? You are in love too.

Ire. As far as goes to sighing, but no dying, for their breeches.

Phil. I'll be your compurgator for the handle of a fan; I know love has brought many into the world, but let out none. Has he pierced you, ha?

Ire. O no, my skin was always proof against his dart; but he once found me laughing, and so thrust it down to my heart.

Phil. Look to it, though 'tis but a little weapon, yet I have known it make greater swellings than the sting of a bee. Do you long for a man?

Ire. Yes, a husbandman, and let the gods after take care for my children.

Phil. You'll find enou' to do it: is the Moor still with my lady?

Ire. I left her with her.

Phil. 'Tis a shame such people should be suffered near the Court.

Ire. Why, prythee?

Phil. As 'tis, there be so many inquisitive rascals, that we have much ado to keep matters secret; but if in despite of our care they be divulged, we shall be defamed on the Exchanges.

Ire. Thou hast reason, but she is secret as the night she resembles.

Phil. Is she? I would fain ask her one question: but 'tis no matter: 'tis but taking physic at the worst.

Ire. If thou talk'st a little longer, I shall guess as much as she knows. But who's here?

[Ergasto, Phormio, Cleon, talking at the door.

Phor. Ne'er fright me with the lightning of her eyes; on me she may open or shut her eyes as she please, but my happiness is not at her disposing.

Cle. If thou provest a lover, my next song is begun.

Phor. I will not deny but I may love her, if she please. But if she be not pleased with my love, if it continue two hours, I'll give her leave to tie me to her monkey.

Cle. Look, Ergasto has found two of the ladies, and has set his face to begin to them.

Phor. In verse or prose?

Cle. We shall hear, if we draw nearer. A good evening, ladies!

Ire. We thank you, my lords; but if we were superstitious, your company were no good omen.

Phor. Why, I beseech you?

Ire. Nay, I am no expositor; you come, my lord, to see my cousin Hermione.

Erg. I do, madam, and should be proud to hear I live in her memory.

Ire. Can you doubt it? I'll assure you you do; she's never troubled with anything, but you presently are called into the comparison with it; her teeth cannot ache, but she swears it is almost as great a vexation as your love: if any die, out of her pity to save the tears of a few mourners, she wishes it were you.

Erg. If I heard her desire it, she should quickly have her wish.

Ire. She would be glad on't, o' my conscience, though the scruple, of having you do anything for her sake would trouble her a little; yet I can teach you to make advantage of all this.

Phor. What advantage, my delicate sweet lady?

Ire. A very great one; for, first, I believe he desires nothing more than to be assured she esteems him for her servant.

Phor. Right; but does this usage show it?

Ire. Most evidently; for, being thus severe to none else, 'tis manifest she confesseth a power over him, and pays his services with this coin of scorn and contempt, and having her stamp upon't, he is bound to accept it.

Cle. What think you of this, Phormio?

Phor. A most excellent girl! would she were poor.

Cle. Why poor?

Phor. She would live rarely by her——

Cle. What?

Phor. Wit! I would be a good customer.

Ire. 'Twould please you to hear with what arguments she justifies this cruelty, and swears it is not revenge enough for spoiling her good nature.

Erg. I spoil her good nature?

Phor. Nay, let her go on; I'll hearken an age.

Ire. Yes, you, by suff'ring her undeserved scorn, have bred such a delight and habit of it in her, that she can hardly forbear it when she strives to be complaisant to her best friends; and, to say truth, we are all endangered by such as you, when we see that frowns procure us knees, and kind usage scarce gets us two good-morrows.

Phor. If ever there were a Sybil at sixteen, this lady is one. By this day, you have a high place in my heart.

Ire. In your heart!

Phor. Nay, despise it not, you'll find good company there.

Ire. But I love to be alone.

Phor. And I would fain meet you when you are so. Will you give me leave to speak with your scholar? [Hermione and Acanthe above.

Ire. If you be his friend, teach him to be wise.

Phor. For your sake, I will do all I can. Ergasto, wilt thou be happy? Marry this lady! Wilt thou be revenged on thy proud mistress? Marry her! Wilt thou be sure to father wise children? Do as I bid thee.

Erg. I will deal truly with thee: she has taken my heart out of Hermione's keeping.

Phor. Be thankful, and bestow it upon her in recompense; she will accept it, doubt not; she has taken such pains to redeem it. Look how she casts her eyes upon thee! She's thine own for ever, and has been long.

Erg. I am desperately in love.

Phor. Marry, and get out of it; there may be some little straining at the first offer of the present; but if she send not for it before you get home, I'll ne'er trust my eyes more.

[Phillida steals away, Cleon follows.

Erg. I'll attempt it, let what will follow.

Phor. Be confident, and prosper.

Erg. Madam, what would you expect from him you had redeemed from captivity?

Ire. The disposing of his liberty.

Erg. 'Tis just; but this may be no great favour to the slave, if his misery be only altered, not lessened.

Phor. You are little curious! Why do you not ask who this concerns? Well, I'll tell you; you have redeemed Ergasto, and he kneels to know your commands.

[Whilst he kneels, Hermione and the Moor
look down from the window.

Moor. You may believe her, madam, she loves him; now you may revenge her, persuading you to leave Eugenio, by smiling on Ergasto; 'twill advance your cousin's ends too, if you do as I'll advise you, whilst we descend.

Ire. 'Tis festival to-day, my lords, and so I admit this mirth. But to-morrow, I will tell you, I am no more inclined to love than my cousin Hermione.

Erg. But you can suffer yourself to be beloved?

Ire. I think I can.

Phor. He'll ask no more, but leave the rest to his respects and services.

Ire. But you consider not whom you may offend in this mirth.

Erg. I'll ne'er consider whom I offend in loving you: I wish her beauty centupled, that my first obligation to you might be leaving her. By this fair hand, I'll never name any but you for mistress.

Ire. I may believe you when time and your actions shall tell it me as well as your words.

Phor. You wrong your beauty to expect an assurance from time. Ordinary faces require it to perfect the impressions they make; yours strikes like lightning in an instant. If he did not adore you till now, you must attribute it to some fascination; but, his judgment cleared, he will be forced to continue the adoration he has begun.

Enter Hermione, Moor, Phillida, Cleon: they find Ergasto kneeling.

Phor. Who's that?

Erg. The Moor you heard of.

Phor. I have a strange capricio of love entered me: I must court that shade.

Her. How now, my lord! Courting another mistress! I see I must lock up my winds, or you will seek the nearest harbour.

Erg. Excluded by your rigour, madam, I was entreating your fair cousin to present my vows.

Her. Was it no more?

