TO HER GRACE the DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.  
MADAM,  
THE following Play seems naturally to claim the Patronage of a Lady, for which Reason no true Englishman will wonder that the first Person who occurred to my Thoughts on this occasion should be the Duchess of Marlborough.  
Not all the Security we enjoy by our safe and honourable Peace, can make us unmindful of the Gratitude we owe to your Name. All the Blessings which have been procured for us by our late Treaties, are not greater, than what might have been expected from the long Course of the Duke of Marlborough's Victories.  
If we are at leisure to cultivate the Politer Arts, if our Trade flourishes, if our Credit rises both at Home and Abroad, if we have obtained a general Peace for our Allies, if the Catalans are obliged to us for our Protection, the Germans for our Faith, and the French for our Generosity; who could have promised to themselves less Honours and Advantages for their Country, from the many Glorious Campaigns and uninterrupted Successes of our late Great General.  
It has been often observed, that when the French have been worsted in the Field they have saved themselves by Treaties; but such are the consummate Abilities of our present Ministers, that the World is as much astonished at their Negotiations, as it was before at the Duke of Marlborough's Conquests.  
There are indeed too many among us, who are apt to be affrighted at every thing that seems to threaten our Religion and Liberties; but why should private Men believe themselves in any Danger from the Pretender, when the Government is not apprehensive of it? But this is certain, we have less Reason to be so; while He is still living who has so often defeated the Ambition of France, and broken its best concerted Measures.  
Among the many eminent Virtues which I might here take occasion of celebrating in your Grace, I shall only single out that which I believe your Grace will be most delighted to hear mentioned, I mean that truly conjugal Friendship and Affection with which you accompany this Great Man in His Absence from His native Country, and share with him in all the Cares and Inquietudes his Extraordinary Merit has brought upon him.  
That You may have many Years in reserve for your own mutual Happiness as well as for your Country's Good, is the hearty Desire of every honest Man● and particularly of, Madam,  
Your GRACE's Most Obedient and Most Humble Servant,   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
THE following TRAGEDY was Originally Written in French by the celebrated Monsieur RACINE, whose Masterpiece it is justly accounted; and having been translated into English, with considerable Additions, by Mr. BOYER, and passed the Correction and Approbation of the late famous Mr. DRYDEN, and several other Persons distinguished as well by their Wit and Learning, as by their Taste and Discernment, was acted with general Applause, towards the End of the Year 1699, and Beginning of 1700. The Reasons why this Excellent PLAY stopped, on a sudden, in a full Career, are, in some Measure, accounted for in Mr. BOYER'S Preface: To which he might have added, That the Duchess of MARLBOROUGH, who at that Time bore an irresistible Sway, bespoke the Comedy then in Vogue, during the Run of Iphigenia in Aulis; And that this Tragedy received no small Prejudice, from the Person that acted Eriphile, who sunk under the Weight of so great a Part.  
This TRAGEDY having lain dormant for many Years, was lately revived, in the most IRREGULAR MANNER, that was ever known or practised either on PARNASSUS, by Poets; or on the STAGE, by ACTORS. The Town has already done Mr. BOYER some Justice, by Discovering the Imposition, and by Finding out, that the VICTIM was no other than achilles' and IPHIGENIA in AULIS. The Publishing a SECOND EDITION of this Play, (which was out of Print) is sufficient to justify the judgement of the Public, and vindicate Mr. Boyer's Right. But the manner in which his Performance, and Himself, have been abused is so flagrant and injurious, that he designs, in few Days, to publish a short DISSERTATION, on the PRESENT MANAGEMENT of the STAGE, Addressed to My Lord CHAMBERLAIN, wherein he shall set in a true Light, the PERNICIOUS CONSEQUENCES of such unfair Practices both of some Writers and Players; and in particular, inquire into the Reason, Why Mr. Wilks declined to revive, this very Tragedy, for the Entertainment of the Duke D' AUMONT, who, by his Secretary Monsieur l' Able NADAL, had Intimated to Mr. Boyer, his Desire to see it represented; which Mr. Boyer signified to Mr. Wilks?   

