Cyrus' the Great: OR, THE Tragedy of Love.  
As it is Acted at the THEATRE IN Little-Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, BY His Majesty's Servants.  
Written by JOHN BANKS.  
LONDON, Printed for Richard Bentley at the Post-Office in Russel-street, Covent-Garden. 1696.   

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE Princess ARM OF DENMARK.  
Madam,  
I Confess I am so transported at the Honour You have done this poor Play, that I know not in what Terms to pay my Devotion to Your Highness; I am not insensible too of my own Unworthiness, and that it is a Presumption even in the best of this Kind, to think to gain Admittance into the Closet of so Great a Princess; But when I consider that no Present, of what Value soever, can be made suitable to One of Your Illustrious Character, It gives me Encouragement to hope this Trifle may not be less Acceptable to Your Royal Goodness, than a Pitcher of Water was to the Great Monarch of the World, from the Hands of a Mean Soldier. 'Twere Profaneness in me any longer to divert with my rude Pen Your Divine Thoughts and Precious Moment's, that are still employed Above, in imploring Blessings for the Nation, and more profane to sully the Crystal Mirror of so many Incomparable Virtues with the coarse Breath of Mortal Praise.  
I most humbly ask Leave then to withdraw from a Subject so much above my Capacity and Merit; (a Task fit only for the Angels You converse with,) and pray my Muse may have the Happiness to conclude, who groans to be delivered of her Duty, in these Homely, but Hearty Thanks.  
Accept, Great Princess, this small Offering,  
This humble Mite I to your Treasure bring,  
The poor mean Present of a bended Muse,  
Amidst the Heaps of all the Wealthier jews,  
A banished Play that tedious Years had mourned,  
Blessed with your favour, by your Smiles returned,  
Writ and designed for this Immortal Grace,  
ere my then happier 
* Earl of Essex.  Favourite took place;  
But tho' the Younger first the Blessing had,  
This brings no less Devotion that has stayed:  
The grateful Peasant thus before he's stored,  
Gives his first Fruits of Plenty to his Lord.  
Since this had never lived but for your sake,  
'Tis just I give you what yourself did make:  
For the Great Cyrus being but a Child,  
And in his Cradle destined to be killed,  
Your Highness his Divine Panthea now,  
Has raised him both to Empire and to You.  
The God of Love, who in the Scene departs,  
Bequeathes to You his Quiver and his Darts,  
And, what is more, his Title to all Hearts.  
Whilst at your Feet, the mighty Monarch lays  
His conquered Crowns, as humbly I the Bays.  
Happy was He that Presence to engage,  
That cheered the World, and brought to Life the Stage,  
Where the sad Muses, since they lost their Queen,  
Ne'er till that Day did tune their Songs again.  
The ravished Crowds adored You as You rode,  
Like Spring in April coming first abroad.  
My humble Muse, then, that did grovelling lie,  
Soared like an Eagle through the Vaulted Sky,  
Forgot the Disappointments that she had,  
Raved with fierce Joy, and ran with Pleasure mad:  
Two Labours of her Brain, 
Queen of Scots.  this Play the third,  
Through Spite and Envy were the Stage debarred, 
Lady jane Grey.   
Cast and ne'er Tried, Condemned and never Heard.  
Thus drooped your Poet, saw his Laurels stained,  
Or robbed by Others who more favour gained;  
But time he hopes, and Pity in your Breast,  
Will bring'em both to Life, as this is blessed.  
Your Royal Highness's most humble, most devoted, and most obedient Servant, J. Banks.   

PROLOGUE TO HER Royal Highness.  
WHen all that we thought great and good was gone,  
And the whole World did in that Deluge drown,  
When mourning Cupid's flagged their tender Wings,  
And the sad Muses broke their warbling Strings;  
When she was fled that shined with Pity here,  
What could revive the drooping Theatre!—  
But from the Phoenix Ashes in their Spice,  
Lo, I behold another Goddess rise.  
All Blessings that with her, great Princess, flew,  
Can never be restored us, but in You.  
The Dove in the glad Ark was not so kind,  
Who brought the Olive, and revived Mankind.  
The Laurels fading now behind our Scene,  
Like Virgil's Grotto, shall be ever green.  
Let conquering William send abroad his Darts,  
Secure for him you rule his People's Hearts.  
And his soft Pledge only herself withdrew,  
Whilst all her Miracles succeed in You:  
Then let's to Heaven in loudest Anthems sing  
That such bright Hopes we have, and such a King.   


Dramatis Personae.  
Cyrus' the Great. Mr. Betterton.  
Cyaxares, King of Media. Mr. Smith.  
Hystaspes, Kinsman to Cyrus. Mr. Kynaston.  
Croesus', King of Lydia. Mr. Bowman.  
Abradatas, King of Susa. Mr. Hudson.  
Artabasus, Friend to Cyaxares. Mr. Thurmond.  
Thomyris, Queen of Scythia. Mrs. Bowtell:  
Panthea, her Daughter. Mrs. Barry.  
Lausaria, Daughter to Croesus. Mrs. Bracegirdle.  
Officers, Guards, Women, and Attendance.   Scene the Camp near Babylon.  

Cyrus' the Great.  

Actus Primus. Scaena Prima.  The Scene a wide spacious Land, ruinous and almost covered with dead Bodies, supposed to be after a great Battle, wherein Cyrus had Overthrown Croesus. Enter Cyaxares, Artabasus, Officers and Attendants. Cyax. 
STAND.  Arta. 
Stand— 'Tis the King's Pleasure each Commander  
Draw up his Men, and close upon this Heath.  Cyax. 
How far have we to Cyrus's Camp from hence?  
And how far distant do th' Assyrians lie?  
Where stands this great and mighty Babylon,  
The Mistress of the World, the glorious City?  
Whose proud, ambitious Arms have still enclosed  
The greatest Emperors that ever were?  
So Proud, so Vain, and Awful was she once,  
She almost reached the Heavens with her towers.  Art. 
Just from th' ascent of that small rising Hill,  
And but a few Miles distant, you may see  
The three great Miracles of all the Earth;  
Nearest in view your Faithful Valiant Medians,  
With all the rest of your confederates lie,  
Composed of fierce Hyrcanian Horse,  
Armenian Foot, and brave Cadusian Archers.  
The Troop of Cyrus own Immortal Guards,  
The Persian Homotyms, each nobly Born,  
Valiant and Wise enough to be a General—  
These are ordained to hold the World in Chains,  
With Cyrus, Godlike Cyrus at their Head.  Cyax. 
Cyrus'! Thou speak'st as if thou ne'er hadst knewn  
Astyages, or wert thyself no Mede—  
Answer me not, but as you did, go on.  Arta. 
Distant from Cyrus' Camp, some twenty Furlongs,  
And just as many from the Imperial Town,  
Lies the great Army of th' Assyrian King,  
Filled up with such a multitude of Nations,  
You'd think that all the Living of the World  
Were there assembled to defy the Gods,  
Not fight with Cyrus—  
Betwixt these Armies, as the Prize of all,  
Stands the bright Virgin Queen, rich Babylon,  
Encouraging the Soldiers on each side,  
As if she said, that she and all the World,  
Were, till this great decision, set at Stake,  
To come in Triumph to the Victor's Arms.  Offic. 
Her Spires and Temples so with Beauty shine,  
Did not the Smoke which from both Armies rise,  
Eclipse the Light, you might with wonder see  
She than the Sun would make a brighter Day.  Cyax. 
A brave Reward, more worth than is the danger!  
But I unmanly come to share the Spoil,  
Without the hazarding of one poor Battle;  
All's done already, no more Crowns to win,  
Those that have scaped, are all for shelter run  
Under the Wings of this huge Army's Body—  
This is the Field whose sad remains can tell  
Of Craesus' late and dreadful Overthrow—  
Behold the Triumph of unstable Fortune!  
Are these the Men that made such mighty noise!  
How they lie low, cut off like withered Corn,  
Where proudly once they flourished, and grew up.  
Croesus' the Rich, the Happy, and the Wise,  
His Scale of Fortune now that lies so low,  
Gives Cyrus leave to mount and touch the Sky.  Arta. 
A fatal Glory fires ambitious Man,  
That is for ever with destruction gotten,  
Bright Ruin is the gild of his Doys,  
And humbled Nations with his height must fall.  
Our Eyes no other Objects can behold,  
But near and distant Plains all harrassed o'er,  
And great and beauteous Palaces unveiled.  Cyax. 
No Corn does here enrich the bloody Field,  
Nor Grass adorn the Meads with wanton Green;  
The Trees, the Earth's tall Sons, are all cut off,  
All Places mourn where Cyrus' Horse has trod.  Offic. 
The poor and plundered Peasants peep abroad  
With piteous Eyes and Hands lift up to Heaven,  
To see their Labour turned to dismal Spoil,  Arta. 
So Shipwrecked Passengers cast on the Shore,  
That but a few past moments saw themselves  
Rich in a Calm, watching the Tides decrease,  
Pick up small pieces of their scattered Wealth,  
Which the relenting Waves left on the Sands—  
The utmost Corners of the World have heard him,  
And frighted at the Trumpet of his Fame,  
Have straight obeyed.— All Mortal Eyes look up,  
Nay, God's themselves with Envy now look down  
Upon the growth of this prodigious Man,  
Wondering as they behold such monstrous Greatness,  
How they so lavishly decreed.  Cyax. 
No more, get thee to Cyrus' back,  
Do, and forget what late thou wert, when first  
I moulded thee from humble Earth, and placed  
Thee o'er the Heads of twenty thousand Great Ones;  
And thou for this, ere Cyrus' dawn, declined  
Thy Royal Master, left me in a time,  
When he, with all his Train of early Hopes  
Could scarcely comprehend the meanest Star,  
Dropped from the Sphere where all my Deeds are written.  Arta. 
O pardon, Royal Sir, my Love to Cyrus  
Is but what you out of excess may spare;  
It runs to him in narrow, shallow Streams,  
But never ceases to overflow the Fountain.  Cyax. 
Ah! Artabasus, wert not thou to blame,  
To counsel me to give the Reins to Cyrus,  
Pleased me with Hopes, and fed my longing Ears  
With cunning Tales, of this ambitious Boy,  
And when myself would fain have lead my Armies,  
Made me lie down in Sloth, yielding to him  
These Hands, these Feet, my Legions, and my Strength,  
And left me then a weak and limbless Body,  
Drenched in Delights, and drowned in studied Pleasures.  
Bane to my Bliss, and my Renown for ever!  
How canst thou answer this?—  Arta. 
If you will hear—  Cyax. 
Why Father, great Astyages, did not  
Thy Martial Ghost affright me in this Slumber?  
Call to my Mind the Deeds that thou hast done,  
When Young, and scarcely risen from my Cradle,  
Thou lead'st me round the Frontiers of the Globe,  
And brought me to a Nation blessed by Heaven,  
Elysium sure it was, a Land of Wonders,  
Whose Leaves and Trees still blossomed like the Spring,  
And Fields were clad with everlasting Green;  
Its Streams ran Crystal, and its Sands were Gold.  
This Orient Miracle shone like a Gemm  
Sat in the golden Circle of the World,  
So swarmed on by the fairest of the Living;  
As if't had been indeed that happy Place  
Where Souls are blessed with an Eternal Being:  
For there no Want was found, but all Increase  
Sprung from the great and unknown Deity.  
Through this Immortal Land we pierced our Arms,  
Climbing the lofty Hills that reared the City,  
And from their Temple built of shining Gold,  
Bore all the holy Vessels of their God,  
And took Five hundred thousand Slaves away.  Thunder and Lightning, Darkness seems to cover the Field. 
Hark, hark— A horrid Thunder sounds at distance.  Arta. 
Now here it answers with a Force as dreadful—  
A sudden Darkness seems to spread the Field—  
There you may see that cloudy Curtain drawn,  
Whilst Lightning rushes from the parting heavens',  
And to my wondering Eyes discovers Swarms  
Of hellish Infects flying in the Air.  Cyax. 
The Gods are sportive sure, and seem to mock  
At what bold Cyrus has performed below.  Arta. 
The Scene of Horror yet discloses further—  
My Sight deceives me if I do not see  
Spirits descend into their Humane Forms  
Again, and the dead Bodies slain by Cyrus  
Begin to move.  Cyax. 
Something does tread the Ground—  
Look, Artabasus, see, what monstrous things  
Betwixt a Mortal and a Devil's Shape,  
Are those?  Arta. 
I see distinctly now, and I'll  
Release you from your Wonder— These are Witches,  
Or Wizards else, that all this Land is famed for—  
What Nation is there but has oft been told  
Strange Tales of the Chaldean Sorcerers.  
When they would know th' Event of things on Earth,  
Like ravenous Vultures haunting bloody Battles,  
They still attend the Fortune of the Field,  
When they may exercise their loathsome Charms  
And hateful Practices upon the Dead.  
With sulphurous Herbs, and devilish Incantations.  
They wrack their quiet Spirits in the Shades,  
Driving their Souls back to their Flesh again,  
And force 'em to reveal what's writ below,  
What Heaven had bound up in the Book of Fate.  
Th' Infernal Gods are mastered by their Power,  
Or else persuaded by some Piety  
That pleases them; deny these Wretches nothing.  [Dance of Wizards. Witch's SONG. 1 Witch. 
Sisters, Whilst I thus wave my Wand,  
Charming the Ground on which we stand;  
Invoke the Spirit of this Slain,  
Its Body to inform again:  
Some of Deucalion's Seeds I've found,  
That raised Mankind when all was drowned.  2 Witch. 
Mummy with Cat's Blood did I boil,  
I'll chafe his Temples with the Oil.  3 Witch. 
To fume his Nostrils, lo, I bring  
A Feather from the Phoenix Wing.  4 Witch. 
I'll wash his joints with liquour brought  
From Aesons Bath, which Wonders wrought.  CHORUS. 
He stirs, he stirs; Rise and foretell  
This listening Monarch's Fate from Hell.  Cyax. 
Behold— Look yonder— Is not that a Man,  
That rises from amongst the Heaps of slain,  
And with an awful March comes steady towards us?  A dead Carcase of one of the slain rises, and comes to them upon the Stage. Arta. 
Feared not, my Lord— See, it would speak.  Dead Cark. 
From the dark Region of Eternal Night,  
Where numerous Souls in mingled Tortures live,  
And fry like Atoms in the Sunbeams Heat;  
Alternately from Flames and then to Frost;  
First dipped into a liquid Fire, and thence  
Whole Shoals are plunged into a Deep of Ice:  
Whilst Pluto's great Divan in Council sit,  
T'invent new Plagues to practise on the Damned.  
From thence, as I stood gazing on the Lake,  
Waiting my Passage to that place of Horror,  
A Summons from the Fiery King was sent  
By Charon brought, wherein I was commanded  
By Power on Earth, which that in Hell controlled,  
That I should straight glide back into the World,  
Quick as penned Light disclosed, itself disperses,  
And reassumes this Corpse yet uninterred,  
Till Cyaxares Ears had reached my Charge,  
What of thy Fates decreed, which I shall speak,  
And Pluto dictate— This the Oracle.  
In vain's thy vast Ambition and thy Envy,  
A Genius yet more great shall conquer thine,  
And when thy Rashness leads thee next to fight,  
To Cyrus' Glories thou shalt add thy Life,  
And leave thy Empires, and thy Darling Crowns,  
To be possessed by him whom Fate adores,  
Whom, for a time, Heaven, Hell, and all the World  
Obey— I am recalled,— my Task is done,  
And subtle Fiends come thronging to the Light  
To drive me into Torments back again.  [Falls down again. Cyax. 
Ha! Art thou fallen! Stay, speak, who sent thee, Soldier?  
What greater Devil lurking here on Earth  
Made the black God obey his threatning Summons,  
And charmed the Powers of Hell to my Destruction?  Arta. 
A mere cold Clod, a bloody mangled corpse.  Cyax. 
Here, take this hellish Carcase,  
And throw it to wild Beasts to be devoured—  
What, hast thou Hell invoked too on thy side!  
Can Cyrus trust his helping Gods no more!  
So little do I fear thee now, false Persian,  
That, stoodst thou guarded like the King of Furies,  
Ten thousand glaring Spirits round about thee,  
With burning Tridents, and hot Scourges armed,  
To hurry me from Earth like Mortal damned,  
I'd through 'em all to meet thee, daring Boy.  Arta. 
Recall your Temper, Sir, and blame not Cyrus,  
Who, bating his Ambition, still is Virtuous.  
His Soul, pure as the first created Mortals,  
Who in the World's prime Innocence began,  
‛ Ere Lust and Power defaced the tender Image,  
And crept into the Frailties of Mankind—  
This was performed by some Magician's Art,  
At the Command of the Assyrian Monarch,  
Who, since his late Defeat, basely and cowardly,  
Is forced to have recourse to Hellish Tricks,  
And in his sinking State catches at Air,  
Grasps any thing to save him from o'erwhelming.  
The Gods will guard you through an Host of Devils,  
Then as Hell's Malice only this esteem.  [Noises of singing within. Cyax. 
Whence comes this Sound of Music, and of Voices?  [Captain goes off. 
Am I awake! Is't real Artabasus  
That we have seen, or that we now do hear?  [Captain reenters. Capt. 
The brave Hystaspes, Sir, is just arrived,  
With Presents from his Royal Master Cyrus  
To Cyaxares his Imperial Uncle.  Enter to them Hystaspes, with Panthea, Women, and Attendants. 