Erg. No more! you cannot doubt it, madam. Turn in your eyes upon your beauties and perfections, and they will tell you how impossible it is to lose the empire they have gained upon our hearts and wills. Fortune and want of merit may make me lose the hope of your fair graces, but never so much traitor as to pay homage to any other beauty, or change the resolution I have fixed to be your servant only.

Her. I thank you, sir; my sex will be my pardon if I return not equal thanks. We think, if any manumit, before we license them to part, they do usurp a power is ours by nature. The posture I found you in was more than ordinary courtship gives.

Erg. You might condemn it, had not you been the cause on't. I ne'er think of your name but with a reverence great as I pay the gods; and they allow us bending to their images when we transfer our vows. The fair Irene is worthy all have not the hope of you; but whilst you give me leave to cherish that ambition, I must not own so great an injury as to admit the proffered love of those who are so distant from your merit.

Her. 'Twas unkindly done to undermine me.

Erg. In her presence I will confirm this to you.

Her. You shall oblige me, since she has wronged me; Irene, hark you.

[They talk in private. After a long whisper,
the Moor strives to go from Phormio; he
holds her.

Phor. In the name of darkness, d'ye think I am not in earnest, that you coy it thus?

Moor. Forbear; uncivil lord. [She goes from him.

Cle. Dost thou not see that all the fire is out of the coal? If thou wouldst have it burn, lay thy lips to the spark that's left, and blow it into flame.

Phor. What wouldst thou have me do?

Cle. Kiss her.

Phor. Not for five hundred crowns.

Cle. Wouldst lie with her, and not kiss her?

Phor. Yes, and can give reasons for't, besides experience; and when this act is known—this resolute encounter, rich widows of threescore will not doubt my prowess.

[Hermione, Irene, Ergasto, break off their
private talk.

Ire. As I live, he swore all this to me.

Her. Hide thee, inconstant man, thou art so false
Thy oaths do serve thee for no other use
But to condemn thee, not to get belief:
Be gone, and leave to love till thou hast found
The way to truth, and let not vanity cozen you
To believe that I am mov'd, because you change:
A thousand other imperfections
Have made me hate thee; yet I chose this way
To let thee know't that, deprehended with the
Black mark upon thee, thou may'st not dare
To trouble me again.

Erg. Madam!

Her. There may be some that for their secret sins
The gods will punish, making them love you:
Choose amongst them. Irene, I will hope, though she
Be credulous, will learn by this how far 'tis safe to trust you.

Moor. This was well manag'd.

Phor. What mountain have you pierc'd,
That hath sent forth this wind, since I left you?

Erg. I have undone myself for ever.

Phor. As how?

Erg. I told Hermione I never lov'd Irene.

Cle. Did she hear it?

Erg. O yes! it might have been forsworn else.

Cle. The devil thou hast!

Erg. Ask him; he made me do't.

Cle. What course will you take to redeem your fault?

Erg. A precipice, as being ashamed to live any longer.

Phor. A halter you shall as soon! Come, come, I'll intercede, and be your surety. Look, she stays to pardon you; down on your knees.

[She goes away; Phormio pulls her back; Ergasto
kneels, holds up his hands, his cloak
over his face.

Phor. O my sweet lady! be merciful, like the gods you resemble. They have as often pardon in their hands as thunder; and the truth is, if they will not forgive this fault of inconstancy, they must live alone, or at least without men. This was the last gasp of his dying friendship to her; and now he is entirely yours.

Ire. He has not wronged me.

Phor. Fie! say not so; that's as great an injury as not pardoning him: he has, and shall come naked to receive his punishment. See, he dares not look for comfort; let him take it in at his ears.

Ire. Pray content yourself with the time you have made me lose, and let me go.

Phor. Never, till you pardon him.

Ire. I will do anything for my release; if he has offended me, let him learn hereafter to speak truer than he swears; and in time he may get credit.

Phor. 'Tis enough.

Erg. Is she gone?

Phor. Yes.

Erg. How did she look?

Phor. Faith, ashamed; she loved you so well, and sorry she had no reason to love you better.

Erg. 'Tis an excellent lady.

Phor. If I could make jointures, I would not take this pains for your honour. Cleon, whither slip you?

Cle. After Phillida.

Phor. And what success?

Cle. Pox on't! these waiting-women will not deal, unless they have earnest in their hands, and I was unprovided.

Phor. Away, unthrift![361] [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[360] [So for the metre; the old copy and Dodsley, 'cause.]

---

[ACT IV., SCENE 1.]

Enter Lysicles.

Lys. This is the hour powerful Acanthe promis'd
I should once more behold my lost Milesia.

Pardon me, Reason, that my wither'd hopes
Rebel against thy force; a happiness
So mighty is oppos'd unto thy doubts,
That I'll divest myself for ever of thee,
Rather than not believe impossibles,
That bring such comforts to my languish'd soul.
Hail, holy treasurer of all the wealth
Nature e'er lent the world! be still the envy
Of the proud monuments that do enclose
The glorious titles of great conquerors.
Let no profane air pierce thee but my sighs;

[Milesia riseth like a ghost.

Let them have entrance, whilst my tears do warm
Thy colder marble. Ha! what miracle!
Are the gods pleas'd to work to ease affliction?
The phœnix is created from her ashes,
Pure as the flames that made 'em: still the same,
The same Milesia! Heaven does confess in this,
That she can only add unto thy beauty
By making it immortal.
Let it be lawful for thy Lysicles
To touch thy sacred hand, and with it guide
My wandering soul unto that part of heaven
Thy beauty does enlighten.

Ghost. Forbear, and hear me. If you approach, I vanish——
Impious, inconstant Lysicles! Cannot
This miracle of my reassuming
A mortal shape persuade thee there are gods
To punish falsehood, that thou still persistest
In thy dissembling? Do not I know
Thy heart is swoll'n with vows thou hast laid up
For thy Hermione? whom thou wouldst persuade
Thy narrow heart is capable of love,
By mocking of my ashes, and erecting tombs
To me, which are indeed but trophies of thy dead
Conquer'd love and virtue.

Lys. No more, bless'd shape!
I shall not think that thou descendst from heaven,
If thou continuest thus in doubt of me;
Nor can there be a hell where such forms are.
The knowledge how thou com'st here doth disturb me;
Yet such a reverence I do owe thy image,
That I will lay before thee all my thoughts,
Spotless as truth. Then thou shalt tell the shades,
How fortune, though it made my love unhappy,
Could not diminish it, nor press it one degree
From the proud height it was arrived to.
How I did nightly pray to this sad tomb,
Bringing and taking fire of constant love
From the cold ashes. How, when encompass'd
With thousand horrors, death had been a rest [from],
I did prefer a loath'd life, to revenge myself
And her upon the murderer.