TO THE PLAGIARY OF Mr. BOYER's IPHIGENIA.  
VAin is Racine's and Boyer's Labouring Wit!  
The one Improving what the other Writ:  
Both fall a Sacrifice to thy Third-Day  
And Lovely Iphigenia is thy Prey.  
Nor knows the Nymph if she should more detest  
Calchas or Thee; the Pirate or the Priest?  
Her ancient Tears and Griefs, from him proceed  
Who brought Her to Diana's Shrine to bleed:  
But that She Mourns unpitied in her Woes,  
The Wretched Virgin to thy Dulness owes.  
Her Life alone was Wicked Calchas' Aim:  
Thou touchest a yet tenderer Part, her Fame.  
Thy Theft has all her Grace and Lustre soiled;  
Thou Stolest the Beauty first, and after spoiled.  
So fares it with that desperate Band, who live  
On Prey and Rapine, and by Injury thrive.  
Those whom they Wrong, with Hatred they pursue,  
And not content to Rob, they Murder too.   

achilles': OR, IPHIGENIA in AULIS. A TRAGEDY AS It is Acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane.  
Written by Mr. BOYER.  
Rectius Iliacum Carmen deducis in actus,  
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque prius.  Horat. Art. Poet. 
LONDON. Printed for Tho. Bennet, at the Halfmoon in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1700.   

Persons Represented.  


The MEN.  Agamemnon, King of the Argos, General of the Grecians, in their Expedition against Troy. 
Mr. Wilks.  Achilles, in Love with Iphigenia. 
Mr. Powel.  Ulysses, 
Mr. Cibber.  Arcas, Confident to Agamemnon, 
Mr. Mills.  Eurybates, Captain of the King's Guards, 
Mr. Toms.  Calchas, The High Priest, 
Mr. Cibber.    


The WOMEN.  Clytemnestra, Wife to Agamemnon, 
Mrs. Knight.  Iphigenia, Daughter to Agamemnon, 
Mrs. Rogers.  Eriphile, Daughter to Theseus and Helena, Achilles' Prisoner, 
Mrs. Wilkins.  Aegina, Woman to Clytaemnestra, 
Mrs. Baker.  Doris, Woman to Eriphile, 
Mrs. Boden.   
Women, Guards, Priests, and Attendants.  
The SCENE the Grecian Camp at Aulis ●    

THE DEDICATION TO The Beautiful and Ingenious DIANA.  
Madam,  
DEdications are grown so Modish, that a Play makes as ill a Figure without one, as a Beau in the Side-Box without a long Wig.  
Yet I must freely own, that the greatest Trouble this Tragedy gave me, was the fixing it on a proper Person to Patronise it. Those whose Merit entitles them to these solemn Addresses, are generally unwilling to have their Names exposed; and such who are most fond of seeing their Pedigrees, and Encomiums prefix'd to a Play, do commonly fasten upon the Poet the scandalous Character of a vile Flatterer.  
One of my Friends advised me to offer this Piece to a great Lord; but not being Secretary to his Mistress, I was afraid of meeting with a cold Reception. Another would persuade me to Dedicate to a Courtier; but I am either too Modest or too Proud to appear with a cringing Assurance at a Levee; and too great a Lover of Truth to commend a Fop in Favour. Another would have me Address to a Beau-Knight; but he being lately broke at Basset, and his tailor's and Perwig-maker's Bills coming thick upon him, I was unwilling to put in for one amongst his needy Visitants. Lastly, a Fourth would have engaged me to make my Achilles and Iphigenia court the shelter of some Rich Citizen; but my Muse was too aspiring to prostitute herself to a Plebeian  
Thus having reviewed all Patrons of all Ranks, and maturely considered the several pitiful Means by which some Poets intrude into their Protection, I was induced, for many Reasons, to lay this Tragedy on fair Diana ' Shrine.  
First of all, as ancient Poets tell us, the Greek Iphigenia owing its Preservation to Diana in Aulis, I hope the Person who is willing to borrow the Name of that Goddess, will likewise receive the English Iphigenia under her Patronage.  
Besides, by thus prefixing your feigned Name to this Play, I spare myself the trouble of a begging Visit, and you the Sight of a Dunning Dedicator.  
But, Madam, the most prevalent Motive with me is, That I may commend you without being suspected of Adulation, or making your Modesty uneasy. I may freely proclaim to the World, that you make Conquests by your Beauty, and secure them by your Wit; that your Sense equals your Wit, and that your good Humour is inferior to neither. I may boldly say, that you are free with innocence; Modest without Affectation; and Virtuous without Pride. That at once you command Love and Respect; and that nothing surpasses the Charms of your Conversation, but your admirable way of Writing.  
Nay, I might take a greater Latitude with you than any Poet ever did with his Patron, for I might tell you of your Faults, and reproach your cruel Indifference, not to say, Ingratitude. I might confirm my constant Love to you, and expostulate your broken Promises of eternal Friendship. I might remind you of your Letters, without putting you to the Blush, or incurring myself the charge of Indiscretion, since nothing can be more secret than what I now speak in Public.  
All these Advantages I find in Dedicating to my charming Diana; and if she proves so kind as to bless me once more with her endearing Company, I will esteem this Epistle better rewarded than any I writ before. I remain with all the Sincerity of a Lover and a Poet.  
Charming DIANA, Your most devoted humble Servant. A. BOYER From behind the 〈…〉 Drury-lane, 〈…〉.   