SONG. 1.  
Hark how the Trumpet and the Drums,  
With dismal Voice proclaim she comes,  
Whilst we that Victory despise,  
Where Valour blushes at the Prize.   

2.  
The Royal Captive now appears,  
A Beauty sinking under Showers of Tears.  
Love's Queen in Chains, fettered are all her Charms,  
And useless lie her little Heroes Arms.   

3.  
And yet the Conqueror shall yield,  
And give up all the Trophies of the Field;  
Shall kiss that Sceptre, which the World does sway,  
And at his Captive's Feet his Laurels lay.  
How pleasing is the Pain a Lover feels,  
Glad to be chained to Beauty's Chariot Wheels.   

CHORUS.  
Such is the Force of Love! the Great, the Brave,  
All must submit, sometime put on the Slave.   Cyax. 
Blessed Sight! and happy Cyrus much more blessed,  
That in thy boundless Prodigality,  
Canst throw away so rich, Immense Delights,  
And scatter Pleasures as the Gods do Blessings.  [Panthea and her Maids weep. [Hystaspes kneels. Hyst. 
The Great, the Valiant, and the faithful Cyrus,  
The Light of Empires, and the World's great Soul,  
To whom all Nations bend, bids me to kneel  
To his dear Uncle, Father, Master Cyaxares,  
And as an earnest of succeeding Glories,  
Lay here the Queen of Beauty at your Feet.  
Not Crowns nor Kingdoms does he send by me,  
Those he reserves with all Religious Duty  
To plant himself about your Royal Temples,  
And with his own Victorious Hands to give you  
More Laurels, and more heaps of Monarch's Riches,  
Then e'er adorned the Shrines of Deities;  
And her whose so much celebrated Charms  
Made all the World, and Cyrus' Ears in Love,  
Yet would not your brave Nephew trust his Eyes  
With the least sight of what they so much longed for,  
Lest they should Rivals prove to Cyaxares.  Cyax. 
Are these, O Love, Rewards of Victory!  
Or the blessed Consorts of the Gods themselves,  
By some more awed Divinity brought thence,  
Leaving th' Immortals mourning Widowers—  
But what is she that shines above the rest,  
As Cynthia does amongst her Starry Train,  
Shedding more precious Essence from her Eyes  
Then Phoebus wantonly each Morning draws  
From Beds of Violets, or the Dew of Roses—  
Speak thou more fair than finest thought can form,  
Or but thyself, the Sun did ever see.  Hyst. 
God's! Was Hystaspes born to be your hatred!  
Is it her Griefs, or what, that makes this change  
Within my Bosom? I would no call it Love—  
O Cyrus, hadst thou viewed these dangerous Beauties,  
Thou hadst not marked thy Friend out to be wretched.  Cyax. 
What, not a Word t'enrich thy humble Creature?  
There is no Goddess that can speak like thee—  
Thy Griefs keep concord with thy Virgin's Songs,  
Who, to thy Sorrows, set their warbling Notes,  
Whilst thou add'st Tears to every Syllable,  
And with thy Sighs, gives the sad Tunes the Time;  
Or was not this the Music of the Spheres,  
Never before made known to mortal sense,  
And thou the Goddess of that happy Place.  Hyst. 
Sir, she's Panthea.  
The famed fair Daughter of the Scythian Queen.  Panth. 
O! yes, tell all my Woes too if thou canst,  
And tell 'em with a Grace, that I may soothe  
My many Sorrows to a little rest.  
For I shall never say 'em in an Age.  
I have a thousand swelling in my Soul,  
Struggling at once, and rushing to get foremost,  
So I can speak of neither, but at last  
Call to my Aid my Sex's feeble temper,  
And draw the fallen Vapour into Tears.  Cyax. 
Divine Panthea—  Panth. 
Call me what I am,  
Tell me not what I was— I was Panthea,  
Panthea rich in Friends, blessed as their Hopes,  
Praised and beloved, or I was grossly flattered,  
Who, from the fondness of my Parent's Arms,  
(Hanging still round my Childish Infancy)  
Found no false Change, no waning of my Joys,  
But every day increased my Happiness;  
And the same Stars that smiled upon my Birth  
Seemed still to tempt, and draw all Eyes to me;  
All Knees, all Hearts did bend where e'er I came,  
And blessed me as their Goddess, or the Spring;  
And till this day, of all my Age accursed,  
I never knew what a worse Moment was.  Hyst. 
O thou art lost, undone Hystaspes quite,  
The Glory of the Battle owes to thee,  
But this bright Victim makes the Victor blush—  
Yet to revenge me on myself, and Crime,  
If Cyrus will not grant her Liberty,  
I'll do't myself, with forfeit of my Life.  Cyax. 
Go on, go on, thou charming Creature, do,  
Each Word leaves Bliss and Wonder in my Soul.  Panth. 
But oh! now to repeat the Sum of all,  
That which methinks should strike the Hearers dead.  
When my full Joys had ripened for Enjoyment,  
And I wrapped up in harmless Ecstasy,  
To such a height I saw no ground below,  
And thought the Glass of that blessed Hour would ne'er  
Be run, I mean (Gods, give me leave to say it)  
As my dear Mother in the Temple gave me  
A happy Bride, in show to Abradatus,  
The Brave, and most Heroic King of Susa—  
Scarce had the Priests the Holy Rites performed,  
When straight the Trumpets called, and Battle joined,  
Cyrus approaching with a fatal Charge  
On Croesus, and the Forces of our Army;  
Then was my Love snatched from my Virgin Arms  
To his Command, and I ran breathless on the Walls  
To see my Abradatus Fight, and Conquer;  
But soon, methought, I saw him round enclosed  
With Enemies, which sight to snatched my Senses,  
That on a sudden followed by my Women,  
I found me in our Camp, not knowing how  
I went, nor waking from that wretched Slumber,  
Till I was brought a Prisoner to Hystaspes.  Cyax. 
Ah sweet Panthea! if thy Sorrows move so,  
What canst thou do, dispersing Smiles around thee?  
But oh the thoughts! I'll tear 'em from my Breast,  
Pull out the Seeds just rooting in my Heart,  
And die rather than live with the disgrace—  
Down, down, thou fair infectious Charm of Beauty,  
Down to thy first Abyss from whence thou camest,  
Where Light lay hid, when all things were a Chaos,  
Thou cheat of Sense, and blinder of all Eyes—  
Cyrus is boasting now of his design,  
That laid these Nets of Beauty in my march,  
To stop my fair and quick return to Glory—  
Away thou sweet destroyer of my Fame—  
Hystaspes, haste with thy fair Charmer hence;  
Go tell thy Master all that thou hast seen  
Of Cyaxares; tell him that Panthea  
Should be esteemed as Heaven and Heavenly Joys,  
Not to be tasted by a Man, and live,  
Therefore I give her to the Stars, from whence  
She came— Bid Cyrus do the like— Begone,  
Quickly, lest I should wish to look again.  Pan. 
Ten thousand Glories crown your Head for this.  
May this brave Action make your Name and Bliss  
Renowned on Earth, as is the God of War,  
And when in Heaven, a bright shining Star.  Hyst. 
I am amazed— Can this be real, Sir?  
I dare not tell the King of your refusal.  Cyax. 
Do it, I charge thee, and inform him too,  
That Cyaxares comes to meet him straight,  
With Courage awful as Astyages,  
When Cyrus, but a prattling Boy, admired him,  
Looked from the Ground, adored his Majesty,  
And feared him like a God— Go from my Eyes—  
Remove those gay bright Sirens that forerun  
A Storm.  Hyst. 
Come Madam.  Panth. 
To kind Death, I hope—  
Brave Cyaxares.  Cyax. 
O speak no more— Thou conquering Beauty go—  
There lies your Path— We must take several ways;  
If you look back, my lingering Virtue stays.  [Exeunt severally. Exeunt Omnes. 
Finis Actus Primi.   