Ghost. I shall desire to live if this be true;
Nothing can add a comfort where I am,
But the assurance of your love. I know
Faith is not tied to pass the confines
Of this life; yet Hermione's happiness
Does trouble me. You'll think I lov'd
You living, when (dead) I am jealous of you.

Lys. Milesia, bless'd saint, now I am sure thou art
What thou resemblest, and dost know my secret'st thought.
But as the gods, of which thou art a part,
Are not content with our hearts' sacrifice,
Unless our words confess it; hear me then:
If my thoughts e'er consented to replant
My love, may your dire thunder light
Upon my head, and sink it down so low,
I may not see thy glories. I confess
My words have sacrific'd to deities
I ne'er ador'd. Those strains of love
My tears and friendship to the best of men,
I hope have cancell'd. For my Eugenio
I did pretend a love unto Hermione,
Who else had sold herself unto the rage
Of her offended father. Had you liv'd,
You would have pardon'd, when infidelity,
But personated, did preserve a faith
So holy as theirs was; this is my fault.

Ghost. My glory and my happiness!

Lys. Yet this, as oft I wept as I was forc'd
(For his dear cause) to injure sacred love;
Yet durst not but decline his severe laws,
When my friend's life excus'd the pious error.

Ghost. Did you suspect her, that you conceal'd this from her?

Lys. There is but one Milesia; besides,
If true, I meant her fears should aid
My false disguise, which her quick-sighted father
Would else have pierc'd, who hates Eugenio,
And loves no virtue but what shines through wealth.

Ghost. My best, best Lysicles, I am again in love,
Thy holy flame doth lend me light to see
My closed fires. Why did not fate give me
So large a field to exercise my faith?
I envy thee this trial, and would be
Expos'd to dangers, that have yet no name,
That I might meet thy love with equal merit.

Lys. The cause takes all away, and want of power
Excuseth what I cannot yet express.
But how our loves came to so sad a period,
As yet in clouds I have only seen [shown.]

Ghost. My uncle's cruelty and hate of you procur'd our separation.

Lys. But how knew he our loves? Though torment since
Have wrung it from me, my joys ever flow'd silent
And calm.

Ghost. I know it; but we were betray'd
By one that serv'd me, and the doubt's confirm'd
By the Moor you spake with yesterday.

Lys. Ha! how came she to know it? She was not here?

Ghost. All that I ever did she's conscious of;
And jealous of your love unto Hermione,
Did place me here, to search into your thoughts;
And now is prouder of this discovery,
Than if a crown were added to her [brows].

Lys. To what strange laws does heaven confine itself,
That it will suffer them that dare be damn'd
To have power over those it has selected?
My tears and sacrifice could never gain
So much upon its mercy, as to lend
Thy happy sight for one faint minute's comfort;
Yet those that sell themselves to hell, can force
Thy quiet rest for inquisition
On innocence. And to what purpose serves
Faith and religious secrecy,
When magic mocks and frustrates all our vows?
This Moor then was confederate with your uncle's passion?

Ghost. She is the cause that I do walk in shades.

Lys. And I will be that she shall walk in hell.
With her I will begin, then seek revenge
Under the ruins of thy uncle's house.
All men that dare to name him, and not curse
His memory, shall feel the power
Of my despised hate and friendship.

Ghost. My dearest Lysicles, promise to be
But temperate in your anger, and I will
Discover more than you yet hop'd to know.

Lys. As justice, that's concern'd to punish crimes, I will.

Ghost. Then know I was betray'd.
O love! here's company, I must retire. [Sinks.

Enter Pindarus and Servants.

Pin. Talking to graves at night, and making love i' th' day?
My lord, I nor my daughter have deserved this.

Lys. Pardon me, sir, I could do no less, being to take
An everlasting farewell, but give this
Visit to her memory. Reserve your censure
Till ten days be over, and if I do not
Satisfy you, condemn me. [Exeunt.

Enter Hermione and Phillida.

Her. [Here,] Philly, take thy lute, and sing the song
Was given thee last. [Exit Phillida.

Song.

Where did you borrow that last sigh
And that relenting groan?
For those that sigh, and not for love,
Usurp what's not their own.
Love's arrows sooner armour pierce,
Than your soft snowy skin;
Your eyes can only teach us love,
But cannot take it in.

The song being ended, re-enter Phillida.

Phil. O madam! call all your sorrows to you, you are
Not sad enough to hear the news I bring.

Her. Would it were killing, that my death might end
My fears, as my life has my hopes.

Phil. You mistake me, madam; Eugenio is returned.

Her. Eugenio returned! thou hast reason, Phillida, I should be dead with sorrow: 'tis not fit we hear his name without a miracle. Where is he? Send to bring him hither.

Phil. He waits on your commands without.

Her. Bring him in. Good gods!
If you can suffer me one minute's joy,
Give it me now, and let excess of happiness
Finish what sorrow cannot. But where's this happiness
I fain would dream of? Eugenio is return'd,
That I may look on him, and not be his,
And call our faiths in vain to aid our loves.

[ACT IV., SCENE 2.]

Enter Eugenio and Phillida.

Eug. May the gods give you, madam, a content
As high as you have power to bestow
On those you favour, and then your happiness
Will be as great as is your beauty.

Her. O my best lord! you now behold a face
Too much acquainted with my sad heart's grief
Not to be stain'd with't. Sure, you cannot
Know it?—I pray, say you do not—you'll wrong
Two things I am most proud of—my just grief
And your young love—which could not grow,
Nourish'd with such poor heat as now it gives.
I have a story that will break your heart
When you have heard it, and mine, ere I
Deliver it. Prince Lysicles to-morrow marries me,
Or I must leave my duty or my life.
Forgive me, that I dare to utter this.

Eug. Madam, forbear your tears: they are a ransom
Too mighty to redeem the greatest faith
The gods were ever witness to. I know
Whereto you tend: you would have me untie
The knot that bound our loves, and I will do't,
Though it be fasten'd to my strings of life.
Be happy in your choice: give to his merit
What once you promis'd to my perfect love,
By which I only did pretend my claim.
I do release you, as I know heaven has;
Who in his justice cannot have consented
To a longer faith in you; you must not be
The conquest of a miserable man,
O'er whom their cruel'st influences reign.

Her. Some saving power close up my drowned eyes,
Which death had long since shut, had not the love
And hope of seeing you preserv'd them open.
Have I been false for this to all my friends?
That you should think I can be so to you? Add not
By your suspicions a crime to our misfortune.