THE PREFACE.  
POets, like most Lovers, are apt to boast the Favours, or complain of the Rigour of their Mistress, the Town: For my part, I am too discreet a Lover to boast, and too young a Poet to complain; and tho' the First run of this Play was but short, yet I must own myself obliged to the Civility of the English Nation; for on this Occasion, as on many others, I found that the Imputation of being inhospitable and rude to Strangers, which Horace charges on the Britons, reaches no higher than the Mob.  
Some of my Friends wondered that a Play which was acted with so much Applause, should stop so soon in its career. The Reason of it is obvious: This Tragedy came out upon the Neck of another of the same Name, which being the product of a Giant-Wit, and a Giant-Critick, like Horace's Mountain in Labour, had miserably balked the World's Expectation; and most People having been tired at Lincolns-Inn-Fields, did not care to venture their Patience at Drury-lane, upon a false Supposition that the two Iphigenia's were much alike: Whereas they differ no less than a young, airy Virgin, from a stale, antiquated Maid.  
Another difficulty this Play laboured under, was its being acted at a time when the whole Town was so much, and so justly diverted by the Trip to the Jubilee. A merry Entertainment is certainly very improper to prepare the Tastes of an Audience to relish a grave and solemn Tragedy; for we are naturally angry with those who would make us Weep, when we are in a fit of Laughing. Yet notwithstanding all these Inconveniencies, my Iphigenia has pleased the fairest Part of the Town, I mean the Ladies, and having gained this Point, 〈…〉 my Wishes.  
Now when I call this Play mine, let me not be thought so arrogant as to assume the Honour o●●he Composition wholly to my self. The Subject of it is taken from a Greek 〈◊〉 of Euripides: This Monsieur Racine brought upon 〈…〉 the Addition of the Episode of Eriphile, Achilles ● 〈◊〉, which 〈◊〉 his Plot more full 〈…〉.  
〈◊〉 Racine managed his Subject with a great deal of Mastery: His Expressions are free and lofty; his Sentiments noble and virtuous; his Passions moving and natural; 〈…〉 well managed and surprising; the whole Piece regular. The success answered 〈◊〉 extraordinary Performance; Iphigenia at her first Appearance on the French 〈…〉, and commanded Admiration both from the Court and the City, for many Months successively; and set Monsieur standing above the Level of all French Tragic Writers.  
The great Success of Racine's Iphigenia, and the Encouragement I received from some Persons of a just Discernment, made me venture to make her appear upon an English Theatre; 〈◊〉, whether she has gained or lost any Thing by her new 〈◊〉, I leave to the judicious to determine. 〈◊〉 I can say in her Favour, is, That her numbers are easy and flowing; and that she speaks English like a genteel well-bred Lady, and not like an affected, pedantic Would-be-Wit. But in this I must own myself obliged to my honour'd and Ingenious Friend Mr. Cheek, to whom I owe some of my smoothest Lines. I wish he had a greater share in the whole Play, for than I am sure the Town would have liked it a great deal better.   