Actus Secundus, Scaena Prima.  Cyrus' discovered upon his Throne in Triumph amongst his Captains and Soldiers. Croesus' bound ready for Execution. Cyr. 
ENough— These splendid Vanities I loathe,  [Sounds of Triumphs. 
The boast of Fools, and Pageanty of Cowards;  
It sits too heavy on your Cyrus' Arms—  
O let me rise, and let 'em lose, my Soldiers,  
To throw about your Necks, and thus embrace  
My Valiant Friends, and all my brave confederates,  
By whose sole Aid (Gods be my Witnesses)  
I own it with a Pride, I have restored  
The World to its dear ancient Liberty,  
Freed Captived Nations from their Tyrant's Yokes,  
And placed 'em on the Necks of barbarous Kings,  
Trod down the Walls of famed Semiramis,  
That founded first this Asian Monarchy;  
Made my Commands in one quick Moment spread  
Like Thunder terrible through all the City.  
But let's no more afflict this Monarch's Spirit,  
But grant him that which every gallant Soul  
In vast distress requires— a speedy Death—  
Away with him, and having placed him on  
The Fuel, let it blaze, a just Reward  
For him that has so long set all the World  
In Flames— Quick, take him hence—  [As they are carrying off Croesus to Execution, Cyrus calls him back. Craes. 
O Solon! Solon! Solon!  Cyr. 
Stay, bring him back, say, What does Croesus' mean?  
I did expect thou shouldst have asked thy Life,  
And thou in scorn of me call'st loud for Solon—  
Can Solon save thee from the Wrath of Cyrus?  Craes. 
No, 'tis too late, but that which made me call  
On Solon was, to my remembrance came  
The Sentence of that Wise and Learned Teacher,  
Which I till now contemned, 'Twas in the midst  
Of all my Glories, Children, Friends, and Riches,  
Thinking myself, no God could be more happy,  
I sent for Solon to resolve this Question—  
Tell me, said I, who is the happiest Man  
On Earth: but Solon answered, there was none,  
None could be truly happy whilst he lived.  
I asked him then, who 'twas he thought was happiest,  
Expecting that he should have said, 'twas Croesus;  
But he replied, the happiest Man he thought  
Was Tellus, once a Citizen of Athens,  
A Man that had no mean nor mighty Fortune;  
His Wife not fair, nor homely, but beloved,  
And virtuous, and his Children all obedient,  
Who, like the first Man, lived in Paradise,  
And never pressed the Strangers luscious Fruits,  
Nor drank but what his own full Vines did yield;  
Fed on the Flesh of his own teeming Flocks,  
And wore no clothes but what their Backs afforded;  
In his own Pale grew all his Sustenance,  
And in his Bosom all the World's content.  Cyr. 
How brook you then your fallen and lost Estate?  
Methinks with brave Contempt you bear your Chains,  
And Croesus looks as if he spurned his Fate.  Craes. 
So much my Mind does soar above my Fortune,  
That I behold with greater scorn these Bonds,  
Than thou born up with the World's flattering Wings  
Look'st down on me that am thy Slave— Yet in  
Despite of all thou canst, I'm Croesus' still.  Cyr. 
'Tis bravely said, and spoken like a King—  
I have been told, that in thy spring of Glory  
Thou didst consult the Delphic Oracle,  
And kneeled before the God days numberless,  
Made rich Apollo's Shrines with such vast Presents,  
As did excel what the Earth's Bowels hold,  
Might make a Ransom would restore the World,  
Were't threatened to be ruined by the Gods.  Craes. 
All this, nay more, the God did heap upon me,  
My Children, Friends, and Kingdoms so increased,  
That Europe could not bound my spreading Empire,  
Nor Asian Cities number out my Wealth.  Cyr. 
The God was grateful to thee for a while:  
But by what wonderful neglect of thine  
Hast thou since lost the Merit of his Bounty?  Craes. 
I'll tell thee all with a prodigious Patience—  
Having at length tired out th' relenting God  
With my unweared steps, ne'er ceasing Prayers,  
This Answer I received from the bright Altar—  
Croesus no more— Let Croesus know himself,  
And he to his Life's end, shall happy be.—  
These Words so much exalted my frail Mind,  
That then, methought, I reigned not amongst Men,  
But ruled the Sky, and saw the Stars below me;  
My Wealth, my Friends were numberless as Sands,  
Still no Storm grew upon my smiling Days;  
No Cross, nor Rub lay in my smooth State's way,  
No Vision was so calm as was my Life;  
Elysium envied my strange Bliss, and wondered.  Cyr. 
Now by the Gods, thy Blessings were so rare,  
So very sensible thy Losses move,  
That my stout Heart begins to pity thee.  Craes. 
Look to thyself, thy Fortunes reach their highest,  
Mine touch the Ground, and can no lower be;  
I from this Hour begin to know myself,  
And from that Knowledge I renew my Joys—  
But as I told thee, so my Life continued  
In its still smiling Form and Flattery,  
Till thou, swift Harbinger of Death and Ruin,  
Hast let the Ocean in on Croesus' Glories,  
And left him poor, bereft of all, but what thou seest.  Cyr. 
Despair not, Croesus, thou art still the same;  
What Solon and the Gods have said is true,  
And Cyrus, as a Servant of the Oracle,  
Obeys thy Fortune, and absolves thy Doom—  
Unbind him straight, unbind those sacred Hands,  
Set fire with speed to the vast Funeral Pile  
That was designed to burn the pious King,  
And Sacrifice thereon a hundred Heads  
Of Oxen, dedicated to the Gods;  
Augment the Flames with rich Arabian Gums,  
With Pearls, and Spice sent from the Kings of India—  
My Laurels, Standards, and my Crowns shall burn,  
T' atone the Gods, rather than one dear Hair  
Of Virtue perish— Come, then to my Arms,  
And show me how to be a King indeed,  
Solon taught thee, and thou shalt teach thy Cyrus.  Craes. 
O mighty Prince! Thou much more God than Man!  
My emulating Soul flags at thy Sight,  
The Genius of the World must bow to thine;  
And all the Virtues of Mankind together  
Make but dim Light before thy beauteous Presence.  Cyr. 
Your Children, and your Wives receive again,  
With all those kingdoms you by Right were born to.  
Sardis, wherein lies heaped, both yours, and most  
Of Asia's Wealth, I'll save from Death, and Plunder;  
Only for Ransom some few Sums extract,  
To reward my Soldiers, and divert their Hopes  
From Expectations of so great a Ruin;  
Then Croesus dwell for ever in my Breast.  Craes. 
My Thanks are too too great to be expressed,  
I can no more than hoard 'em in my Thoughts,  
And pay you Blessings as I would Apollo.  
May Croesus meet the Death that was prepared,  
When he for Love of Empire, Wife or Children,  
Forsakes his Prince, and leaves to follow Cyrus.  Enter Lausaria attended. Laus. 
Where's this Divine, this Miracle of Virtue;  
This Rival to the Merciful above?  
Show me the Face of this exalted Man,  
Who stood betwixt the Vengeance of the Gods,  
And from the dreadful Pile of flaming Ruin,  
Has snatched a King, and saved my Father's Life;  
Let me adore the Ground his Steps have blessed,  
And kiss the Feet of the Immortal Cyrus.  Craes. 
Great Prince, my Daughter, and your meanest Handmaid,  Cyr. 
How, Croesus! Now by th' sacred Sun she's fair—  
Rise, or I blush at this unseemly Posture.  Laus. 
Here let me fix— You should be thus adored,  
Thou Blessing of all Eyes, thou Heavenly Wonder—  
Indeed I ne'er did see a God till now—  
Where have I lived?— The Mountain, Cottage Girl,  
That in her homely Life ne'er saw a Man  
Above the Keeper of the neighbouring Herds,  
Could not approach you with such Joy and Terror,  
As I do now; so much you do excel  
The little World that I have still been bred in.  Cyr. 
Thou pretty'st Innocence as ever talked,  
Look back upon thyself, disperse these Clouds,  
These sorrowful Looks that hide from thine own Eyes  
Their Brightness, and thy near-approaching Joy.  
To morrow is the Day, no longer then to morrow  
Gives all thy Wishes and Revenge a Crown.  
When Balthazar's last Stake, and hated Life  
I'll sacrifice t'appease the fairest injured,  
And thy dumb Brother's Ghost shall from Elysium  
Rise in a Form Divine, and bless thy Beauties.  [Enter Officer. Offic. 
Hystaspes is returned, and brings with him  
The News of Cyaxares his approach.  Laus. 
Go on; whilst I retire to pray,  
Lausaria's Guardian-Deity you are;  
But turn: Oh turn that awful Look away,  
My Eyes cannot endure the pointed Ray;  
Spare it to conquer Balthasar in Fight,  
For Beauty trembles at the strange Delight;  
And if a Virgin's Wish can prosper thee,  
That hateful Tyrant shall thy Victim be:  
If not, and there's a God greater than jove,  
Save, save, (that God) his precious Life and Love.  [Ex. Laus. attended. Cyr. 
Croesus', let nothing be refused that may  
Increase her Welcome as becomes thy Daughter,  
And the Fair Guest of Cyrus.  
Now all prepare to meet my Royal Uncle.  Enter to them Hystaspes, Panthea, and Women. 
When comes the Royal Cyaxares?  Hyst. 
To his worst of Rage abandoned,  
And in proud Envy of your growing Conquests,  
He bade me, in Contempt of your rich Kindness,  
Return the mighty Present with myself;  
Said he, I will be with the haughty Cyrus  
‛ Ere thou canst bring my Message to the Boy.  Cyr. 
What, did he scorn the Proffer of my Duty,  
Return the Presents which I sent him, sayst thou?  
O Gods! it cannot be; thou dost abuse my Uncle.  Hyst. 
Sir, all that I have said—  Cyr. 
No more, Hystaspes.  
By my immortal Fame, and sacred Crowns,  
None but thyself had told me so, and lived—  
Ha! what do I behold! More Wonders still!—  
What Lady's that? What weeping Lady's that?  Hyst. 
Panthea, Sir.  Cyr. 
Panthea, Sir— What, what, Panthea?  Hyst. 
Thomyris Daughter, the brave Scythian Queen,  
And the fair Captive whom you did command  
Me to present to Cyaxares, yet  
I fear to tell he did refuse her too.  Cyr. 
Refuse her, sayst thou! Gods, did he refuse her!  
Was I so lavish, say? What Right had I  
To give the Wealth of all the World away?  
Nay, what would bankrupt all the Gods in Heaven.  
The Sun, the Moon, and Stars may be eclipsed,  
But her bright Beauty is enough alone,  
Without their feeble Aid to light the Globe,  
And make eternal Day—  Hyst. 
Sir—  Cyr. 
Thus Prodigal like,  
Not thinking of the Vastness of the Gift,  
I threw away at once my whole Estate,  
And ne'er repented till too late I see  
The mighty Sum spread large before my Eyes—  
Thou shouldst have played the faithful Steward, and,  
Restrained thy Master's wild destroying Bounty.  Hyst. 
O pardon, mighty Sir, who could but hear  
Your dread Commands, and not obey you straight.  Cyr. 
What shall I say? Tell me, Hystaspes, do  
All you that know the secret Paths to Love,  
The way to win a Woman's Smile direct me—  
In Fights you oft have took me from amidst  
My Enemies unhorsed, and bore me from the Danger,  
Breathless upon the Arms of Victory,  
But now you've left me to my worst of Foes,  
So awful, so divinely formidable,  
That your proud Cyrus' Heart (mark that, my Soldiers)  
Which never stooped to fear what Man could do,  
Nay, what the Gods through Miracles have wrought,  
Lies panting now, and gasping at the Danger.  Hyst. 
Madam—  Cyr. 
Hold off thy sacrilegious Hands,  
Shrines and their Deities may be approached  
More near— Goddess, Divinity— Bright Venus.  
Is there a Name in Heaven thouart worshipped by,  
O tell me that, and teach my Tongue to say it,  
That I may call thee what the Gods have named thee.  Panth. 
O Cyrus! you forget yourself, and me;  
I'm no such thing, no Creature to be praised,  
A Wretch forsaken of the World, and Heaven,  
Your Prisoner, you should pity, not admire me.  Cyr. 
O say not so— Forsaken sayst thou! No,  
Rather the World and Heaven are left by thee—  
Is there a Mar. that dares not call thee Queen?  
What wouldst thou have, or be, more than thou art?  
Say but the Word, and thy Commands shall fly  
Quick as the Lightning from thy killing Eyes,  
And Cyrus is thy Slave to execute.  Panth. 
I have no Power, no Charms but Grief about me,  
That may move Pity, but can ne'er cause Love.  
All this wild Passion but disturbs yourself,  
And cannot make a wretched Creature happy.  
You sent me late a Slave to be abused:  
But this is worse than when I was refused.  Cyr. 
Pardon, thou Saint, a Man in Love untaught,  
I have been used in Battles from my Youth,  
Bred from my Birth like Lions in their Fierceness,  
Free as the Light, and uncontrolled as Air,  
And never met a charming Foe like Thee,  
Yet at thy Sight I can forget my Fury,  
Moulded like Wax, made soft before the Sun,  
And all my Passion, like a Storm quite spent,  
Lies hushed, and silent as an Evenings Breeze.  Panth. 
Hold, mighty Cyrus, spare my tortured Bosom.  
Play not the Tyrant with so great Misfortunes,  
And talk to me of Murders, Massacres,  
Wracks, and Eternal Death— Talk any thing  
But tell me not of that which kills my Soul,  
Calls to my Mind to view the mighty space  
'Twixt me and Joy: For nothing yet can prove  
So great a Misery to me as Love.  Cyr. 
O let me catch that Sigh before it goes—  
'Tis gone, 'tis gone, and each officious Wind  
Strove who should first convey the rich Perfume,  
And hoard it with the Treasure of the Spring,  
Thence to disperse, and brood o'er tender Blossoms,  
And add new Scents to every fragrant Flower—  
O give me leave to kiss this beauteous Hand—  
Here has Arabia all its Sweets confined,  
Rich as from thence, we Southern Breezes find,  
When Trees of Spice had gently fanned the Wind.  Hyst. 
Awake Hystaspes from this horrid Slumber—  
Shall I see ravished from me all my Right,  
And dare not speak— By Heaven I'll climb the danger,  
Though he stood armed at my next daring Word,  
To throw me from the Precipice, I'll do't—  
May Heaven give fettered Globes to Cyrus Wish,  
Crown you with Love, as you are crowned with Conquest.  
May all bright Beauties else adore your Charms,  
And stoop to him that gives the World a Law,  
But this fair Prisoner, give me leave to ask  
Her who by Conquest is your Soldier's Prize.  
Hystaspes begs the sharer of your Blood;  
If thats too great a Fame for him to Challenge,  
Thus I implore it as your humblest Vassal.  Cyr. 
O Gods! He's Jealous, Jealous on my Life—  
O thou most mighty jove, hadst thou at once  
Shot Thunder in my Ears, and Lightened in  
My Eyes, I had not seen and heard more Horror—  
Dear Croesus,— Croesus, give me Patience—  
Am I thus soon so mean a thing become!  
That he that is my Slave durst here presume  
Before my Face to own so proud a Guilt,  
And mix his haughty Love with mine— Traitor—  Craes. 
Hold gallant Cyrus, Croesus bids thee hold.  Cyr. 
O Croesus say, Could Solon suffer this?  
Is there a Rule in all Philosophy  
To teach me Patience now?— O tell it me—  Pant. 
Cyrus no more.  
In vain are all this Rage and Jealousies—  
Farewell: I'll shut this Captive from your Eyes,  
Prison and Absence will be both your Cures:  
I am no more his Prisoner now but yours:  Cyr. 
A Prisoner: ha! Conduct her to my Tent.  
Let what was Cyrus' Panthea's Court:  
Adorned with Asia's Jewels, let her shine,  
Served like the Parthian Queen, adored and kneeled to  
By all her moving Empire about her.  
And on the Globe where now my Eagle stands,  
Let Love be placed, and with its awful Banners  
Spread her Commands through all the shining Camp,  
And let an hundred thousand Hero's Hearts  
Be Sacrificed each Morning to her rising—  Panth. 
Hold Cyrus: Cease this unwelcome strife.  
What tho' you've in your Power my Death or Life,  
Know I am bound in faster Bonds, a Wife,  
Could I but Cyrus' Fame have loved before,  
When I had seen him, should have loved him more  
Yet there are greater Chains than all beside,  
I am both by Virtue and by Passion tied.  
When I on Cyrus look I must admire;  
But for my Lord I barn with nobler Fire:  
And Two I must confess are Gods to me,  
Which are my Abradator first, and thee.  [Exit Panthea attended. [Drums and Trumpets within. Enter to them an Officer. 
The News?  Offic. 
Great Cyaxares is arrived.  Cyr. 
'Tis well— Have you enclosed the way he comes,  
With Persian Homotyms, and Median Horse?  Offic. 
Most mighty Cyrus 'tis already done.  Cyr. 
His Drums and Trumpets answer you more loud,  
And as he passes through your noble Ranks,  
With welcome Shouts receive my loving Uncle—  [Exeunt Cyrus, Croesus, Hystaspes. Manment the Guards. The Scene opens, and discovers a way ranked with Soldiers, and after a Warlike sound, and Shouts, Cyrus and Cyaxares meet. Cyrus offers to embrace Cyaxares, but he refuses— They come forward on the Stage. 
My honoured Uncle, Royal Cyaxares!— ha!  
How long have you been absent from these Arms!—  
Ha! What is this I see! when I expect  
A kind return of my true Hearts salute;  
You bend your Head, and look another way,  
And sigh as if my Eyes were Bassalisks,  
Or Breath shot Venom— Ha! what means my Uncle!  Cyax. 
The meaning is too plain, 'tis Shame, and Coward—  
Do you not see 'em written in my Forehead?  
What means this Pomp, these Shouts, these heaps of Trophies,  
These crowds of Conquered Kings, and mighty Slain,  
And I but a poor idle gazer on?  
'Tis that, 'tis that has swallowed up my Fame,  
Branded the Son of great Astyages,  
Made me the talk of all the World;  
A senseless Block for Cyrus' Foot to tread on,  
And mount the Throne of all the Universe—  
Ingrateful Cyrus!  Cyr. 
Hold— O cease dear Uncle—  
Let not our Passions here be made a sport  
To common Eyes— we pray you would withdraw—  
'Tis Cyaxares Pleasure we should be  
Alone— so Uncle, let's sit down together,  
And I will hear with Patience if I can.  [Exeunt, Praeter, Cyrus and Cyax. 
Speak, and I'll glue my Ears to every Word  
Your voice shall utter.  Cyax. 
God's that I were Dumb!  
That ever I should speak, when what I say  
Recounts my loss, and my eternal Shame,  
With Cyrus' false Ingratitude.  Cyr. 
Still, still  
You touch the same harsh String— Tell't out,—  
What is't that hangs upon your troubled Brow?  Cyax. 
O this it is  
The Man that I have nourished in my Bosom,  
Safe guarded from an Host of private Foes,  
That sought his Life with great Astyages.  
Led by the dictates of Prophetic Dreams,  
Which now to Cyaxares proves most true;  
That thou, I say, shouldst like a subtle Serpent,  
Wind thyself round my guardless Breast,  
Then watch thy time, and Poison thy Preserver.  Cyr. 
Go on, go on— I hear you patiently.  Cyax. 
Nay, give me leave to put it to thy Conscience,  
And answer me as thou believest it true.  Cyr. 
I will.  Cyax. 
Did I not save thee in thy Cradle?  
No sooner had Mandana brought thee to  
The World (who then I think was innocent)  
But by Astyages Command thou wert  
Delivered to be slain by Harpagus—  
Have you not heard this oft for truth?  Cyr. 
I have.  Cyax. 
Have you not heard too how I ventured 'twixt  
My Father's Wrath and Pity, to preserve  
Thy Life by awing Harpagus, who caused thee  
At my request, in private to be Nursed,  
Telling the King that thou wert surely dead.  Cyr. 
This I have oft been told too.  Cyax. 
Did I not,  
When thou hadst passed the Years of Infancy,  
Oft put into my Father's cruel Mind  
The sense of his most foul unnatural Crime  
In killing thee so long that he herited,  
And wished a thousand times thou wert alive  
Again— This opportunity I took  
To tell the King of the deceit, and begged  
The Life of Harpagus— Then straight wert thou  
Sent for to Court, and this thou well rememberst.  Cyr. 
I do.  Cyax. 
This did I, though 'twas Prophesied  
That thou shouldst quite subvert the Median Empire,  
And fill the Throne of great Astyages.—  
Then did I not, after my Father's Death,  
And when I reigned alone, keep thee still by me,  
Taught thee the use of Arms, to chase the Boar,  
To hurl thy little Dart, and wound the Panther;  
And when the fiery Beast would turn upon thee,  
I then would interpose a violent stroke,  
And taught thee how to give a mortal Blow,  
Leaving the Savage gasping at thy Feet;  
And this thou art well witness of thyself.  Cyr. 
All this, and more you bring to my remembrance.  Cyax. 
Is't possible, thou hast not then forgot!  
Is this a kind return for all my Love!  
Who first began the War with Balthasar?  
Was't not myself twice beat him in set Battles  
Until thou wert of Years, when for thy Fame  
I sent thee with the flower of all my Strength  
To prosecute my Victories, and thou  
Whole tedious Years hast kept the War on foot,  
Using my Subjects till they have forgot  
Their Country's Gods, their Fashions, and their King,  
And worship nothing but the Sun and thee—  
Pity me Gods; for sure I am become  
But the poor Shadow of the thing I was.  Cyr. 
O Uncle, hold: For I can hear no more.  
What wicked Man has poisoned thus your Ear?  
Your words, though they are most unjust, and I  
Am guiltless, yet they're Daggers to my Soul  
When spoken with unkindness— ah why droops  
My Royal Uncle, hanging down your Head,  
Throbbing that noble Heart, as if the weight  
Of all the Miseries on Earth depressed it?  
Snatch me ye Gods this Moment into Nothing,  
If I your Cyrus am the least to blame  
In what you have accused me.  Cyax. 
Well, I've done.  Cyr. 
Have I worn out my Youth, at home, your Subject,  
In War your General; denied myself  
The soft Retirements of the Court, in which  
Your meanest Parasite enjoys more Pleasure—  
Have not my Courriers found you in the Height  
Of Banqueting, informed you of the Dangers  
That I had passed in every dreadful Fight,  
Which only the Relation of 'em made  
Your trembling Courtiers spill their brimming Bowls,  
And with the Palsy life 'em to their Mouths.  Cyax. 
No more, my Cyrus.  Cyr. 
And have I not augmented all the Kingdoms  
Of great Astyages, with Hazard of  
My own— What Crown, what Treasure have I gained  
Of which I did not make you first a Proffer?  
Do I a Secret keep, or hide from you?  
Or hoard that Wealth of which you shall not share?  
Is it for this I have so ill deserved  
My Uncle's Envy, and unjust Suspicion!  Cyax. 
Enough, my Cyrus.  Cyr. 
Will you then embrace me?  Cyax. 
I will.  Cyr. 
And let me kiss your Cheek?  Cyax. 
Thou shalt—  
O Cyrus! Thou hast conquered me, my Cyrus—  
I can no longer hold but must forgive thee.  
See, see, these Tears that sprung from Tides of Crief,  
Are now augmented to a Sea of Joy.  
Hide 'em for shame, Oh, hide 'em in thy Bosom!  
Come, I will chide no more— may I be thought  [They both rise up. 
A Coward, led in Triumph by my Foes,  
And put t'an ignominious Death when I  
Again reflect unkindly on my Cyrus.  
Thou art my Son, this Moment I adopt thee,  
And I will die the sooner to make Room  
For thee.  Cyr. 
O my dear Father, say not so—  
To morrow brings the Empire of the World,  
I see it plain, and dazzling Victory  
Flies like an Eagle circling round your Head,  
To show our Way o'er Hills of slain Assyrians,  
And under falling Clouds of Scythian Darts,  
Which from our Shields we'll throw like scattered Hail,  
Whilst with one Voice, around the conquered Field,  
The Dying praise us, and the Living yield.  [Exeunt Omnes. 
Finis Actus Secundi.   