Eug. Of you I can have none, but what excuse you:
You had made me miserable, had not your faith
Yielded to those assaults; as worth and greatness
Titles your father's rage; and your own judgment
Did shake and raze it. With what disturbed mind
Should I have look'd on you my heart ador'd,
And love made miserable? Still you weep——
But these are tears your fortune did lay up
To ease your misery, had you continued mine.
And your suns, clear'd from their last clouds,
They will more freely shine on your Lysicles.
For myself, my love in his last act shall recompense
The injuries 't has done to your repose,
By killing me; then must injustice fly,
And hale inconstancy along with her,
From your fair conquer'd soul they now possess?

Her. O my griefs!
Now I perceive the gods decreed you endless,
Since they have made him add unto my torment,
Whose memory before did make the sharpest glorious.
Tears and sighs and groans, farewell.
They ne'er were spent but when I fear'd for you;
And, you being lost, I have no use of them.
Here, take this paper: 'tis the last legacy
My love shall ever give you: 'twas design'd
When I conceived you worthy. If you
Believe her words, whose faith was never lost, though you
Ungratefully have flung it off. If so you be not
That you accuse me for, you there shall find
A story that will punish your suspicion.

[He reads, and then kneels, and she turns from
him.

Eug. You that by powerful prayers have diverted
An imminent ruin, inspire me with fit words
To appease my injur'd mistress. Hear me:
I do not kneel for mercy, but to beg
Your leave to die: I must not live, when
Pardons make my offence most horrible, and hell
Is here without them; take a middle way
If you incline to mercy, and forget me.

Her. Rise; this is worse than your doubts were.

Eug.[362] Turn not your face away; would you revenge?
Then let my eyes dwell on't. What punishment
Can there be greater than for me to see
The beauty I have lost by my own fault?
Look then upon me.

Her. No, I must yet keep
My anger to preserve my honour, and I dare not trust
That and my eyes at once, if they behold you.

Eug. Then hear a wretched man, that has outliv'd
So much his hopes, he knows not what to wish—
Whether to live or die; yet life for this
I only seek, that you may find I shrink not
To punish him your justice has condemn'd.

Her. Rise, I can hold out no longer; the bare
Sounds of your death dissolve my resolutions;
Forget my anger, as I will the cause.

Eug. Never; it shall live here to honour me,
Since pity of my love made you decline it:
But must——

Her. Yes, the virtuous Lysicles—for his respects to me,
Howe'er unhappy, challenged that name—
In your absence labours to marry me: yet death——

Eug. Wretched Eugenio! did thy coward fate
Not dare to strike thee, till thou turn'dst thy back?
Must I return from banishment to find
My hopes are banish'd? Did I for this love virtue,
Pursued her rugged paths, when danger made
Her horrid to the valiant to be ruin'd
By him that is most virtuous? Ye gods,
Was envy, malice, fortune impotent
To injure me, but you must raise up virtue to suppress
Me? If I suffer it, I shall deserve it.

Her. O my Eugenio! we are miserable,
Yet must not quarrel, love, to take or give
A seeming comfort: go, try all your power
Of hate or friendship to undo this match;
I'll give you leave to die first—anything,
But let not me have so much leave to change,
As to believe you think it possible. [Exeunt.

[ACT IV., SCENE 3.]

Enter Lysicles and Servant.

Ser. The physician you sent for waits without.

Lys. Bring him in, and stay in the next room.

Enter Physician.

You are welcome: I must employ your trust and secrecy in something that concerns me. You must procure me instantly a powerful poison.

Phy. My lord!

Lys. Nay, no ceremonies of denial. I give you my intents, not to be disputed, but obeyed. I know you walk not frequently in these rough ways; but 'tis not want of knowledge, but your will, makes you decline them.

Phy. My lord, I have observ'd you long, and see you
Wear your life like something you would fain
Put off. I will not undertake to counsel you, in
That your nearest friends have oft attempted
Without success: yet, if my life should issue
With the words I now will utter, I'll boldly tell
Your grace, I will not be a means to cut your
Days off, to make mine happy ever.

Lys. I did expect this from you; and to inform you
Briefly know, though I do loathe my life, I will
Not part with't willingly, till it does serve
Me to revenge my wrongs: and to assure you more,
I will not use your art against myself. Let
Your composition procure the greatest torture
Poison can force, for I must use it upon one
Our laws cannot condemn; because the circumstance
That makes him guilty, cannot be produc'd, but with
Expense of time; and my revenge will not
Admit it. By my honour, this is the cause.

Phy. If I
Were sure your enemies should only try
Th' effects of what I can do in your service,
The horrid'st tortures treason ever justified,
Should not exceed the sufferings of those
Should take the poison I can bring you.

Lys. Bring it me instantly; and if the pains of hell
Can be felt here, let your ingredients
Call them up. If his life were only
My aim and end, whilst I do wear this,
I'd not implore your aid;
But I must set him on the rack, that there
He may confess my inquisition justice.

Phy. An hour returns me with your commands
Perform'd. Yet I'll observe you farther. [Aside.

Lys. So, this is the first degree to my revenge,
Which I will prosecute, till I have made
All that were guilty of my loss of peace,
Wash their impiety in their guilty blood.
All places where I meet them shall be altars,
On which I'll sacrifice the murderers,
To appease the spirit of my injur'd mistress:
And (the last victim) I will fall myself
Upon her sacred tomb, to expiate
The crimes I have committed in deferring
Justice thus long. This curs'd magician
Shall be the first—she did reveal our loves;
Milesia said she did; and if it were
Her blessed spirit, nothing but truth dwells in't.
If it were a phantom rais'd by her foul spells;
She pays the fault of her abusing me,
Insidiating with my Milesia's form,
To search, and then betray my resolution
Of serving my best friend. How now!

Enter Servant.

Ser. Sir, Lord Pindarus would speak with you.

Lys. Where is he? [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[361] [The third act is not divided into scenes in the old copy, nor are the first and second; and it is difficult to fix the point where the second scene should open.]

[362] [Omitted in old copy, but supplied by Dodsley, and in a coeval hand inserted in the copy now used of the original edition.]

---

[ACT V., SCENE 1.]

Enter Servant and Lysicles.

Ser. Sir, I have waited, as you commanded, near the house of the Egyptian lady: something is done that disturbs them all, divers run in and out, physicians are sent for: at last, I went in myself, and entered her chamber, found her on her bed almost distracted with torture: cries she is poisoned: curses her jealousy and curiosity, calls upon your name; desires and then forbids you should be sent for.