THE PROLOGUE.  Written by Tho. Cheek, Esq Spoken by Mr. powel. 
APollo t'other Day in Council sat,  
Where after many a ●●●ned and wise Debate,  
〈…〉 so ●ast increase,  
To 〈…〉 and keep the Peace,  
It was 〈◊〉— As well the Cause it sits,  
To Reinforce his Regiment of Wits,  
Among the rest, the Author of this Play  
Here takes his Post, and enters into Pay.  
He hopes to keep it too with Reputation,  
And stem the Tide of Folly in the Nation.  
That's a hard Task—, and I'm afraid it tends  
To make him lose abundance of his Friends:  
Yet tho' he has obtained a Privilege,  
He would be very loath to Disoblige.  
The Race of Fops his satire ne'er will drive at,  
If modestly they'll play the Fool in private.  
But if they still appear in public Places,  
With fashionable Nonsense and Grimaces,  
He must not let 'em scape without Derision,  
That were a Crime would forfeit his Commission.  
Yet in this Play no satire will appear.  
All that deserve it are in safety here.  
From great Euripides he drew this Piece,  
Euripides the boast of ancient Greece.  
And wondrous Beauties of each coming 〈◊〉,  
With Pride he owns he borrowed from Racine.  
Then, since these Poets had such great Success.  
Why mayn't ours please you in an English dress  
Yet tho' like them the laboured Scene he draws,  
With just regard to the Dramatic Laws,  
He'd not be thought of that vainglorious Tribe,  
Who their own Rules imperiously prescribe.  
He better knows what to your Taste is due,  
And writes well, only when he pleases you  
His Muse in Nature's Majesty appears,  
She has no Sounds Tremendous to the Ears;  
And if once more he should attempt to w●●●e.  
His Pen shall Draw, your Palate shall In●●●.   

THE EPILOGUE.  Written by Mr. Motteux. Spoken by Mr. Norris. 
THE Deuce take Poet, Epilogue, and Plays  
The Devil a Word know I what I've to say,  
who'll mind his Cant? An Audience, like a Lover,  
Longs to be gone soon as the Play is over,  
As for Example—.  
Yond' mobb'd-up, civil, modest Velvet Faces  
Long to be Coached to more diverting Places.  
Not one would stay, tho' they but now sneaked in;  
When our Play ends, theirs always does begin.  
Kind Cull, and Miss steal out from th'epilogue,  
And merrier Scenes are acted at the Dog.  
You rakish Sparks in quest of Game run out,  
And give or take the Covent-garden Gout.  
Your Student who but came to see the Play,  
With some Pit-Muse his Talon would essay.  
Some at Basset long to increase their Guineas,  
And leave 'em there, and then sneak home like Ninnies.  
You Topers long to drink in ample Glasses  
Confusion to dull Poets and pale Faces.  
But above all yond' City Fry would go,  
Who came by Three to sit on that First Row.  
Poor Things!  
They thought e'er this that they might home have scutled,  
Their Time's all spent, and all their Apples guttled.  
The Poet (if he's not quite Dead for Fear)  
Would go to Wills incog. t'observe his Critics there.  
Scarce one would stay but that obliging Fry,  
Who about this time in our dark Passage ply,  
Stale Wenches, Sharpers, Caterwauling Sparks,  
Old dirty Beaux● and young Attorney's Clerks.  
Since than your Business lies another way,  
I hope you have not Time to damn the Play;  
But if you must, do't on the Poet's Day.   

achilles': OR, IPHIGENIA in AULIS. A TRAGEDY.  

ACT 1. SCENE 1.  A Camp near the Sea Shore. A Fleet at a distance. The Curtain rises and discovers Agamemnon with a Letter in his Hand. Agam. 
ARCAS, what hoa! Arcas, awake!  
He hears me not: Sweet Sleep seals fast his Eyes.  
He is no King, he is no wretched Father,  
Who fatally has promised his own Child,  
To be a bloody Victim to Ambition.  
Oh! Agamemnon ● Thou hast banished Rest  
For ever, ever banished Peace of Mind,  
To grasp the shadow of a mighty Name.  
Arcas! I say, what hoa! Arcas.  Enter Arcas. Arc. 
Great Sir, I come—. But what concern  
Has roused you from your Bed before the Morn?  
There's scarce a glimmering Light to guide our Steps;  
All Eyes but yours and mine are clos'd in Aulis  
What! Has some welcome noise disturb'd the Air?  
And are the Winds propitious to our Wishes?  
But, no— All sleeps: The Camp, the Winds, and Neptune.  Agam. 
Oh Happy! Who contented with his State,  
free from the Gaudy Thraldom of a Crowns  
Securely lives in an obscure Retreat  
 