Actus Tertius. Scaena Prima.  Enter Cyrus with Guards; Cyaxares, with Hystaspes meeting him. Cyax. 
I'VE a Request to beg of you, my Cyrus.  Cyr. 
What, is't my Royal Uncle? speak, yet not,  
'Tis granted ere 'tis named.  Cyax. 
'Tis that you would forgive the brave Hystaspes,  
And here restore him to your wonted Favours.  Cyr. 
O 'tis the thing that I with Joy intended,  
And now he's doubly fixed— Rise, my Hystaspes,  
My Soldier, rise, my Kinsman, my Right Arm;  
For that was ne'er so near me in the Fight,  
Nor pushed it on so fiercely— O my Friend!  
Dost think I have forgot my valiant Leader?  
But above all at the Surprise of Sardis,  
When thou wert followed by the Homotyms,  
Led by thy brave Example, all dismounted  
Your fiery Coursers, and with Scaling-Ladders  
Climbed up the Walls, and shouted on the Top,  
In spite of Showers of Flints, and Clouds of Arrows;  
Then leapt into the Street, and there you fought,  
Till you had opened the Gates amidst the Guards,  
And cleared my Way through Clusters to the Town—  
This, this with Joy I do remember still.  Hyst. 
Your Royal Grace extends too far above  
The Merits of Hystaspes— O I grieve  
When I look back on my Offence to you,  
The bravest Master, and the best of Kings—  Cyr. 
No more, Hystaspes, welcome to thy Prince,  
More dear to him than penitent Children are  
To Parents, or than Martyrs to the Gods,  
And like them too I will reward thee—  Hyst. 
O I know you're liberal,  
Can disperse Crowns and Sceptres as you please,  
And make a Monarch of the Man you favour;  
But Pardon's the rich, only thing I beg,  
And is from Cyrlls more than I can merit.  Cyr. 
Enough, Hystaspes; thou shalt see I love thee,  
When I bestow upon thee such a Treasure.  
That all Mankind shall wish to be thy Rivals—  
Croesus, thy Ear— send for thy Daughter straight—  
I promised thee that I would choose a Husband  
For her, and I will do it— Such a Husband,  
That thou shalt bless the happy Moment when  
Thy Wife brought such a Daughter to the World  
To be so well bestowed— Go fetch her, Croesus.  Craes. 
O happy Girl, Lausaria! he does  
Intent sure to bestow himself upon her.  [Exit Croesus. Hyst. 
O Gods! I dream— Can there be such a Thought!  
Has he resolved to give Panthea to me!  Cyr. 
Prepare, Hystaspes, now to meet such Joys,  
Which if thy Senses are not all Immortal,  
Thou art not able to sustain— Behold—  Re-Enter Croesus leading Lausaria attended. 
Behold the brightest Star that gilds the World,  
And makes that Bosom Heaven where e'er she shines.  Hyst. 
Is this the Prize of all my flattering Hopes!  
Now I perceive the Gulf that lies before me,  
Yet I run on, and cannot stop myself;  
This Mortal Disobedience stabs me quite.  Laus. 
Now all you gentle Powers that pity Love,  
And thou, Diana, from the Stars look down,  
Behold the bashful Virgin of thy Train—  
I see my Life or Death writ in those Eyes,  
There is no Mean betwixt my Heaven or Hell,  
I'm to be raised this Moment to the Skies,  
Or flung into the bottom of Despair.  Cyr. 
Assist me, jove; and all you that disperse  
Rich Blessings from the Skies— Lend me your Aid;  
Extend my liberal Hands; for I'm to make  
Two Mortals now so infinitely happy,  
As will amaze your Godheads all to see,  
And make you wish to be translated here—  
Give me thy Hand, thou soft, thou lovely Virgin—  
Ha! why, what makes thou tremble, start, and blush!  
And now look pale? This Combat of thy Beauty's  
Adorns thy Cheeks with double Victories,  
Whilst both in Competition strive to paint  
A Colour there to set at Enmity  
The Lily and the Rose— Draw near, Hystaspes—  Laus. 
O Gods, your Help! what does he mean to do!  Cyr, 
Give me your Hand— what now? what means the Man?  
Give me your Hand, I say— I did expect  
You should have flown like Lightning to my Arms,  
And snatched her from me, so unmannerly  
Thy Raptures should have been— 〈…〉—  
Why holds Lausaria back?— You both draw back.  Hyst. 
Your Pardon, Royal Sir, if my Offence  
Be not too great to challenge any Mercy.  
I do confess the Wonder of the Bliss ha; stunned me;  
The Joys too great, too mighty for my Sense,  
And therefore to approach it as I ought,  
O give me time to study how to bear it.  Cyr. 
Away; I've heard too much— I'll talk with you  
Anon— What means Lausaria? Rise, my Charge.  Laus. 
Ah, why d'you kill with such a Look of Anger?  
Now your strange Beauties are so awful grown,  
That they're above all Mortals to behold  
Without a Dread— O stay the Lightning in  
Your Eyes— What will become of brave Hystaspes,  
If you let loose to Action all your Frowns,  
And execute the Terror of your Looks!  
Pour 'em on me, 'twas I the Grace denied:  
For lo, I think so meanly of myself,  
That I can live to be refused by him.  Cyr. 
Rise, or you press my yielding Heart to Death—  
This hurls me on the more to thy Revenge—  
Guards, seize that Traitor, drive him from my Presence;  
To Exile let him go, and not be seen  
So near as Asia does her spreading Empire bound.  Laus. 
O let me beg you would recall your Doom.  Cyax. 
Nephew.  Craes. 
O Cyrus!  
Mighty Prince, but hear us.  Cyr. 
Keep off, and give me Breath, you stifle me—  
Why, Uncle, Croesus, King of Lydia, I've decreed it,  
And none amongst the Stars shall 'ere revoke—  
Away with him— A thousand Basilisks  
Are in his Eyes.  Hyst. 
With haste I will obey you.  
Thus on my Knees I take your gentle Doom; I go  
To Banishment, and if my wandering Steps  
Direct me where to do you some poor Service,  
I'll do't with hazard of this hated Life—  
Ten thousand Victories, nay more,  
Immortal Crowns, and Everlasting Laurels  
Adorn the Head of the most God like Cyrus.  [Exit Hystaspes. Craes. 
He's gone, and see the King looks discontent,  Cyax. 
Why, Nephew, Cyrus, you are moved.  Laus. 
O Cyrus!  Cyr. 
What says the bright the wronged Lausaria?  Laus. 
Why have you banished from your sight Hystaspes?  
I'll tell you then, how rashly you have done.  
The Sun and Moon might in our Heaven appear,  
And both at once disperse their Rival Lights,  
ere our two Loves could join; and should Hystaspes hope,  
Yet you yourself forbid the scornful Hymen.  
Since it must out, I'll tell it, if my Sighs,  
Mixed with Ten Thousand Blushes, give me leave—  
I love (heavens'!) This poor Daughter to a Captive Prince,  
Owns it with Pride that she does love the Man,  
Of all the World, the greatest, bravest Soul  
As e'er the Gods put in a mortal Body.  Cyr. 
Alas! What's this I hear!  Laus. 
Now judge by what I've said, if I could e'er  
Descend to love another— I have done—  
O look not on me, I am all on Fire,  
Burnt up with Blushes which these Tears enrage.  
This mortal Secret you have wracked from me  
Will kill Lausaria:  Craes. 
Unhappy Girl.  Laus. 
Give me a Veil: And now the World farewell.  Cyr. 
What means the bright, the wronged Lausaria?  
Why dost thou hide thy Charming Face from Cyrus?  Laus. 
'Tis just, after a Confidence so new,  
It should for ever thus be shut from you.  
My Blushes to all Eyes may be unknown,  
But oh! I ne'er can shroud 'em from my own.  
Olympus is too low. I want beside  
The Sun to be Eclipsed, my Shame to hide.  
Cold Cydnus, make thy Icy Stream my Urn,  
To drown my Flames, and quench me now I burn.  [Exit Laus. Cyax. 
What, does not this start Pity from your Eyes  
And Heart?  Cyr. 
Tell me, instruct me what to do—  
O Cyaxares, lend me thy dear Breast,  
T' unload my Griefs, and learn thy precious Council—  
Run for Hystaspes quick, if not too late,  
Tell him his Prince repeals his Banishment,  
Will take him to his gentle Arms again—  
Excuse, dear Uncle, these unruly Passions,  [Exit Officer. 
And oh, my Friends, forgive your Cyrus Frailties.  [Sound of a Trumpet. Enter to them Artabasus. 
What means this Trumpet's formal sound?— The News?  Arta. 
It is a Herald from th' Assyrian Camp,  
That says, the Scythian Queen, the brave Thomyris,  
With Abradatas, the young Susan King,  
Attend to ask a moment's Parley with you.  Cyr. 
Then we shall see this wonder of her Sex—  
Croesus, thou know'st her— Is she then so Brave,  
So Great, and Valiant as the World reports her?  Craes. 
She is indeed a Woman of such Spirit  
As you have heard of juno, of such Honour,  
Such haughty Valour, and so Masculine,  
That she's well called, the Miracle of Women;  
But then, like bold 〈…〉  
With every Vice of the 〈…〉,  
And monstrous of her Sex; Yet Abradatas  
Is truly Valiant, Brave, and Virtuous—  
But hark, she comes,— this Trumpet speaks her Entrance.  Enter to them Thomyris, Abradatus, Women and Attendance, in State, Scythian Guards. Cyr. 
She is indeed of admirable Presence.  Thom. 
There cannot be a Wonder on the Earth  
So Great as Cyrus is: If thou art he,  
Or is't some God, or Mars himself I see;  
For sure these Eyes were never blessed before  
With such a sight— What's Balthasar, and all  
The Princes of the Globe compared to him!  
Now, I no more admire his mighty Fortune,  
That Godlike Mein and Presence is enough  
T' enslave great Kings, and awe the barbarous World—  
I need not ask who is the famous Cyrus?  
Something which makes great Souls so near allied,  
Tells me you are that excellent brave Man.  Cyr. 
I am that most unworthy Cyrus—  
What would the Great, th' most famous in the World  
The Scythian Queen?  Thom. 
Hear me, Divinest King—  
Curse me, you Powers, and languish all my Fame,  
Now I behold the gallant Cyrus' Person,  
If e'er injustly I become your Foe.  
Nay, I'll forget the Murder of my Son,  
And say his Death was my misfortune only—  
You have a Virgin that's Panthea called,  
The Mourning, longing Wife of this young Prince,  
Whom (ere the Priest had said his binding Prayer)  
The Gods, to show the most incertain State  
Of human things, snatched from his Nuptial Arms,  
And bore her from him by a Storm of Fate,  
Even in a time when they did think to join  
Fast as their Wishes— She your Prisoner is.  
All Places save, and privilege the Fair;  
Beauty is even held in War most sacred,  
And Cyrus cannot stoop to do a thing  
That is not brave.  Cyr. 
Go on, bright Queen.  Thomy. 
Long hearing of thy vast and proud Success;  
O'er all Mankind. In pity of the World,  
I drew a force of Forty Thousand Men,  
From my own yet unconquered Land to aid  
Thy Enemy's this Army we'll withdraw;  
And with brave Cyrus make immortal League,  
If he'll restore the sad Panthea to us.  Cyr. 
Now blessed be all those Deities that saw  
The solemn Rites performing 'gainst their Wills,  
And would not let the Hymeneal Torch  
Be light— Ask you me, whom piteous Heaven  
Sent by a Miracle to my Protection!  
Demand my Crowns, my everlasting Fame,  
My shining Trophies, and my Victories:  
For they are not so dear, nor half so sacred,  
Nor look so bright in all the World's esteem.  Abra. 
O I am ruined— Hell is in my Bosom—  
Panthea's lost, undone, inconstant, ha!  
She loves him too perhaps— O thought-like Death!  
Curse on this feeble Arm that could nor guard her,  
Nor had the Courage to assault my Breast.  Cyax. 
It is apparent that the Gods were all  
Displeased, and meant those Nuptials should not be,  
When at the very Altar, like a Dove  
From the fierce Vultures Claws they rescued her.  Abra. 
O King of an Immortal Fame!  
Dread Cyrus, thou art Great, above the World:  
There is no thought a Woman here can fix  
Thy Soul, that soars and ranges like the Sun,  
Behold me from thy Power, like awful jove,  
And O! restore me to my Heaven of Love,  
Pity my Youth, and give Panthea to me;  
O give her to my Soul, and I will add  
To the bright Queens, Ten Thousand Valiant Archers,  
And vow myself thy true Confederate—  
Think not 'tis Fear that makes me stoop so low  
To beg of Thee, but mighty Love that must  
Be still obeyed; else I could meet thee daring  
At th' ' Head of all thy Army, shouting loud  
To animate the Courage of their Leader:  
And O Panthea! were Panthea but  
The Victor's Prize, the blessed Hopes should aid me  
To kill this great Disturber of the World.  Thom. 
Spoke like thyself, my Valiant Abradatus,  
Thou hast a Scythian's Courage in thy Breast—  
Entreat no more; for Cyrus dare not hold her.  
The Gods and Thomyris have decreed  
To fetch Panthea back in Triumph from him—  
To morrow I will meet thee in the Front  
Of Battle, where it shall be then recorded  
To thy eternal Shame and Infamy,  
A Woman conquered thee.  Cyr. 
Proud Queen, retreat lest we profane the Truce,  
The nicest Law of Arms can ne'er endure  
Such daring Provocations.  Enter Panthea attended. Panth. 
My Abradatas.  
Soul of my Love, and Lord of my Desires,  
Am I so blessed to see thee once again!  
To embrace thee once before I die,  
Save me from Fears, from Prison, and from Harms,  
And lock me safe within these tender Arms.  Abra. 
O my Panthea! Let me hold thee fast,  
Hoard all my numberless and breathless Kisses,  
On thy soft Cheeks at once: For something tells me,  
This Pleasure is too great and rich to last—  
O stir not from me.  Panth. 
No, we'll never part—  
Our Loves shall here incorp'rate us like Air;  
Not Swords, nor Death, shall any way divide us.  
Now 'tis beyond the Power of Jealousy,  
Or jove himself this Gordian to untie.  
Nay, Cyrus is too Brave, too Good to see  
Such faithful Lovers languish any longer.  Cyr. 
O I am struck!— A thousand Stings dart all  
At once their pointed Venom in my Eyes,  
And now I feel 'em in my Breast— Tell me,  
What is't besides the mortal stroke of Love  
That pains your Cyrus thus? See how they grasp—  
'Tis that, 'tis that— assist me Cyaxares—  
Say quickly, Friends, what shall be done to part 'em—  
Speak, will you see me racked?— My Soul's between  
Each close Embrace,  
And will not, cannot, bear it any longer—  
Prince, from this fatal Ecstasy retire,  
This sight will mortal be to one of us.  Abra. 
Thou shalt not stir— I will not move without her,  
But leave Ten thousand Limbs, if I'd so many,  
Hacked off and hewed from this unhappy Body,  
But I will bear her hence— O my Panthea!—  
Oh Mother! let me lose this hated Life:  
First let me die before I part with her.  Panth. 
Think not of Death, my Abradatas, lo,  
The Gallant Monarch melts, and says it too;  
Our Lives shall be immortal as our Loves.  Thom. 
Cyrus has reached the utmost brink of Greatness—  
The Gods no longer will dispute thy Fate,  
Since they have punished thee with lawless Love;  
A cursed Charm that slumbers all thy Virtues,  
That thou shalt never more awake to Glory—  
Retire, my Son, from Beauty run to day,  
And, by the Gods, Panthea shall be thine  
To morrow, when we only shall encounter  
With the starved Genius, weary Fame of Cyrus.  
My Women shall be foremost in the Fight,  
And, with their naked Breasts and Arms displayed,  
Shall lead this once brave Man a Captive-Slave,  
This empty Form of his departed Greatness.  Panth. 
O Royal Mother!  
Why d'you mistake? You wrong the Godlike Cyrus.  
O give him gentle Words, mild as the Sound  
Of Prayers and Sighs in Sacrifices used;  
Speak t'him, approach him as indeed you ought,  
As Conqueror of the World, and you shall see  
No God can be so lavish, nor so kind.  Abra. 
My dear Panthea, why d'you thus proceed?  
Unless you wish to make me worse than Woman—  
Hold, while I've Resolution in my Breast,  
And all thy Heaven of Charms will let me go;  
By those, thyself I swear, the greatest Oath  
That I can take, to morrow I will bring  
Thy Abradatas to thee, live or dead.  Panth. 
No, say not so— Thus kneel with thy Panthea,  
My Hand close locked in thine, my Abradatas,  
And send our Tears and our Requests together—  
Look, Mighty Conqueror, cast your Eyes beneath,  [Both kneel. 
And may your Arms, and Fame increase in Wars,  
As you to Love, are pitiful and kind.  Abra. 
Now, Godlike Cyrus, from thy Rage look down,  
By all those Virtues that have made thee shine,  
And gained the Name of the Immortal Cyrus.  
Oh, stoop to see what mighty Love can do,  
That humbles thus thy generous Enemy,  
And makes a Suppliant of thy mortalest Foe—  
Since you have felt the Rage of Jealous Love,  
The Fire that burns unruly in your Breast,  
Pity me then, and give Panthea to me:  
O give her to these Arms!  Panth. 
Mighty Cyrus,  
Give Abradatas to my thousand Wishes,  
And Oh, restore his loved Panthea to him!  Cyr. 
They kneel— She kneels—  
See, see, my valiant Friends,  
Do not my Eyes shed Blood?— They should, they should,  
For all the Torments that I feel within.  
This is the sharpest Stroke that ever touched  
My Virtue here— Rise, Goddess— In this Posture  
Thou art more cruel to thy Cyrus far  
Than he can be to thee.  Panth. 
Here we will grow,  
Thus ever fixed, thus rooted as you see us,  
Till from the noblest Breath of all the World,  
We hear the Sentence of our Death or Life.  Cyr. 
Oh Friends! I feel a War within my Breast.  
The horrid Sound of Fights, and parting Ghosts  
Are all but Music to my tortured Sense—  
Yet fain I'd get the victory o'er myself;  
But Oh, I can't! and find I am too weak—  
By all the Gods it is beyond a Mortal—  
Ha! Part 'em, or the Sight will kill  
Your General— And Oh, my Fellow-Soldiers!  
Stay whilst this dreadful Moment I retire,  
And having raised Panthea from the Ground,  
Send my triumphant Rival back; for this  
Is more than all the Wounds e'er had in Fight,  
And I can fly from nothing but this Sight.  [Exit Cyrus. Abra. 
Now, now I curse my Tameness, and these Knees,  
That made me stoop so low to beg even thee—  
Away, Panthea, wish me not to stay;  
Go to thy Gaoler back, and load his Head  
With Curses, whilst thy Abradatas shall  
Prepare to fight, and pour 'em all upon him.  Thom. 
Go, we must leave thee in thy Prison again,  
But in the Morning thou shalt rise from thence,  
Bright as the Sun that revels in his Chariot,  
And see thyself as free— Go, whilst we stay,  
Revenge grows tame, and we forget thy Wrongs.  Panth. 
Then must we part! Yet I'm to blame— Begone,  
Go, whilst my Woman's Soul can give thee leave,  
And all the Blessings of a Love that's chaste,  
A faithful, tender Wife's kind Thoughts attend thee.  Abra. 
O my Panthea!  Panth. 
And to inspire thee more, call to thy Mind  
Our Infant Loves, the soft, and precious Vows  
That we have oft exchanged Nights without Number,  
As were the Stars our Witnesses, till all  
Those petty, lesser Knots were quite unravelled,  
And made one Nuptial Bond— I've done— Farewell—  
But Oh, regard— Regard that precious Life,  
By which both live, and all the Gods protect thee,  Abra. 
The Thoughts of thee shall still enrich my Mind  
With all the Pleasures that are yet to come,  
And those that are like Visions slid away;  
How oft we've tired the Watchings of the Moon,  
Till the pale Empress of the Night grew weary,  
And sat to rest behind a silken Cloud.  Thom. 
Have done, or I must act the Part of Cyrus,  
And tear you from each others Arms.  Abra. 
This Kiss, and then we part— Farewell— It comes,  
Methinks already the fierce Storm begins,  
And bears thee from me o'er a thousand Billows.  Panth. 
Thee, like a Rock, I fain would hold but cannot.  
But Oh! rough Horror like a desperate Sea,  
Throws me from off Love's Fortress and from thee.  Abra. 
Weep not, my Soul— Who knows but that ere long,  
Our wearied Barks may meet, the Storm o'er-blown.  
Trust till to morrow what the Gods can do.  [Exeunt Thomyris, Abradatas, and their Attendants, at one Door; and Panthea weeping with her Maids, at another. Manent Cyaxares, Croesus, Artabasus, and Guards. Cyax. 
Let a strong Guard attend the Scythian Queen,  
Till she is safe arrived within her Camp.  Re-Enter Cyrus. Cyr. 
Tell me, kind Uncle, tell thy Cyrus quickly,  
How bore the sad Panthea her Departure?  Cyax. 
As silent as the Day gives way to Night,  
And patient as the Spirit of a Saint  
Dying, and leaving all the World behind him.  Cyr. 
Run, Artabasus, run, and kneel before her,  
Tell her, what Kingdom in the World can buy  
One Smile, or Tear on Abradatas thrown,  
an't shall be hers— The Sea's, nor Croesus' Hoard,  
Holds not the Wealth that I will bid for either;  
My Life, nay say Ten thousand Lives are her;—  
Tell what thou canst invent— Tell her what not—  
Say more than if thou wert in Love, thou then  
Couldst say— Yet hold, I will not trust thyself alone—  
Come all with me— You, Uncle, are a Father,  
Speak as you would do to your only Daughter;  
Drop all the Sweetness of a Parent's Tongue—  
Croesus is wise, and has been taught to speak,  
Thy Eloquence has cleared the Delphic Riddles,  
O charm my Goddess as thou charmest the God—  Craes. 
Else may I fall a Sacrifice to Cyrus—  Cyax. 
Rejoice, my Cyrus, doubt not thy Success;  
That needs must move, which tortures all our Pity.  Cyr. 
'Tis she must pity, you forgive my Passion—  
Lend me a Dagger one of you, or kill me;  
Come, who is Noble level here thy Dart,  
And reach this wanton Cupid in my Heart:  
Death from my meanest Vassal I will stand,  
Or fall by any but a Woman's Hand;  
For Love still plays the Tyrant with the Great,  
Let's Fools and Cowards prosper in their State,  
And only makes the Brave Unfortunate.  [Exeunt Omnes. 
Finis Actus Tertii.   