Lys. But I will come to her confession. Courage, my soul,
Let no faint pity hinder thee the joys
Thou art receiving; triumph in their sufferings
That have attempted thine. Look down, Milesia,
Applaud my piety, that snatch'd the sword
From sleeping justice to revenge thy death. [Exit.

Ser. What means my lord to be pleas'd with this
Sad news? How can this stranger have offended him?
I'll follow, learn the issue, and the cause. [Aside. Exit.

Enter the Moor on her bed, Hermione, Phillida, and Irene. The bed thrust out.

Moor. O, O, O gods! If I have merited your hate,
You might have laid it on, until my name
Had been a word to express full misery,
And I had thank'd you, if you had forborne
To make his innocence the instrument
Of your dire wrath. Hermione, Irene,
I have conjur'd my servants not to tell you,
When I am dead, who I was: but if
Their weakness shall discover't, let it be hid
From the best Lysicles: I burn, I burn,
And death dares not seize me, frighted
With the furies that torment me.

Her. Mysterious powers! Instruct us in the way
You would be serv'd, for we are ignorant;
Your thunder else would not be aim'd at those,
That follow virtue, as it is prescrib'd,
Whilst thousand others 'scape unpunished,
That violate the laws we are taught to keep.

Enter Lysicles.

Lys. What mean these sad expressions of sorrow?

Her. O my lord, nature had not made our hearts
Capable of pity if we forbear it here:
The virtuous Acanthe has been tormented
With pains nothing is able to express
But her own groans: she fears she's poison'd;
Talks of you, of tombs, and of Milesia,
And in the midst of all her torture says
Her distrust and jealousy deserve a greater punishment.

Lys. And I believe't, nor should you pity her:
Those that do trace forbidden paths of knowledge
The gods reserve unto themselves, do never do't,
But with intent to ruin the believers,
And venturers on their art. Something I know
O' th' curs'd effects of her commanding magic,
And she (no doubt) is conscious to herself
Of infinite more mischiefs than are yet reveal'd.
I am confident she is fled her country
For the ills she has done there, and now
The punishment has overta'en her here.
And, for her shows of virtue, they are masks
To hide the rottenness that lies within,
And gain her credit with some dissembled acts
Of piety, which levels her a passage
To those important mischiefs hell
Has employ'd her here to execute.

Moor. O gods! deny me not a death, since you
Have given me the tortures that advance it:
If I deserve this, your inflicting hands
Do reach unto the shades, lay it on there.
Hermione, Irene, is Lysicles yet come?

Lys. Yes, to counsel you to pacify the gods
You have offended by your cursed arts:
The blessed ghost you sent me to has told me
Some sad effects on it, and in her name and cause
Have the gods hurl'd this punishment on thy
Foul soul, and made my grief, enrag'd to madness,
The blessed instrument of thy destruction,
Which does but here begin.

Moor. You then did send
The poison with the present I receiv'd?

Lys. Yes, I did;
And wonder you durst tempt my just revenge,
Unless you did believe, you could confine
The revelations of the best spirits
Your cursed charms betray'd first,
And then enforc'd to leave their happy seats,
To perfect the designs your malice labour'd in.

Moor. What unknown ways have the gods invented
To punish me! I feel a torment
No tyranny e'er parallell'd, yet must confess
An obligation to him that impos'd it.
Good gods! If I do bow under your wills,
Without repining at your sad decrees,
Grant this to recompense my martyrdom,
That he that is the author of my sufferings,
May never learn his error. Sir, if torments
E'er could expiate the crimes we have committed,
Mine might challenge your pardon and your pity:
I feel death entering me; love the memory
Of your Milesia, and forgive——

Ire. Help, help! She dies!

Lys. If it be possible, call life into her for some minutes, her full confession will absolve my justice.

Ire. Bring some water here, she does but swoon. So, chafe her temples——O heavens! What prodigy is here! Her blackness falls away! My lord, look on this miracle; doth not heaven instruct us in pity of her wrongs, that the opinions which prejudice her virtue, should thus be washed away with the black clouds that hide her purer form?

Her. Heaven hath some further ends in this than we
Can pierce. More water: she returns to life,
And all the blackness of her face is gone.

Ire. Pallas, Apollo, what may this portend?
My lord, have you not seen a face like this?

Lys. Yes, and horror seizeth me. Tis the idea
Of my Milesia. Impenetrable powers!
Deliver us in thunder your intents,
And exposition of this metamorphosis.

Her. She stirs

Lys. Hold her up gently. [He kneels.

Moor. O, O! Why do you kneel to me?

Lys. Are not you Milesia?

Moor. Why do you ask?

Lys. O, then you are.

Moor. My Lysicles, I am by miracle preserv'd;
Though, since the gods repent them of their succours,
Knowing me unworthy of thy firm constant love,
I never thought that death could be a terror,
Too long acquainted with the miseries
Pursue our lives; but now the apprehension
My grave should swallow thee, makes me to welcome it
With a heaviness that sinks despairing sinners.

Lys. Pour down your thunder, gods, upon this head,
And try if that can make me yet more wretched.
Was not her death affliction enough,
But you must make me be the murderer?
Is this a punishment for adoring her
Equal with you, you made so equal to ye?
Pardon the fault you forc'd me to commit:
So visible a divinity could not be look'd
On with less adoration.

Moor. If e'er I did expect a happier death,
May I die loath'd! What funeral pomp
Can there be greater than for me to hear,
Whilst I yet live, my dying obsequies
With so much zeal pronounc'd by him I love?——
Tortures again do seize me.

Lys. Eyes, are you dry, where such an object calls
[All] your tears forth! My blood shall supply their[363] place.

Moor. For heaven's sake, hold his hands. O my best Lysicles,
Do not destroy the comforts of my soul;
What a division do I feel within me!
I am but half-tormented; my soul in spite
O' th' tortures of my body, does feel a joy
That meets departed spirits in the blest shades.

Lys. What unexpected mischiefs circle me,
What arts hath malice, arm'd with fortune, found
To make me wretched? Could I e'er have thought
A miracle could have restor'd thee to my eyes,
That[364] they should, see the joys of heaven in thee?
Yet now the height of my affliction is,
That they behold thee, guilty of the close
Of thine for ever. See, Hermione,
The countenance death should put on, when death
Would have us throng unto her palaces,
And court her frozen sepulchres.

Ire. Sure, she is dead: how pale she is!