If you'd obtain the Winds the Heavens deny,  
Sacrifice Iphigenia—  Arc. 
Your Daughter!  Agam. 
Amazed and Speechless for a while I stood:  
My trembling Spirits chill'd within my Veins:  
But when my broken Voice burst out a Passage,  
I curst the Gods and vowed to disobey.  
My first resolve was to dismiss the Army,  
Which 〈◊〉 Ulysses seemingly approved,  
To let my raging Passion take its course.  
But soon employing his persuading Arts,  
He 〈◊〉 before me all the ties of Honour;  
Those Troops and Princes under my Command,  
The Eastern Empire fated 〈◊〉 be ours,  
All that ●●uld raise Ambition to a height.  
〈…〉 Title of the King of Kings,  
Flattered the haughty weakness of my Soul.  
Besides, the Gods assoon as gloomy Night,  
Began to lull my Cares in gentle Slumbers,  
With angry Dreams reproached my impious Pity,  
And threatn'd vengeance to my troubled Mind;  
With Tears I yielded and pronounced the Doom  
Of my unhappy Daughter—.  
But now, what barbarous cunning did I use,  
To draw her from her Mother's tender arms  
I sent her Orders to repair to Aulis:  
Pretending that Achilles pressed to go,  
Would wed my Daughter, ere we put to Sea.  Arc. 
But fear you not Achilles' boiling Rage?  
Think you that unconcerned he'll calmly see,  
His Name abused to Sacrifice his Love?  Agam. 
Achilles then had left the Camp: To meet  
His Father Peleus's insulting Foes;  
And all expected this new kindled War,  
Would for a while employ his early Courage.  
But what can stop this Heroes rapid course?  
Achilles Fights and Triumphs as he runs,  
And wing with the swiftest Wings o●●ame,  
Returned last Night to join our wondering Arms.  Arc 
And has he learned what Fate attends his Bride.  Agem. 
He has not—.  
Bu●●●ill a stronger motive holds my Arm:  
〈◊〉 Daughter who with eager joy approaches,  
to meet a longing Lover and a Father,  
(The kindest Father as She may suppose)  
My Daughter meets inevitable Death.  
My Daughter● at that sacred Name I shake;  
Yet, 'tis not Blood alone endears her to me,  
Her Love, her Piety, her gentle Nature,  
A thousand blooming Virtues I regret.  
N●● no, I'll ne'er perform the Sacrifice,  
〈…〉 is too just to own so black a Deed,  
〈…〉 Pious I must disobey.  〈◊〉 
〈…〉 how can you recall your solemn Promise?  〈◊〉 
〈…〉 The Zeal and Prudence must perform that 〈◊〉  
〈…〉 Queen at Sparta tried thy Fai●●●  
〈…〉 this Letter and convey it 〈◊〉 h●●.  
〈…〉 Daughters ●●●ing: For when once  
〈…〉 in 〈◊〉, her Fate's past recall.  
〈…〉 Go●●●nd Chalchas will demand their Victim,  
〈…〉 my Tenderness and slight 〈◊〉 Tears;  
〈◊〉 Grecians, jealous of my Powers  
〈◊〉 hold Boldness will protect their claims  
〈◊〉 m● woe; perhaps quash my Command.  
〈…〉 her from the Gods, from my Ambition  
But have a care not to reveal my secret;  
Let not my Daughter know what ill I meant her.  
spare much loud Reproaches of a Wife;  
Spare me the soft Upbraid of a Daughter;  
And that thy Tongue may suit with what I write,  
Tell them Achilles having changed his Mind,  
〈…〉 Nuptial Rites till we return;  
That young Eriphile, his Lesbian Captive,  
Who now attends my Daughter, is supposed  
to by the cause of his indifference.  
〈◊〉 the● Divine the rest—. Approaching Day  
〈…〉 men Depart. But who comes here? Exit. Arcas.  〈◊〉 
〈…〉 What! Ulysses with him?  A flourish of Trumpets. Enter Achilles, Ulysses. 〈◊〉 
〈…〉, I 〈◊〉 with pleasing Admiration,  
〈…〉 Victory and Fame;  