Actus Quartus, Scaena Prima.  Scene draws, and discovers Cyrus, and Cyaxares; They come forwards. Cyr. 
YET more! Have I not said enough, dear Uncle?  
And have you not already seen and heard  
With blushing, too much of your Cyrus Frailties?  Cyax. 
Tell me, my Cyrus, when you have disclosed  
The heavy Load that lies upon your Soul,  
I'll pour a Balm into't shall give you Ease—  
These Struggle of the Nobler Passions show  
The most Heroic Mind that ever was.  Cyr. 
O Cyaxares! I'm all Guilt, all Stain,  
Even I that rid the foremost in the World,  
And knew how Dear, how Great, and how Esteemed  
A Thing my hard-got Honour was— yet that,  
And all are drowned within a Sea of Love,  
My Empires, Crowns quite ruined by the Fair,  
That gilded o'er the deep deluding Danger,  
Then tempted me to split— O all my fame,  
My matchless Glories with myself are sunk,  
In the false footing of a Woman's smile.  Cyax. 
You are Impartial to a fault, my Cyrus.  
Whose Love is guided by the Rays of Virtue—  
The Crime is not so great to be in Love;  
The Gods themselves have often felt its Power,  
Witness the many 'scapes of jupiter.  
And the Wise Men have all confessed, that once  
In his whole Life the bravest, greatest Man  
May stoop to Love—  
Nay, Solon has confessed,  
That he himself was once a Slave to Love.  Cyr. 
Solon! had Solon that to lose as I have?  
Had he the business of the World to fill  
His thoughts, and chase away all soft Ideas?  
Books might have fashioned his tame Soul to Love,  
But mine should have been hardened wrought by War;  
Proof as the Anvil 'gainst the Cyclops Hammers;  
And Glory in my Breast should have Eclipsed  
The Rays of Beauty— How I hate myself!  
Achilles, when a Boy, did never handle  
And ply the Distaff with such Female Skill.  Cyax. 
Still you run on, are too severe a Judge  
Even to yourself, your Honour is too nice,  
And Dictates to you with a ridged Breath,  
This noble caution o'er your looser Passions,  
Shows yet a greater Conquest o'er your Mind,  
Than if you ne'er had felt what Love had been;  
'Tis Mortal-like to be the Aim of Vice,  
But it is Godlike to resist its Fury.  Cyr. 
Teach me, dear Uncle, teach me how to do so:  
I feel my Virtue now begins to tire,  
And Love Plays all the Tyrant in my Soul,  
When I begin to wish the Pain away,  
O then I wish the pleasant grief to keep.  Enter to them Hystaspes. Hyst. 
Thus low Hystaspes falls beneath your Feet,  
And comes to know his Monarch's joyful Doom.  Cyr. 
Welcome, Hystaspes, once more to my Arms,  
And from this time for ever to my Breast;  
No Love, nor Jealousy shall henceforth throw  
Suspicions 'twixt my Friend and me.  Hyst. 
Then 'tis  
Above the Malice of Fiends in Hell,  
To Shock me from the state I now remain in  
Blessed be the Gods that have again Installed me  
In the Immortal Throne of Cyrus' Favour—  
But oh! forgive, forgive your Soldier's Crimes,  
Led by his Frailties.  Cyr. 
Thou art good Hystaspes;  
'Tis thou hast cause to blame thy Cyrus' Temper,  
When like a Man infected, mad in Love,  
I threw at random; hurt my dearest Friends;  
So raged I with the wild Promethean Fire;  
But I will quench it, quench it every Spark,  
And the bright Venus then, that glittered in  
My Eyes, I will behold hurtless as shadows,  
Or as Jove's Bird the Eagle does the Sun.  Hyst. 
O my loved Lord, pursue your gallant Hopes,  
She shall be yours by all the Powers above;  
Myself shall hold your Hymen's Torch— O Sir  
She's too Divine for all the World but you.  Cyr. 
No more, Hystaspes— There is something in  
Thy Face that shows thou art not yet well pleased—  
Tell me— why look'st thou still upon us with  
A troubled Brow?  Hyst. 
I came from such a sight  
Would strike Compassion from obdurate Rocks,  
And make soft Pity flow from Hearts of Steel,  
The Courage of your Soldiers flags to tell it.  Cyr. 
Out with it, tho', let it be ne'er so dreadful.  Hyst. 
The Fair, th' unhappy, Innocent Lausaria  
Is grown distracted by a violent Grief;  
Her Wits, her Precious Senses quite are gone;  
The Ornaments of so much Beauty fled!  
Fled to the Gods that gave them, and, no doubt,  
ere long will draw the lovely Body after.  Cyax. 
Ha! what sayst thou?  Cyr. 
Can this be true, Hystaspes?  Cyax. 
The Cause?  Hyst. 
Do you not guests it, since she owned  
A Passion for the Great, and Famous Cyrus?  
The sad occasion was, alas! that she  
Too lightly had revealed her Love to you:  
For from your Presence, she no sooner was  
Conveyed to her Apartment, but her Anger,  
Which first adorned her Face with blushing Red,  
Straight snatched the Roses from her Cheeks, and left  
A Pale, and Trembling Colour in their stead—  
Mountains and Hills come cover me she said;  
No, no, Eternal Darkness shroud my Head,  
From Cyrus' sight— O! Cyrus follows me;  
He mocks me— Hide me from his scornful Eyes.  Cyr. 
Hold, hold, Hystaspes give me strength to hear thee;  
Thou pourest ill News too fast upon my Soul—  
So— But go on.  Hyst. 
This for some Minutes held her,  
Till from the Fatal Ecstasy, she rose,  
And struggling to recall her wandering Senses,  
Looked round about her, Wild and Beautiful.  
But oh! (thou rash Minerva to permit it)  
She let her Words at random so disperse,  
That we too soon the Fatal Meaning knew,  
Through all their dark and ridled Sense.  Cyr. 
Pry'thee, what said she?— Say, did she not Curse me?  Hyst. 
Thus she would talk—  
Where's Cyrus, where? Has he not heard I love him—  
Cursed be the Wretch that first disclosed my flame,  
See where she's hurled, and has no rest below,  
A Thousand Souls of chaste and Modest Virgins  
Arm at her sight, and drive me from the Shades;  
Then must I back into the World again!  
O there is Cyrus, and Panthea too,  
He Loves her, and she Loves him not again!  
Ha! There th' art punished false deluding Man,  
Thou art— Revenge me, O Panthea, on him—  
But see, my Cyrus weeps, O pity him—  
Cruel Panthea! cruelest of thy Sex!  
What merciless Panther gave thy Mother Suck,  
That bred in thee such Monstruous Savage Nature,  
As not t'adore so excellent a Man?  Enter to them Croesus' weeping. Crae. 
O Cyrus, I perceive the Gods ordain  
Thy Friends and Foes to fall alike by thee,  
By all their Ruins to adorn thy Triumph  
Pity the Man whose breath thou didst restore,  
Pity my Daughter on whose future state  
That Life depends— Go in, and see what Wrack,  
What wild destruction thy still Conquering Genius,  
In Love as well as War, has made amongst  
Lausariar's Beauties.  Cyr. 
When, when ye Gods will all these mischiefs cease,  
Or grow to such a Bulk will sink me quite!—  
Chide me not, Croesus, chide not the unhappy,  
Convey me to her straight, and strive  
With me to Charm the cruel Deities,  
And save the greatest miracle of Love.  [Exeunt Cyrus and Croesus. Cyax. 
Why, why ye Gods, has Cyrus so deserved!  
That almost at the Race's end of Glory,  
Worse than Pandora's Plagues is sent amongst us?  
Beauty thou subtle spoiler of the World,  
Man were a Godhead were it not for thee,  
And there was never Hero yet below  
That raised the Jealous Envy of the Gods,  
But this, this never failing Curse was sent  
To ruin all his Fame, and blast his Glories—  
Hystaspes, when does Balthasar intend  
To give us Battle?  Hyst. 
Early this next Morning;  
I understood it by a Slave of mine,  
That fled at my Command some few days since,  
And dewlt a Spy within the Enemies Camp.  
He's now returned, and tells me both the number,  
Order, and strength of this so potent Army,  
He likewise says, that next their multitudes  
They put their chiefest Hopes and Confidence  
In brave Thomyris, and her Scythian Bowmen.  
Relying thus on his unwieldy Forces,  
And fed with lies of Soothsayers, he remains  
Close in his Tent, Carrouses, Feasts, and Revels,  
Scorning the Gods, the Fates, and thinks them poor,  
And all besides his boasted Power but mean.  Cyax. 
Would it were now, Hystaspes, would the Fight  
Were now beginning, and the Trumpets call  
Did Rouse fond Cyrus from these Painted Dreams,  
The danger would be less to find him so  
Enclosed, than in his Tents besieged with Love,  
His Breast laid open to the poisonous Darts  
Of Cruel Beauty.  Hyst. 
O the Happy time!  
Thy Rage soft Tyrannous Love shall then have End,  
When Cyrus kindles once again the Heat  
That first inspired his Noble Breast with Glory.  Cyax. 
I hear sudden noise of Clashing Swords—  [Noise of Fighting within. 
Look out, Hystaspes, go and see the matter.  [As Histaspes is going off, enter in haste Artabasus with his Sword Drawn. Arta. 
Where's Cyrus? where's the King?— Great Cyaxares,  
Pity the bravest Valour in the World—  
Haste, Sir, and save the Gallant Abradatas,  
With great and most unequal odds oppressed—  
Haste for the sakes of all your bravest Men:  
for at so dear a Rate he sells his Life,  
That with's own Hand already he has slain  
Strange Numbers of the stoutest Ranks, whose Valour  
Pushed 'em first on to meet his daring Blows.  Cyax. 
What madness forced him thus to his Destruction!  Arta. 
His desperate Love led him so boldly on;  
For with a Troop, composed of all his best  
And stoutest Men, he straight broke through our Camp,  
Who stood more Wondering at their madness, than  
Afraid— And though of all his Valiant Followers  
Scarce ten remain alive besides himself,  
Yet still he ventures on, and calls for Cyrus—  
But hark, they this way come—  Cyax. 
Follow Hystaspes—  [As Cyaxares, and the rest are going off, Enters Abradatas fighting against a great many, Cyaxares and the rest join against him and his followers. 
Brave Abradatas yield, whilst you are safe.  Abra. 
Yield! By the Gods that hated Breath I scorn—  
The Spirits of my murdered Friends around me  
Still guard me from the Thoughts of such a Baseness—  
Dost think I undertook so brave a Deed  
With the least thought of Living, or of Yielding!  
No, Fight I will till every Sinew fail me:  
And when my Arms can lift a Sword no longer,  
I'll stretch 'em forth to all your Cymeters;  
Now to be parted from my Bleeding Body,  
Before I'll suffer 'em to be tamely bound—  
Come all— Quick, make an End of me— Ye Gods!  
Would I had Cyrus now but in thy Place;  
Thus would I do, thus use my hated Rival.  Hyst. 
Kill, kill the raging Prince, if he'll be still  
Thus Obstinate.  Cyax. 
I charge you every Man  
To save him, and with speed take him alive.  [They Fight, Cyaxares in the Skirmish is mortally Wounded, Abradatas is taken Prisoner, and Disarmed. Abra. 
Base Villains! Choked I am with Multitudes—  
O that I want the Fierceness of a Lion  
To chase this Herd of Slaves and Cowards from me.  Hyst. 
What ail you, Sir? O Cursed sight, you Bleed!  Cyax. 
I fear I've been too rash—  
And feel I'm wounded in my Mortalest part.  Re-enter to them Cyrus in haste. Hyst. 
The Gods forbid— O Sir, retired, and view not  
This sad Mischance.  Cyr. 
Ha!  Craes. 
Hystaspes, how came this to pass?  Cyr. 
Blast me, you Vicious Planets of my Birth;  
Fall on me all the wrath of Heaven at once,  
Can this be true what here my Eyes behold—  
My Uncle wounded! 'Tis not much, I hope?  Cyax. 
Yes, 'tis to Death, and by my fleeting Soul  
I am not sorry for't— But why grieve you?  
I now shall tug the Reins of Rule no more,  
And you shall drive the Chariot of the World  
Alone— My life that stood so long i'th' way  
Dividing all the while Ambition with thee,  
Shall share with thee, and of thy Hopes no more.  Cyr. 
Fetch my Physicians— Run for Artists straight,  
A Kingdom shall be his that Cures his Hurt.  Cyax. 
Stir not, I charge you— 'Tis beyond all Art  
To save my Life— I've but a Moment's Breath  
To speak, yet whilst that lasts, it's thine, my Cyrus;  
And likewise all that's mine I give to thee;  
Commit my only Daughter to thy Care,  
She's young, and may in time grow up thy Wife.  Cyr. 
Cursed Abradatas— Curst-be all the Fates  
That led thee thus to Triumph still upon me,  
First in my Love, and now in Cyaxares;  
But by the Gods— By my wronged Self I Swear  
I will be tame no longer, but will sweep thee,  
Like a fierce Whirlwind from the Face of Cyrus,  
Wert thou the Minion of the spiteful Stars;  
Yes, though ten Thousand Cupids on their Knees,  
And Venus weeping Eyes should beg to save thee.  Abra. 
I killed him bravely, by the Gods I did,  
Killed him as I would thee, hadst thou been there.  Cyr. 
Away with him to speedy Death, I charge you.  Cyax. 
Hold, Cyrus, hold, the Gallant Prince says true;  
Let me not be the cause of his hard Fate,  
It was my Fortune, and the Chance of War.  Cyr. 
Torture me not with the Request; I vow  
It is the only thing I cannot grant you.  Cyax. 
You must— O my Dear Cyrus; I have been  
To blame, my Envy of thy gallant Deeds  
Brought me to meet the Death I have deserved;  
Had I but pleased myself to hear thee prosper,  
And Treasured thy Exploits within my Breast,  
As a kind Uncle should have done to Cyrus,  
O then I had been happier.  
Persia, and Media now shall be but one;  
Far greater than Astyages thou art,  
The first sole Monarch of the Medes and Persians—  
Cyrus farewell— Kiss me, and then I go.  [dies. Cyr. 
He's fled, the kindest, dearest, bravest Man  
That ever blessed the World, is gone— Dry up  
Your Tears, and hide your Sorrows in your Breasts.  
'Tis poor and mean to spend our griefs like Women;  
Ten Thousand Deaths are all too little for thee,  [To Abrad. 
No, thou shalt live, and grow in studied Torments;  
I'll carry thee where'er I go, to be  
The sport of my Revenge, and every Day  
Thou shalt be brought i'th' midst of all thy Pains  
To hear thee howl before me— Go with him  
To Tortures, Chains, Imprisonment— Away.  Enter to them Running, and Weeping, Panthea attended, as Abradatas is carrying off. Panth. 
Hold, whither is my Abradatas going?—  
Brave Cyrus' stay, real your dread Commands—  
Ah! where d'ye hurry my dear Prince so fast?  [To the Guards. 
Still Abradatas will you be thus rash?  
Adventuring through a Thousand threatning Deaths,  
To come to this accursed Place to meet  
Your certain Ruin; Cruel as you are,  
More Cruel to yourself and me than Cyrus far.  Cyr. 
Still does she come to brave my little Power,  
And chain my weak Resolves— She knows her strength,  
By all the Gods she does, and dares me to't—  
Keep 'em asunder, part 'em whilst I'm in  
The mind— Perhaps anon I may forget  
I bid you— Do, and part 'em now for ever.  Abra. 
You urge in vain, the Tyrant must b'obeyed—  
Farewell, our Loves shall shine amongst the Stars,  
And make Immortal Lights that never shall  
Be quenched— There we will Rule, and guide the Planets,  
Causing 'em every one to shed their worst,  
And mortalest Venom on his Cursed Head.  Panth. 
Ah no, you wrong the brave and Godlike Cyrus,  
He is more mild than tender Mothers are;  
The Spring is not so sweet that flows from Winter,  
As are the Passions of that Brave rough Man—  
Look thou Immortal; great on Earth as jove  [Kneels. 
Can you behold me kneel, and hear me beg,.  
In vain, who once you said was Beautiful, and loved?  Cyr. 
Panthea rise, I cannot see you bend—  
There's something in those Eyes would cheat me still,  
Although I know their kindness is not meant  
To me— No, no, these Prayers and Tears are all  
My Rivals still— Behold there's one could speak  
If it had Life, but that is slain by thee—  [Shows the body of Cyax. 
See, see, the silent everlasting Cause  
Of Abradatas Fate.  Panth. 
Ah me, the sight  
Is dreadful, but you must forget it—  
He killed him fairly in his Life's defence,  
And you may add a little too for Love—  
The gallant Cyrus would have done as much,  
Had he been urged, or had the like Occasion.  Cyr. 
Away Panthea, hence, thou plead'st against  
Thyself, and hast recalled each wandering Spark  
That strayed without my Breast, and fanned 'em to  
A Flame, that if thou talk'st, will ne'er be quenched—  
Away with him, I say— Death to you all  
That disobey a Moment—  Abrad. 
I Court that Death, and cannot wish to live  
A life so mean that's in thy power to give;  
But ah, Panthea!  Panth. 
Stay, for we must live  
Or die together Cyrus, take thy Choice—  
Give me thy Hand, my Love— Thus we will grow,  [Panthea runs and takes Abrad. by the hand. 
Joining ourselves together thus— Thus fixed,  
By great Diana's Soul, immovable—  
So mingle not our Souls, nor beams of sight so twist  
As are these Hands united— Why d'ye stay?—  
Come bear him to his Fate— By Constancy,  
I vow this Hand shall go along with him,  
Not all your Torments, Pincers, nor Devices  
Shall wrench these Knots asunder; no, unless  
You cut this off, so you may part our Bodies,  
But then my Spirits shall retire that moment,  
Flying to th' part that's nearest to my Love,  
And my lost Hand shall hold him still thus fast,  
And Perish with him as the Body would.  Craes. 
Behold, do not the Gods look down, and wonder?  Cyr. 
What shall I do? Croesus' advise me straight.  Craes. 
I am beyond all Sense, the Miracle  
Has almost struck me dumb— Yet you had best  
Begone— Retire, Sir, from this melting Object;  
O never interrupt such Happiness,  
But send these rare and faithful Lover's home,  
To be the Wonder of all Worlds to come.  Cyr. 
O how shall I begin! Croesus', I'll do it,  
I am resolved, yet cannot though I would;  
When I have gained the highest Victory o'er  
My mind, then straight I feel my climbing Love  
Ascends by stealth, and reaching to the top,  
Pulls all my slippery Resolutions down—  
Assist me Gods, and guide my sickly Virtue.  Enter to them Lausaria Distracted, dressed like a Cupid, with a Bow and Quiver, followed by her Women. Laus. 
Ye daring Mortals, would ye hinder me?—  
Let me alone, I say— Prepare my Chariot;  
Go fetch me Boreas straight, and bid him bring me  
A gentle Wind to spread my fiery Wings,  
Then I'll ride faster than the Fleeting Air,  
Or Raceing Clouds— The Stars shall be my Guides,  
And in a Moment I will reach the Gods.  Craes. 
O Dismal sight!  Laus. 
— My Father weeps: If tears could quench thee!  

