[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.