Lys. No; she is white as lilies, as the snow
That falls upon Parnassus; if the red were here,
As I have seen't enthron'd, the rising day would get
New excellence by being compared to her:
Argos nor Cyprus [nor] Egypt ne'er saw
A beauty like to this; let it be lawful for me to usurp
So much on death's right, as to take a kiss
From thy cold virgin-lips, where he and love
Yet strive for empire. The flames that rise from hence
Are not less violent, though less pleasing now,
Than when she did consent I should receive
What now I ravish.

Moor. Dares not death shut those eyes, where love
Hath enter'd once, or am I in the shades
Assisted with the ghost of my dear Lysicles?

Lys. She speaks again: good heaven, she speaks again!

Her. You are yet living?

Moor. And, therefore dying; but, before I go,
Let me obtain your pardon for the wrongs
My jealousy hath thrown upon your innocence.
'Twas my too perfect knowledge of my want
Of merit to deserve, made me doubt yours:
I mean your constant love, which I will teach
Below, and make them learn again to love
Who have died for it.

Lys. Do not abuse your mercy and my grief
By asking pardon of your murtherer;
But curse your sufferings off on this devoted head,
To save the beauty of the world in you.

Moor. Why should your grief make me repent the joys
I ever begg'd of heaven—the knowledge
Of your love? Could there be added more
Unto my happiness, than to be confirm'd
By my own sufferings, how much you did love me,
And prosecuted those that desired my ruin?
Like Semele I die, who could not take
The full God in her arms.
I have but one wish more, that I may bear
Unto the shades the glorious title of your wife:
If I may live so long to hear but this
Pronounc'd by Lysicles, I die in peace.

Lys. Hear it, with my vows not to behold
The sun rise after you are gone.

Moor. O, say not so; live, I command you, live;
Let your obedience unto this command
Show you have lost a mistress.

Lys. Can I hear this and live?

Ire. My lord, our cares will be employed better
In seeking to avert this lady's death
Than in deploring it.

Lys. You advise well. Run all to the physician:
I will myself to Arnaldo, who gave
This poison to me. Let me have word sent to the
Cypress grove the minute she is dead. [Exeunt. Draw in the bed.

Enter Lysicles meditating.

Lys. If life be given as a blessing to us,
What law compels us to preserve it longer
Than we can see a possibility
Of being happy by it, but we must expect,
Till the same power that plac'd us here, commands
A restitution of His gift? This is indeed a rule
To make us live, but not live happily.
'Tis true, the slave that frees himself by death,
Doth wrong his master; but yet the gods are not
Necessitous of us, but we of them.
Who then is injur'd if I kill myself?
And if I durst to hear their voice, they call
Men to some other place, when they remove
The gust and taste of this. We should adore, thee, death,
If constant virtue, not enforcement, built
Thy spacious temples.

Enter Eugenio.

Welcome, Eugenio, welcome, worthy friend;
How long are you arrived?

Eug. Time enough to revenge, though not prevent
The injuries you have done me.

Lys. What means my friend?

Eug. I must not hear that name now; you have lost
The effects and virtue of it: I come to punish
Your breach of faith.

Lys. Is hell afraid my constancy should conquer
The mischiefs that are rais'd to swallow me,
That it invents new plagues to batter me?
By all that's holy, I never did offend my friend—
Not in a thought.

Eug. Those that by breach of vows provoke their justice
Do seldom fear profaning of their names;
To hide their perjuries will put it on them.
You have attempted my Hermione,
And forc'd her father to compel her voice
Unto your marriage.

Lys. All this I do confess; but 'twas for both your goods,
As I will now inform you.

Eug. Hell and furies! Because your specious titles,
Your spreading vineyards, and your gilded house
Do shine upon our cottage, must our faiths,
Which heaven did seal, be cancell'd? 'Twas my virtue
Won her fair graces, which still outshine
Your flames of vice.

Lys. It hath not light enough to let you see your friend.
Gods, could that man have liv'd that dar'd to say
Eugenio did suspect his Lysicles?
And now in pity you do show him me,
That I may fly the world without regret,
Not leaving one of worth behind me in it.
Be gone, and learn your errors.

Eug. I have done't already. They were trusting you
With my life's happiness. Draw, and restore the vows
You made Hermione; or I will leave you dead,
And tear them from your heart.

Lys. Fond man! thou dost not know how much 'tis in
My power to make thee miserable:
I could now force thee execute my wish
In killing me; and thou wouldst fly the light,
When it had show'd thee whom thy rage offended.
But till I fall by my own hand, my life
Is chain'd unto my honour, which I will wear
Upon my sepulchre. Nor must I die,
Being guilty of Milesia's murder,
For any cause but hers; else were my breast,
Since you have wrong'd me, open to your point.

Eug. Can you deny but that you have attempted
The faith of my Hermione?

Lys. I can with so strong circumstance of truth
Would make you blush for having doubted mine.
But he that was my friend, and suspects me,
Must attend less satisfaction than a stranger.
Proceed, and let your case be both your judge and guide.

Eug. What should I do? I dare not trust my sense,
If he should tell me that it does deceive me:
Virtue itself would lose her quality
Ere he forsook her, and his words do fall
Distorted from him; his soul doth labour
Under some heavy burden, which my passion
Did hinder me from seeing. Sir, forgive,
Or take your full revenge; let your own griefs
Teach you to pity those are distract with it.
I will not rise until you pardon me.

Lys. O my Eugenio, thy kindness hath undone me!
My rage did choke my grief, which now did spread
Itself over my soul and body. Up, and help
To bear me till I fall eternally.

Eug. Who can hear this, and not be turn'd to marble?
Good sir, impart your sorrows; I may bring comfort.

Lys. Whilst they were capable, thou didst; but now
They are too great and swoll'n to let it in.
Milesia, whom you and I supposed dead,
By me to-day is poison'd, and lies dying
In her torment. Is not this strange?

Eug. What have you said that is not?
But heaven avert this last!

Lys. It is too late now; let me beg thy kindness
Would do that for me I forbad thy passion.

Eug. What is't?

Lys. Kill me.

Eug. You cannot wish me such an hated office!
Call up your reason and your courage to you,
Which was not given you only for the wars,
But to resist the batteries of fortune.
People will say that Lysicles did want
Part of that courage fame did speak him lord of,
When they shall hear him sunk below her succour.

Lys. You will not kill me then?

Eug. When I believe there is no other means
To ease you, I will do't.

Lys. All but death are fled.

Eug. Then draw your sword, and as I lift my arm
To sheathe this in your breast, let yours pierce me;
On this condition I may do your will.

Lys. I may not for the world. Why should you die?

Eug. See how your passions blind you! Is death
An ease or torment? If it be a joy,
Why should you envy it your dearest friend?

Lys. Our causes are not equal.