I. SONG.  
O Take him gently from the Pile,  
And lay him here to rest,  
And I will scorch for him the while;  
If he must burn, then burn him in my Breast,  
For there is Fire, there is shame  
Enough to set the World on flame.   Craes. 
Hear me Lausaria, thou hadst once a Brother  
Doomed by the Gods to want the gift of Speech,  
And yet his Dumbness could not so afflict me,  
As these wild words torment thy Father's Soul.  Laus. 
This Bow and Quiver were a wanton Cupid's;  
I watched the Boy, as he lay down to sleep,  
And stole his Ammunition from his side;  
And now I've got 'em, I will be revenged  
On all mankind, on all the Sex at once,  
And shoot Love's Plague into their Breasts— Stand fair.  

II. SONG.  
I Am armed, and delare  
For a Vigerous War;  
By my Bow and my Quiver I swear  
Not a Rebel 10 Love will I spare,  
This Shaft I will draw to the Head,  
And shoot the great Persian, shoot him dead.  
The Tyrani shall die, there's one will deny him,  
Let him Court her with Crowns she shall fly him,  
This Shaft I will draw to the Head,  
And shoot the great Archer dead.   Cyr. 
Her Sense is out of Tune, her Wits not well,  
But yet, alas! her Tongue is Charming still.  Laus. 
Here is a Dart by Limping Vulcan made,  
Tipped with the Clipping of a red hot Star;  
The same that Venus, when she robbed her Son,  
Chose from the rest to shoot Adonis with;  
I'll burn you every one, till you endure  
Worse Pains than I— Ha! Cyrus there— Have at thee—  
I think I've struck thee, Cruel Flint, I have.  [She shoots and hits Cyrus. Cyr. 
Thou hast indeed, and touched me to the quick;  
I thank the Gods there wanted but this sight  
To rouse my slumbering Virtue— Sweet Lausaria,  
thoust pierced my rocky Heart, and see it melts.  [Cyrus Weeps. Laus. 
Ha! have I hurt him! Cursed was I to do so—  
Look how the Blood runs trickling down his Face—  
Help, help Panthea, Abradatas help—  
Can you behold that Bleeding brave good Man,  
And not bestow one Sigh, or Tear between you,  
Indeed you are to blame— I could shed Rivers,  
And with my sighs disturb the endless Ocean.  [Weeps. Craes. 
Poor Girl! She tires herself with her Wild Thoughts—  
When will her roving Fancy get some rest?  Laus. 
Go, go; you are a pair of Constant Fools,  [To Panthea, etc. 
You are not fit to dwell amongst Mankind—  
Get you to wild's, to Fountains, and the Woods,  
There graft your Follies on the Barks of Trees,  
And write sad Songs upon th'unconstant Sands,  
Which are as false as are the Hearts of Men:  
Or get you to the Echo, Owl, and Magpie;  
They say, they once were Mortals like yourselves—  
die like a pair of faithful silly Lovers,  
Dye, die, and get you to Elysium,  
There be the things you dream of; there be such  
As are yourselves— Go, get you to Elysium;  
And I will follow you so soon as e'er  
I can— hay hoe!— I have a mind to sleen—  Craes. 
Come, lead her gently to her Bed.  Laus. 
Well let me make my Will, since Love must die,  
And leave to every one a Legacy:  
This Dart I give—  
To those that are Ambitious of a Name,  
And fall in Love with such a Jilt as Fame;  
This tipped with Gold to Sages on the Bench  
Who have—  
One Eye for Bribery, t'other for a Wench.  
This Wicked one that at the Pulpit Drives  
To Priests, who Love good Livings, hate good Lives,  
And send you all to Heaven by your Wives;  
This Matrimonial Dart, that shames the Giver,  
To Married Folks, the worst of all my Quiver,  
My Wealth to Poets, thrift to Eldest Sons,  
My Truth to Courtiers, Chastity to Nuns.  
My Wantonness I do bequeath in Plenty,  
To all the Women in the World of Twenty,  
My Eyes to Alchemists, my Brains to Schools,  
Scorn to the Brave, and all my Love to Fools.  [Exit. Craes. 
What say you now? How feel you now yourself?  Cyr. 
Just like a Man fast tied upon the Rack,  
When, feeling the fierce pain too great to bear,  
Starts up and stretching every Nerve about him,  
Expands his Joints, and loosens all his Bands,  
As threads of Flax are driven before the Flame—  
Now mighty Love, I will despise the Nets,  
And like the hunted Deer, rush through the Thicket  
That once I feared, and hung by every Bough—  Craes. 
— Bravely resolved and like the Godlike Cyrus.  Cyr. 
— Hence, hence my Torment— All fond thoughts of Love  
Away, and vanish into slender Air,  
And from this time, let Pity and Revenge  
Fill up my tortured Bosom in its stead—  
Release the Prince— Panthea, take the Man  
You Love— Quick, not one word of thanks, for I  
Deserve none— But be sure you Charm him, hold him  
Till he's Immortal made in your Embraces—  
Haste, Abradatas— Thou shalt dearly pay  
For all the Pleasures of this longed for Night—  
To Morrow I will Summon thee like Fate  
Soft slumbering in Panthea's Arms.  
Abra. And I,  
Armed with the Thoughts, will meet thee like a God,  
Fired with each Kisses heat, that thou shalt blush  
To see what Beauties happiest Man can do.  Cyr. 
Ye Gods! To Morrow! Did I say to Morrow?  
To day, this hour, a Moment is too long—  
He goes just now to ravish all those Beauties,  
To ransack so much Joys, compared to which  
heavens' store is all but niggardly composed—  
Away, away— I'll overtake thee else,  
Swift as the Winds that drive behind thy Back.  Re-enter to them Croesus. Craes. 
O Cyrus, your sad Croesus' Daughter's Dead.  Cyr. 
Dead is she then. Poor Innocent Lausaria!  
But hold, I have more griefs to spend for thee  
Hereafter—  Panth. 
These sad Disasters make me move but flow,  
And stir unwillingly to meet my Joys—  
I go, but still to pray for Cyrus' Life—  
Thou generous, great, unhappy Man, farewell.  Cyr. 
Farewell— And sinee the Gods have so decreed,  
May this Divorce so happy be to prove  
The last of meetings, and the End of Love.  [Exeunt severally. 
Finis Actus Quarti.   


Actus Quintus, SCENA Prima.  Enter Thomyris, Women, Guards, and Soldiers. Thom 
COme, my brave Friends, I see you are resolved  
To follow me, and share your Queen's worst Fate.  
Remember first who 'tis you go to fight with,  
Cyrus, a braver Man indeed not lives;  
But likewise call to mind yourselves, a Nation  
That all mankind has looked upon with wonder,  
Envying your State that never yet was Conquered;  
But oh my Son! We drop the Precious Minutes—  
My Spargepyses did last night appear  
With the cursed Dagger, sticking in his Breast,  
(In the same manner as your Eyes beheld him,  
When Cyrus sent the Royal Body home,)  
Let Balthasar still drown in Luxury,  
Devoured by Cycophants, undone by Harlots,  
Whilst with your Aid I act such mighty things,  
As never Woman yet performed, nor Man  
Could do.  Enter to them Abradatas, and Panthea, Hystaspes, and Guards. Panth. 
O Sacred joy!— Could I have thought once more  
To kneel before you, and have in these Arms  
The kindest Mother, and the best of Queens?  Abrad. 
O blessed Panthea's Mother, Godlike Thomyris!  Thomy. 
Rise, dear Children,  
Bend only to the Gods, and not to me,  
To that Ambitious, happy God, who wrested  
This gallant Action from my feeble Arm,  
And only would engross the glorious Deed.  Panth. 
That God was Cyrus; who, alas! Tormented  
With Jealousy, the worst of all Love's Tortures,  
Besides the dismal sight of Cyaxares,  
Dying before his Eyes, slain by the Hand  
Of Abradatas, whom of all mankind  
It was expected, he the least should pardon;  
Yet notwithstanding all those fierce assaults  
On his brave mind, to his eternal Fame,  
He has restored Panthea to her wishes,  
And a loved Rival to his Mistress Arms.  Abrad. 
But we forget how soon th' assault begins,  
Spite, and ambitious Rage have lent him Wings,  
With which we're to expect him at our Backs,  
Rushing to overtake us with more speed,  
Than falling Torrents, or the swiftest Tide.  Hyst. 
With Balthasar he now intends to fight—  
Love that so long misled his Warlike Genius,  
And turned him from the Path of his ripe Glory,  
Having at length o'ercome this worst of Foes,  
This Moment he intends to end the War,  
And with quick Marches rouse up the Assyrians—  
I hear him coming: For on this large Plain  
Betwixt both Camps, he forms his mighty Battle.  [Cyr. Trumpet within. Thomy. 
Now, now methinks I feel the noble Fire  
That first inspired our Amazonian Chief,  
When like a Star, shot from our Northern Sphere,  
Her Courage every where like light displayed,  
And gave the World a wonder to all Ages—  
Does not this news inspire you Country Men?  
Kindle a Flame through all your Frozen Sinews,  
Which the Sun Beams could never do to Scythia—  
Go, Abradatas, mount thy dreadful Chariot,  
Armed like the God of Thunder, jove himself,  
Send from the Rage his Lightning, and his Bolts:  
Let the wild Steeds the winged Winds outfly,  
And the sharp hooks like Death mow all before thee,  
Whilst their carved Limbs, and mangled Bodies drop,  
Like Fields of Corn before the Reaper's Hand.  Hyst. 
I have Commands to wait you to the Camp,  
Thence to return with all the faithfullest speed,  
And meet my Master in Bellonias Arms.  Abrad. 
Away, let's rouse the sleepy Balthazar,  
Fierce as a Lion, waking to revenge.  Panth. 
Come, Abradatas, see what Love has for thee,  
Which take as Presents from Panthea's hand;  
Trophies far Richer than Ulysses strove for,  
And when I've seen my Mars in his Throned Chariot,  
Return I will, and in my Closet kneel,  
And never rise till thou Victorious be,  
Thinking of nothing but the Gods, and thee.  Abrad. 
Prepare my Soldiers— Hear you what he says?  
Panthea calls, Panthea is the Word.  [Exeunt. As they are going off, enter on the other side, Cyrus, Croesus, Artabasus, Soldiers, Guards, Sound of a March. Cyr. 
Something, my fellow Soldiers, I would say—  
The Gods have often proved by your success  
That in your Breasts Divinities are stamped  
With all their Heavenly Courages inspired;  
The Sword is not so used to cut and slaughter,  
When guided by some sure, and mighty Arm,  
As you to fight and overcome— I will  
Not boast, nor talk what I have done;  
But let me tell you, I am Cyrus still,  
Cyrus, that will not prize this worthless Life,  
Nor yet refuse to put it in the Scale,  
Weighed with the danger of the meanest Soldier,  
But follow you as well as lead you on,  
There is but this one Battle  
That parts us from the Empire of the World—  
Who would not venture his last drop of Blood,  
When this sole Action makes us All, or Nothing;  
This over, we'll to Babylon retire,  
Whence as the Hill of all the World, you may  
Behold your several stately Provinces,  
And I the only Man that e'er looked down  
Upon so many gallant Heroes at  
One time, and blessed an Army made of Kings.  Craes. 
Haste, for I long to face this Cursed Tyrant,  
Till he has let out from the Heart of Croesus'  
The Father's Blood, and stabbed the Daughter's Image  
Here in my heart— She calls on me to go  
And end my Miseries where they first had being.  Cyr. 
O Croesus wound her not again, she's here,  
The weight hangs heavier on me than thou seest—  
Father— For henceforth thou shalt ever be so,  
Let's have no thought to Day but of Revenge,  
Deaf to the Charms of Grief, and more remorseless  
Than Winds, or hideous Storms, or groaning Earthquakes,  
Hide the least Species of our swelling Griefs,  
As Streams are Coated in a Frosty Night—  
But after Conquest, like a sudden Thaw,  
We'll melt into a Deluge, and the World  
Shall drown in tears— The Gods shall wonder at our Sorrows—  
And for thy Daughter Babylon shall Mourn,  
And nod its Spiring Pinnacles to th' ground.  
No more shall gaudy Worship fill the Town,  
The Temples with their awful Shrines and Gods  
Shall cast their Crowns and Golden Habits off,  
And in exchange wear Rags and Ashes on  
Their Heads— Then she shall have a Monument  
Shall stop the Sun to cast his wondering Eye,  
Astonished at the height, the vastness, and  
The Richness of it— My Treasure, nay the World's  
Huge Mass shall all be melted to an Urn,  
And the proud Greatness of Massolus Tomb,  
With those vast Pyramids by Hebrew Slaves  
Built to the Sky, shall all be Dwarfs beneath it—  
This shall the Gods and I bequeath to thy Lausaria.  Craes. 
On then, thou Glorious Conqueror—  
Fate like a Cloud hangs o'er th' Assyrians heads,  
The God whom all the World with dread admires,  
The Hebrews Worship, and th' Egyptians fear,  
Has called thee by a Miracle to be  
The King of this Great Empire, and the World.  Cyr. 
If the wise God show aught of me, declare it.  Craes. 
Last Night the Drunken Balthazar Caroused  
With all his vicious Concubines about him,  
And Beardless Minions, far more lewd than Women;  
Then in a Pride he took the Holy Treasure  
Brought from the wondrous Fane of Solomon,  
And in the Sacred Cups made impure Healths  
Go round, and drank to th' Immortality  
Of their proud King, who had in spite of Heaven,  
And its scorned Power committed such a Rape  
Upon the Richest Shrine of all the World.  Cyr. 
What but the wrath of Heaven, and dreadful Ruin  
Could follow such a Sacrilege!  Craes. 
This horrid Deed drew awful Thunder from  
Th' impatient hand of the wronged Deity,  
Whilst straight a dreadful Clap was heard, and Lightning  
With a fierce Rage struck through their guilty Eyes,  
And on a sudden snatched away the Flames  
That gave the Tapers light, then in thick Darkness  
The horrid sounds of dying groans ascended,  
And dismal Voices pierced the trembling Earth,  
Whilst straight a yet more strange and dreadful Scene disclos'd●  
A Bloody Hand appeared upon the Wall,  
With a bright Bracelet set with flaming Stars,  
Dazzling the Eyes of all th' astonished Crowd,  
Then with a Finger which distilled warm Gore,  
The God wrote Words in Characters of Hebrew,  
Which by a Wise Religious Captive of  
That Nation, was Interpreted of Cyrus,  
That you should be the Assertor of his God,  
Who gave Assyria to the Medes and Persians.  Cyr. 
O my dark Soul! Is there a Mighty God  
(As sure there must) in whose admired Belief  
My Mother's Breasts ne'er Nursed my Infancy,  
Whose Being was before all Being's else,  
Who is the Source, Beginning, and the End  
Of all, yet has no Source, Original,  
Nor Ending, but art that of which is all  
Composed, and yet art still the same, and not  
The less, nor greater— If then such thou art,  
O help me, guide me by thy Sacred Power  
To be the Man this Miracle has meant.  Enter to them Hystaspes, and Guards. Hystasp. 
Make ready, Sir, th' Assyrians are approaching,  
Pushed on at length by your indulgent Fate,  
To a despairing Courage— Fierce Thomyris  
And Balthasar are joined— And Abradatas  
Sits in his Chariots, midst a thousand Deaths;  
He, with five hundred of those hooked Wagons  
Protects the Right Wing of the Tyrant's Army,  
And Thomyris with all her of Strength the Left—  
But Oh! Had you then seen Panthea's Courage,  
You could not blame the Fates to be divided,  
How to bestow this mighty Victory;  
Whether to her, as Challenged by such Virtue,  
Or Crown your Brave, and still Triumphant Brow.  Cyr. 
What sayst— My Soul stands listening at my Ears,  
And fain I would hear something of Panthea.  Hyst. 
Fierce Abradatas she herself saw mounted,  
Clad in an Armour far more Rich and Noble,  
Than that which Vulcan made the God of War,  
Which the Skilled Workman hammered from pure Gold,  
And every joint with Diamond Stars had nailed.  
'Twere long to tell you how much breath she sighed,  
The thousand Tears she shed for grief, and joy;  
Till the shrill Trumpets called him swift away,  
O Then she raised her tender voice more Charming,  
And more provoking than the Wars loud Music;  
Clasped her soft Hands about the guilded Spokes,  
And kissed the Chariot Wheels;  
The fiery Steeds, as if then slashed with Lightning,  
Upon a sudden started from her hold,  
Swift as an Arrow from a Scythian Bow,  
And left her senseless, clinging to the ground.  Cyr. 
Enough, thoust said too much— Sound, Sound a Charge,  
I'll shut my loitering Soul close in her Home,  
That she shall never have the power to send  [Charge sounds. 
One Truant Thought abroad, not the least glance,  
Or secret with after forbidden Love.  Craes. 
Lead us to Victory that the Gods have shown thee.  Cyr. 
Yes Croesus, yes— We come, dear slaughtered Uncle,  
To give an Army to thy Funeral Pomp—  
See, see, thy Daughter's Spirit, like Jove's Eagle,  
Sails o'er our heads with Laurels in her Beak—  
Now, now's the Sign to draw your Conquering Swords,  
Cy'axares, and Lausaria are the Words.  [Exeunt Omnes. Scene draws, and discovers a great Battle between both Armies: Cyrus, Balthasar, and Thomyris seen Fighting at their Heads. Battle over, a Retreat is sounded, Scene shuts, and then Enter Cyrus, Croesus, and Guards. Cyr. 
Now, Croesus, the Assyrian War is over  
And Balthazar is Slain— Thou seest him drop,  
Whilst his Blasphemous Soul burst by my side,—  
His Spirit groaned, and gave a horrid fight—  
This was the bloodiest Battle to our Foes,  
That e'er my Sword yet won.  Re-enter Artabasus. Arta. 
Greatest of Kings,  
Immortal may'st thou live, and ever Reign—  
More than two hundred thousand of your Foes  
Lie breathless in the Field— None but a few  
With the bold Scythians make a quick Retreat.  Re-enter and Hystaspes. Craes. 
Kings, Senates, and the World obey thee, Cyrus;  
For lo the Gods did never at a time  
Heap so much Greatness on one Man before.  Cyr. 
What is become of Valiant Abradatas?  Hyst. 
Something to his misfortune we must owe:  
For with a Drove of hooked Chariots which  
He led, he first began a dreadful Slaughter,  
Till the fierce Steeds, stung with the pointed Darts,  
Started, recoiled, and overthrew their Guiders,  
Then, like a Whirlwind, broke through their own Ranks,  
And where 'twas thickest, mowed a dismal passage,  
That the sad spaces midst their numbers looked  
Like empty Ridings through a Forest cut,  
So Abradatas is by all Men thought  
From his fierce Chariot to be hurled and torn.  Craes. 
But the Brave Scythian Queen retreating fights  
And whilst the Homotyms are eager in  
Pursuit, as a Stout Lion that is hunted,  
Turns eager on the nearest of his Foes,  
And tears 'em piece meal, then retreats again;  
So in their flight, the Scythians send huge showers  
Of Mortal Arrows on the Conquerors Faces.  Cyr. 
Myself will haste with the Cadusian Archers,  
And gall their backs with much more dreadful Flights.  Craes. 
Mingle not Sir, in the unruly Chase—  
We beg you would retire into the Camp,  
Your Wounds, and Labour ask some quick relief.  Cyr. 
Fly then, Hystaspes, to the Homotyms,  
Bid 'em their vain and eager Chase give o'er;  
In the mean time, you valiant Croesus may  
Wheel round about 'em with your Lydian Horse,  
And beat 'em in their Front.  Craes. 
It shall be done—  
Expect my Death, or the brave Queen a Prisoner.  Cyr. 
Attend me but at Distance for a Moment.  [Exeunt Cresus and Hystaspes. 
What is it to rule the World,  
To hold the wealth, and sumpter of the Earth,  
And find it all but Dreams of Happiness,  
As I do?  [Going off, Lausaria's Ghost rises to him. 
What object does my flattering Eyes present!  
The Lydian Princess, ha, it is! 'tis she,  
Or else some Star, the darling of the Sky,  
Dropped from the Gods, and Patterned in her Likeness!—  
But ha! if this should prove a Dream,  
Thou look'st quite through me, speak, if thou art Lausaria!  Ghost. 