Eug. They will be, when you're dead. How you mistake
The laws of friendship, and commit those faults
You did accuse me of! I would not live so long
To think you can survive your dying friend.

Lys. Eugenio, I am conquered; yet I hope thy kindness
Will do that for me which thy sword refuseth.
Love thy Hermione: she deserves it. Friend,
Leave me alone awhile.

Eug. Your grief's too great for me to trust your life with't:
I dare not venture you beyond my help.

Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? Where's Prince Lysicles?

Lys. Hark! I am call'd, the fatal news is come.

[Draws.

Eug. Fie! how unmanly's this? Can sounds affright you,
Which yet you know not whether they do bring
Or joys or sorrows? When remedies are despair'd of,
You have still leave to die. Perhaps she lives,
And you'll exhale her soul into your wounds,
And be the death of her you mourn for living.

Within. Where's Prince Lysicles? Where's Prince Lysicles?

Eug. It is the voice of comfort; none would strive
To be a sad relator. I'll call him. Holla!
Here he is.

Enter a Servant.

Ser. The strange lady kisses
Your hands, my lord: Arnaldo has restored her;
She bid me say your sight can only give
Perfection to what he has begun.

Eug. Will you die now?

Lys. Softly, good friend: gently let it
Slide into my breast; my heart is too narrow yet
To take so full a joy in.
You're sure this news is true?

Ser. Upon my life.

Eug. Why should you doubt it?

Lys. My comforts ever were like winter suns,
That rise late and [then] set betimes: set with thick clouds
That hide their light at noon. But be this true,
And I have life enough to let me see it,
I shall be ever happy.

Eug. So, 'tis well;
At length his hope hath taught despair to fear. [Exeunt.

Enter Milesia, Hermione, Irene, Physician.

Phy. Madam, my innocence will plead my pardon; I could not guess for whom my lord intended it. The truth is I feared, considering his deep melancholy, he intended to use it on himself, and therefore meant to make him out of love with death, by suffering the pains our souls do feel when they are violenced from us. I had provided antidotes, but could not till this hour learn on whom it was employed. Sure I was, it could be death to none, though full of torment.

Mil. Till I have farther means to thank you, receive this ring.

Her. But, madam, what did poor[365] Hermione deserve,
That you should hide yourself from her?
Or are you the Milesia that was pleas'd
To call me friend? or is she buried
By Pallas' temple? Truly, belief and memory,
Opposing sense, makes me doubt which to credit.

I wept you dead, the virgins did entomb you:
Were we then or no deceiv'd?

Mil. My fair dear friend, you shall know all my story.
'Tis true, my uncle did design my death
For loving Lysicles; for, at his coming hither,
He charg'd me, by all ties that were between us,
To hate him as the ruin of his honour;
And yet, for some dark ends I understood not,
Resolv'd to leave me here. I swore obedience,
But knew not what offence it was to keep
An oath so made, till I had seen Lysicles,
Which at your house I did, when he came wounded
From hunting of the boar. All but his name
Appear'd most godlike to me. You all did run
To stop his wounds, and I thought I might see
My enemy's blood; yet soon did pity seize me,
To see him bleed. Thus, love taking the shape
Of pity, glided unseen of me into my heart,
And whilst I thought myself but charitable,
I nurs'd my infant love with milk of pity,
Till he grew strong enough to take me prisoner.
I found his eyes on mine, and ere I could
Remove them, heard him say, he'd thank his fortune
For this last wound, if 'twere the cause
Of seeing me; then took his leave,
But left me speechless that I could not say,
My heart, farewell! After this visit our loves
Grew to that height that you have heard of.

Her. The groves and temples, and dark shades have heard
Them mourn'd and celebrated by your friend.

Mil. I had a servant unsuspected of me,
(For none I trusted that observ'd our meetings,)
Who[366] guessing by my sighs that love had made them,
Betray'd them to my uncle. On Pallas' eve
He rush'd into my chamber, his sword drawn,
And snatch'd me by the arm. I fell down,
But, knowing yet no fault, could beg no pardon.
Awhile our eyes did only speak our thoughts;
At length out of his bosom he pull'd a paper:
It was the contract betwixt my lord and me;
And ask'd me if I would avow the hand.
Heaven, said I, has approv'd it, and the gods
Have chose this way to reunite our houses.
Stain of thy kindred's honour, he exclaims,
Was there no other man to ease your lust
But he that was our greatest enemy?
Resolve to die: thy blood shall hide the stains.
Of our dishonour.

Her. He could not be so cruel to intend it?

Mil. He was; for leaving me oppress'd with sighs
And tears, yet not of sorrow and repentance,
But fear that I should leave my dearest servant,
Commands his cruel slaves to murder me
As I descended; and lest pity should
Create remorse, in their obdurate hearts,
The lights were all put out. Then hastily
My name was heard. I then entreated her
That betray'd me to tell them I was coming,
And took this time to write unto my lord.
She went, but by the way was seiz'd
And strangled by those murderers
That expected me. My uncle heard
Her latest groans; and now the act was pass'd
His power to help, he wish'd it were undone:
Brings lights to see the body, and perceiv'd
The strange mistake. By signs and lifted eyes
Confess'd heaven's hand was in't; yet would not leave
His revenge here—commands his slaves to change
My clothes with hers was slain; then takes the head off,
And on the trunk did leave a note which told
My death for loving Lysicles, in hope my ruin,
Knowing his noble nature, would be his.
At midnight quits this town, leaving none behind
Were conscious of the fact—immures me in
His house; till I escap'd in that disguise
I wore when I first came to you.

Ire. Why did
You not declare yourself when you came hither?

Mil. You were the cause on't. At my arrival here
I heard my Lysicles should marry you,
And therefore kept the habit I was in,
To search unknown the truth of this report,
And practis'd in the private actions
Of some near friends, got an opinion
I could presage the future. Thus was I
Sought by you, thus [I] found the faith
Of my dear Lysicles, when at the tomb I did
Appear his ghost, and had reveal'd myself, had not
The shame of doubting such a faith kept my desires in.

Her. Then he dissembled when he made love to me?

Mil. He did. Forgive it him; 'twas for his friend.

Her. I am sorry for it.

Mil. How, my dear friend?

Enter Lysicles and Eugenio.

Her. Nay, it is true.
Eugenio and he are of such equal
Tempers I shall suspect he has dissembled too.

Mil. O, you are pleasant!
Here comes my lord.

Lys. Is there a wish beyond this happiness,
When I embrace thee thus? I will not ask
Thy story now: it is enough to know
That you are living.

Mil. The gods have made this trial in my sufferings,
If I deserv'd so great a blessing:
I have but one grief left.

Lys. Is that word yet on earth?

Mil. Yes, but it springs from an excessive joy
Of finding such admired worth in you.
What I hereafter shall do in your service
Must wear the name of gratitude, not love.

Lys. No, my Milesia,
Mine was the first engagement, and the gods
Made thee so excellent to keep on earth
Love that was flying hence, finding no object
Worthy to fix him here.

Her. No more, Eugenio: if your words could add
Expressions to your love, you had not had
So much of mine; and after I have tried
Your faith so many ways, it would appear
Ingratitude, not modesty, to show
A mistress' coldness.

Eug. May I believe all advantageous words,
Or may I doubt them, seeing they come from you,
Who are all truth? I will not speak
How undeserving I am of these favours,
Because I will not wrong th' election
Your gracious pity forceth on your judgment.

Lys. Our joys do multiply; but, my dear friend,
I have yet something that will add to yours.
My father's call'd to court, and you are left
Governor in his place; this, I know, will make
Lord Pindarus consent to both your wishes.
Your pardon, madam, and when you lie embrac'd
With your Eugenio, tell him, if my faith
Had not the double tie of friend and mistress,
A single one had yielded to the hopes
Of the enjoying you. Here comes my lord!

Enter Pindarus.

O my good lord, I must entreat your pardon
For a fault my love unto my friend engag'd me in:
Let your consent complete the happiness
Of these two perfect lovers; I am confident
You ever did approve his virtue: his fortune now
Can be no hindrance, since our gracious king,
In contemplation of his merits,
Hath made him governor in my father's place.

Pin. Most willingly I give it, since I've lost the
Hopes of being allied to you: heaven bless you both!
Sir, your own love of my Hermione,
And yours now, will teach you t' admit
An easy satisfaction for the troubles
My love unto my child hath thrown upon you.

Eug. You are all goodness, and my services,
Ever directed by your will, shall show,
Though I can never merit this great honour,
I will do nothing shall deprive me of
The honour of your love and favour.

Pin. Your virtue promiseth more than I may hear
From you. Once more, heaven bless you!
If my Lord Ergasto now were satisfied,
I shall be at peace; for, having promised
My daughter to him, I would not have him
Think that by me he's injur'd.

Her. 'Tis in your power, sir, to satisfy him.

Pin. I would do anything.

Her. Persuade my cousin to confess she loves him,
Which I do know she does; and he already
Has made profession of his unto my prejudice:
Nay, blush not, cousin, since you would not allow me
This secret as a friend, you may excuse
Th' inquisitiveness of a rival.

Mil. This is all truth, my lord, I can assure you.

Pin. Is't possible, Irene, do you love Ergasto?

Ire. Methinks your experience, uncle, should teach you
That such a question was not to be ask'd.
Well, if I did love[367] him, 'twas 'cause I thought
That he lov'd me; but if he does not,
I pardon him: for I am certain he
Once believ'd it himself.

Pin. If ever love
Make any deep impression in you,
I am deceiv'd.

Ire. His dart may strike as far into me
As into another, for aught you know, uncle.

Pin. You have ill-luck else, niece.

Enter Phormio, Ergasto, Cleon.

Phor. Nay, it is most certain, the town is full of it:
Milesia, I know not how, is alive again:
Eugenio is made governor; though you were constant,
You can have no longer hopes of Hermione:
Therefore let me advise you, make that seem
Your own election which'll else be enforcement:
Quit your interest in Hermione, and renew
Your suit to Irene.

Erg. Observe me.

Pin. Welcome, my lords, do you know this lady?

Erg. Most perfectly, and came to congratulate
With the prince for her double recovery.

Lys. I thank you, my lord; and when my friend and you
Are reconcil'd, you may assure yourself
I am your servant.

Erg. What's in my power to give him satisfaction,
He may command.

Eug. Your friendship does it.

Pin. My lord, this reconcilement will make way
Unto my pardon: I have not been wanting
In my promise to you; but my daughter thinks she
Has chosen so well that, without my leave,
She hath made herself her own disposer.

Erg. Ages of happiness attend them! If I may hope to gain the graces of the fair Irene, I shall be happy too.

Pin. If I have any power, she shall be yours.

Lys. Let me beg the honour of interceding; your fortunes and conditions are so equal, it were a sin to part you.

Phor. Pray, sir, let him do it himself: the task is not so hard to require a mediator.

Ire. Have you such skill in perspective?

Phor. As good as any chiromancer in Egypt, madam.

Erg. He has reason, for I have opened my breast to him, and he has seen my heart, and you enthroned in't.

Phor. He tells you true, lady.

Ire. Indeed, sir! And pray, what did it look like?

Phor. Faith, to deal truly, much like the wheel of fortune which, turning round, puts the same persons sometimes at top, sometimes at bottom: but at last love shot his dart thorough the axle-tree, and fixed you regent.

Ire. Well, I have considered, and my cousin's example shall teach me.

Erg. What, in the name of doubt?

Ire. To avoid the infinite troubles you procured her by your fruitless solicitations. D'ye think your tears shall cost me so many tears as they have done her?

Pin. You may excuse them by consenting to your friend's desires.

Mil. Sweet madam, let me obtain this for him. He dies if you deny him.

Her. Dear Irene, perfect the happiness of this day.

Ire. You have great reason to persuade me to take him you abhorred.

Her. I was engaged.

Ire. Well, if any here will pass their words he can continue constant a week, I will be disposed by you.

Omnes. We all will be engaged for him.

Ire. On this condition I admit him to a month's service, and myself to a perpetual servitude.

Erg. I ever shall be yours.

Ire. My father said so, till my mother wept.[368]

Eug. A notable wooing this!

Lys. And as notably finish'd.
Let's now unto my father, who expects
You, to deliver his commission to you.
Come, my Milesia, tell my wounded heart
No more her sighs shall wander through the air,
Not knowing where to find thee: no more
Shall the mistaken tomb of false [OE]none
Be moist'ned with my tears; yet, since she died
To save thy life, her ghost could not expect
A cheaper sacrifice. This I'll only add:
In memory of us, all lovers shall
Repute this day as their great festival.

FOOTNOTES:

[363] [Old copy, your.]

[364] [Old copy, but.]

[365] [Old copy; your poor.]

[366] [Old copy, and.]

[367] [Dodsley omitted love.]

[368] [Some of the sallies of the fair Irene remind us of Shakespeare's Beatrice.]

FINIS.

Transcriber's Notes:

Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected.

Punctuation normalized.

Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed.

Table of Contents added by transcriber.