O Cyrus, I am come from far to blame thee,  
To chide my Love, and stand 'twixt him and Ruin.  Cyr. 
Thou art alive then! ha! and thou canst talk too—  
O sacred joy!— Who told me thou wert dead?  
— Thou look'st thin, pale and wan,  
Give me thy cold fair hand in mine, and let me lead thee  
From the cold Mansion of the Grave;  
To a warm room in Cyrus' Breast for ever.  
Where is thy hand?— Ha! Thou art fled, and hid  
As in a mist, thou dazelest every Sense,  
And mak'st thy Cyrus giddy to behold thee.  Ghost. 
Ah! Cyrus,  
Thou may'st as well grasp Water, or fleet Air,  
As think of touching my Immortal Shadow—  
I am the wandering Spirit of Lausaria,  
That still dotes on thee in her Solitude;  
So well, that when thou think'st but of Panthea,  
By secret Charms thou call'st me from my quiet,  
And givest my Soul no rest below, nor Peace above.  Cyr. 
A cold and sudden damp sits on me round,  
Thy Eyes run pointed with thy wrongs, and shoot  
Quite through my Heart, as thy keen Spirit with horror  
Pierces the ground, and glances through the Air—  
Thou strikest a terror trembling in my Blood,  
And I with torture find thou art a thing  
Immortal—  
Speak, awful Shade, what brings thee from thy Rest?  Ghost. 
When I had passed the Lake that leads to Bliss,  
(Bliss so unjustly termed by Mortals here,)  
To those dull Shades, Elysium fondly called,  
Where the sad Scene gives mournful Lovers Souls  
A Melancholy Prospect of Delight;  
I heard the Powers of Hell  
Call for the Fates to cut thy thread before 'em—  
What shall be done, said they, with this Great Man,  
This Barbarous Hunter of the World, and Love?  
Let us ordain that by a Woman's Hand  
His blood be in a fatal moment spilled,  
So to Revenge the Sex's wrongs at once—  
Haste from the Field— Beware th' enraged Thomyris—  
Come, follow me, I'll show thee such a Sight  
Shall Cure thy Breast of all Love's Wounds for ever.  
Hold, stay, and take my Ghost along with thee.  Ghost. 
O Live, I charge you—  
Live happy as a God on Earth, live ever;  
Each drop of Blood you drain from that brave Breast,  
You double all the Pangs upon my Soul—  
O think that on your Joys depend my Bliss,  
Your Torment is my Hell, your Happiness  
My blessed Elysium— Follow me, I Charm you,  
By all the pity once you paid my Love,  
By all the Love you owe my Memory.  Cyr. 
Lead then the way, thou brightest Angel Guide,  
Conduct me quickly to thy blessed Abode.  Ghost. 
The Minute's come— This way, thou gallant Cyrus.  Cyr. 
I follow thee, and if my Body proves too heavy,  
I'll throw it off, and mount all Soul to reach thee.   
Scene Draws, and discovers Panthea with her Women weeping o'er the mangled Body of Abradatas, whose Limbs she had seemingly fixed to his Body, a Dagger in her hand. Panth. 
I charge you live— Live to excuse my Fault,  
And soothe the sorrows of the sad Thomyris;  
The Story of our Death's told from your Mouths,  
May from her tender Eyes draw floods of Tears,  
But the sad Object would have killed her quite—  
Likewise relate the dismal Scene to Cyrus;  
Tell it with all the pity that in grief  
Can be expressed— Be sure t'adorn our Ends  
As sumptuously with Sorrow as you can—  
But oh! you need not— Tell 'em as they were,  
And your sad tuned Description will surpass  
All Fiction, Painting, or dumb show of Horror  
That ever Ears yet heard, or Eyes beheld—  Wom. 
O cast that Weapon from you—  Panth. 
Vex me not—  
What, can't I be obeyed in Death— Now, now,  
My dearest Partner of my Soul, I come:  
Look back as thou art in the Milky Road to Bliss,  
And take thy loved Panthea with thee.  Wom. 
Still you advance that dreadful Weapon.  Panth. 
No more— These Hands and Feet which the sharp Scytheses  
Mowed from thy lovely Body, I have tried  
A thousand times to join 'em with my Kisses,  
But 'tis in vain— O you Immortal Powers!  
Cannot these Lips so Deified, restore  
One hour of Life— See what Idolaters  
You are, false Men!— You Lying Prophets say  
A Kiss, a Sigh, a Tear from those you Love,  
Can fetch you from the Grave to Life again,  
And make a God of the least Doting Swain.  
But I have groaned ten thousand Sighs and Wishes,  
And bathed his Body all, all o'er in Tears,  
Yet find 'em all too little; one small drop  
Of Rain is worth an Ocean of these Pearls;  
That gives the sweets that from the Roses flow,  
And makes the Violets and the Lilies grow.  
Yet I cannot restore one Finger back  
To Life, unless my heart's warm blood can do it.  Panthea Stabs herself, and just as she gave the Wound Cyrus Enters, led in by the Ghost, the Ghost vanisheth. Cyr. 
Ah! cruel, spiteful— yet thou lovely Spirit  
Couldst thou not bring me one half moment sooner?  
Give me this Dagger, and I'll plunge it in my Breast,  
Wipe off the stain of thy most precious Blood,  
And reek it in my own; revenge thy wrongs,  
And please Lausaria's Ghost, whose shadow haunts me—  Panth. 
This Weapon I'll not part with—  
This Glorious Relic here that sets me free;  
Thus I will hold it, brandished up on high,  
And die with the loved Passport in my Hand—  
Live, happy, Cyrus, may these ills forewarn thee  
To shun the fatal Deed of crossing Love,  
Love that will ne'er be stopped, but have its Course,  
Or overflow to drowning with the least resistance.  Cyr. 
O forgive me, blessed Panthea;  
And the same time thou leav'st thy lovely Body,  
Forgive my passion too, and carry with thee  
My Pardon to be Sealed by all the Gods,  
And by the Soul of thy departed Love,  
And tell him how I took his hand in mine,  
Washed with thy Tears, and bathed in my Repentance,  
And put it to my eager Lips, and asked  
His pardon thus— Ha! Horror! Worse than Horror.  [Cyrus taking Abradata's hand, offering to put it to his mouth, it comes from the Body; Panthea places it again.] Panth. 
What have you done? Why touch you him so rudely?  
Give me this Hand back to my Lips again—  
These marvellous Limbs with industry I sought  
Amidst an hundred heaps of mangled Bodies,  
And picked and culled 'em, as is sifted Gold  
Parted from loads of common Dross;  
And placed each torn-off Member in its proper state,  
Just as you see— Forbear again to touch him,  
For they are every one alike dismembered,  
Mowed by the Hooks of his own dreadful Chariot,  
Fierce as the Horse's wildest rage could guide 'em—  
I feel Death's giddy vapour in my Eyes,  
And covers all my Senses on a sudden—  
Lay me— O lay me gently by my Lord.  [Dies. Cyr. 
Die all that's good— die Sacred Love and Friendship.  
Let none presume to say that Virtue lives,  
That Beauty gilds the World, now she is dead.  Enter to Cyrus, Thomyris, Women and Soldiers, as pursued. Thom. 
There, there's the dreadful sum of all our Woes;  
Look there, my Friends— What, Cyrus Mourning o'er 'em!  
Run, run, with speed, and snatch his hated Life—  
Quick, ere your Foes that have you in the Chase,  
Prevent you— Hold— And shall 'a die by Slaves!—  
There is some Pity to his Virtue due.  Cyr. 
Ha! Am I then surprised— I was to blame—  
Though I abhor to live, yet loath I am  
To die by Treachery, and Cowards Hands.  Thom. 
Look, Cyrus, look, I am thy Mortalest Foe—  
Thou dwellest o'er the sad Ruins there, which I  
Look on with Horror, at so great a distance—  
Do, glut thyself— Call likewise to thy Mind,  
My Spargepyses Blood, and think the Fates  
Are gentle still— Bend, bend your Bows,  
Draw every one a Dart up to the Head,  
And send a thousand winged Deaths to seize him—  
Yet hold— My self the glorious deed will do.  Cyr. 
Thou dar'st not, sure!— nought but thy Woman's Spleen  
Could be Seducer to such base Revenge.  Thom. 
Talkest thou!— Now to thy Heart this pointed Justice.  [As she is ready to shoot at him, Lausaria's Ghost rises up betwixt them, and stands before Cyrus, and Faces Thomyris. 
Ha! sure there is something there controls my Hand?  
Or I am lost in a wild Maze of Fancy—  
What shining Form is that so fills my Eye!  
Cyrus, thy Guardian Genius 'tis protects thee,  
That with her tender Wings Roosts o'er thy Head,  
And with a Look shoots awful Brightness through me,  
And Fetters every thing that's brave within me—  
My Sinews slack, and Nature at this Sight  
Shrinks back to her first feeble Infancy.  Sold. 
You stand amazed— Let's kill him whilst we may.  Thom. 
Hold, Villains— What, through her Immortal Body!  
Your Darts would all turn Heads against yourselves;  
You might as soon touch the bright shining Sun,  
Or fix your Arrows in the Marble Skye—  
lose, lose your Strings, and let fall all your Bows,  
And to appease that Goddess, Worship him,  
That all the World is destined to Obey.  Re-enter Croesus, Hystaspes, Gobrias, and Artabasus, shouting, Ghost vanishes. Craes. 
He lives, is safe; thanks to the Immortal Powers.  Cyr. 
I charge you on your Lives, none touch the Queen,  
And hurt no man but such as shall resist.  Thom. 
'Twas never known, that any Scythian yet  
Did yield his Person, or his Weapon up.  
Then, Cyrus, since great Baltbazar is slain,  
And all our Lives too mean to adorn thy Triumph:  
O give, without denial, to these Tears,  
Panthea's and her Ahradatas Bodies:  
Then undisturbed, let us forsake this place,  
Of all the World the fatallest to Thomyris.  Cyr. 
'Tis granted, and you may with safety go—  
Cyrus can do no less to such a Queen,  
Whose brave and generous Pity saved his Life—  
But begs that you would make the Town your way;  
My Crowns, my happiness, and Life to me  
Is not so dear as what you carry with you—  
There you shall see what mourning Babylon  
Can do; the Fires, the Temples, and the Urns  
That shall adorn these Lover's Funerals;  
Cyprus, instead of Laurel, Wreaths shall bind  
The conquerors Brows, and Groans instead of Shouts  
shall fill the Streets, the Houses Lamentations;  
All the vast City shall indeed appear,  
But one wide spacious Room filled full of Sorrow.  Thomy. 
No, no, cover the Bodies from their Eyes,  
Then in a Mourning Chariot place the Bridegroom,  
And his pale Bride so leaning on his Cheek—  
Cyrus, farewell— And may'st thou live to be  
Unconquered still, and great as Creetan jove—  
Beat a dead March— Let Trumpets hoarsest sound  
Fright Birds of softer Music from the Air,  
And naught be heard but Horror and despair.  [Exeunt Thomyris, and all her Party, bearing away the Bodies of Panthea, and Abradatas. Dead March Sounds. Hyst. 
Live happy as a God, and o'er past miseries  
Rejoice— Fate is your slave, and puts and End  
To all your toils this day— The conquered Globe  
Has not that Monster now that from its Chains  
Durst stir to interrupt your sacred Bliss—  
Go, for new Pleasures Court you every where,  
And having spread your Laws o'er all the Earth,  
And settled first the Business of the World,  
Think then to make your Median Kingdoms happy,  
And there in Person wed the fair Mandana,  
Whose Youth and Beauty shall like buds increase,  
Still grow upon you, and with fresher Charms  
Supply your Soul, and make your joys Immortal.  Cyr. 
Come, Fellow Soldiers, let's to Babylon,  
Empress of Nations, and great Queen of Cities—  
Make haste, my Friends, and share the World with me,  
All shall have some— Amongst the meanest here  
I'll throw Rewards they shall not live to spend,  
And scatter Provinces as thick as Drachmas—  
First with Lausaria's Funerals we'll begin;  
Three Days with strictest Mourning shall be kept,  
And all things else forgotten for that time;  
These Hands her fragrant Funeral Pile shall burn,  
And Princes shall Officiate at her Urn—  
I Invite you all to come and weep with me,  
O'er this rare Miracle of Constancy;  
Let the loud War to gentler Griefs remove,  
And mourn with us the Tragedy of Love.  [Exeunt Omnes.    

EPILOGUE, Spoken by the Boy and Girl, by way of Dialogue.  Curtain falls. Girl. 
HOLD, hold, is the Play done?  Boy. 
Ay, pretty Rogue.  Girl. 
What a New PLAY without an Epilogue?  Boy. 
Lausaria's dead, Panthea too is slain,  
And would you have dead Bodies rise again?  
That were indeed a very pretty Fact,  
You had enough of that in the First Act.  Girl. 
Why, what d' you make of Mr. Betterton?  Boy. 
The Curtain's dropped, and he is glad he's gone;  
The Poet too, has loaded him so sore,  
He scare has breath enough for one word more.  
Since most of the Old Actors than are killed,  
And the Great Hero has forsook the Field;  
What if we did; to cover such a Blot,  
Address ourselves toth' Audience?  Girl. 
That's well thought,  
And since we must say something, pray begin,  
You to the Ladies, I the Gentlemen.  Boy. 
Ladies, if you will to our PLAY be kind,  
May every one, their dear last Wishes find;  
May Virgins those enjoy they value best,  
And Wives their Husband's kindness to the last.  
At Bassert may your Good Luck so continue,  
And win the Gamester's Heart, as well as Guiney.  Girl. 
And Gentlemen, if you will like our PLAY,  
May this good Fate attend you every day.  
Let no rude Boreas, from his Boisterous Cell,  
Profane the Curl that on your Wigg sits well.  
Nor brush the Sacred Powder from the clothes  
Of two such Sights of dainty dappled Beaux.  
May nothing bring you out of humour hither,  
Nor Hackney-Coach be wanting in wet weather.  Boy. 
Ladies, we're almost sure of your good Natures,  
'Twere Cruel to deny such Little Creatures.  Girl. 
And if the Men mislike, or make a pother,  Boy. 
Evads we'll fit 'em for't one way or other.  
'Tis a wise Child that knows its Father, Sirs  
For aught we know, we may be some of yours,  
we'll come and lay ourselves before your Doors.  
FINIS.