〈…〉 of untaught Valour,  
〈…〉 attend your riper Courage?  
〈…〉 all Thessaly reduced,  
〈…〉 a Hero's tedious Toil,  
Proved 〈◊〉 an Amusement to Achilles.  〈◊〉 
〈…〉, you over-rate a trifling Conquest:  
〈…〉 Gods open a nobler Field,  
〈…〉 great Prize you have proposed,  
To animate my Courage. But, My Lord,  
Must I believe the joyful News I hear?  
That to anticipate my distant Bliss,  
Fair Iphigenia comes to the Camp,  
To Crown my Wishes?  Agam. 
My Daughter!  
Who told you she's to come?  Achil. 
You seem surprised, my Lord, at this Report?  Agam. 
Heaven! How I fear my secret is revealed To Ulysses.  
And all my cunning lost!  Ul●●. 
My Lords the King's surprise To Achille.  
I● but ●o 〈◊〉: Good Gods! Is this a time  
To think on Nuptial Joys, when angry Heaven  
Strikes terror through the Camp? Whilst a dead Sea  
Affrights all Greece, and wastes our ling'ring Army;  
Whilst to appease the unrelenting Gods,  
A Victim, a dear Victim must be Sacrificed,  
Achilles minds his Lover as if he meant  
T'insuit the public Woes; must Agamemnon  
Exasperate our Fate with Festivals?  
Is this, my Lord, the tender Love you show,  
To your afflicted Country?  Achil 
In Phrygia Fields our Actions soon will prove  
Whether Ulysses 〈◊〉 I love her most.  
In the mean time, you may display your Zeal;  
You may shortly ●ire the Gods with Prayers,  
And load their Altars with tame Offerings;  
You may consult the panting Victims Breast,  
And search the cause of the Winds tedious Silence,  
But allow me, who leave that care to Calchas,  
I hope, my Lord, I may pursue a Marriage,  
which no concerns the Gods nor you—.  
Yet, think not I'll dissolve in womanish Pleasures,  
No, if I love, 'tis like the God of War,  
Only to fill the vacancies of Action;  
And my courageous Soul could never brook,  
That any one should touch the Phrygian Shore  
Before Achilles—.  Agam. 
Oh! Heaven! Why must thy secret Envy stop  
The way to Asia, to such noble Heroes?  
Must I be witness of so bright a Valour,  
Only to withdraw home, with Grief and Shame?  Ulys. 
Ye Gods! What do I hear?  Achil. 
My Lord, What's that you uttered?  Agam. 
Princes, we must retire: Too long the Winds  
Have tired our credulous Hopes with Expectations  
〈…〉  Achil. 
You pry too far into the Gods Decreeth  
Besides, think you, my Lord, those frivolous Threats,  
Will ' ●r● deter Achilles from pursuing,  
Honour and Glory under your Command?  
What if the fatal Sisters did ●or●ell.  
When ●●st my Mother yielded to th'embrace  
Of mortal Peleus, that ● might choose,  
either to live for many Y●ar●●●s●u●e,  
O● 〈◊〉 Eternal I am by co●●●ing early 〈◊〉?  
〈…〉 I must at last submit to Fate,  
〈◊〉 be niggard of a Goddess' Blood.  
When Honour calls, let Oracles be silent—  
〈◊〉 th'Almighty Gods control our Divine  
〈◊〉 Honour, Sir, depends on our own Actions;  
Than let us not regard what they Decree,  
not rather strive to equal their Condition  
By our immortal Deeds. Now since at Troy  
both came and Victory attend, I fly,  
And only ask the Winds to waft me o'er.  
Yet all th'affrighted Greeks retire with Shame,  
 
Does animate the Camp: When Greece proclaims  
Your Zeal and Wisdom: Nay, when twenty Kings  
Will Sacrifice their Lives in your Defence,  
You, Sir, alone refuse the glorious purchase  
Of Honour and Revenge; a little Blood  
You think too dear to gain immortal Fame.  
Must It be said, the General of Greece  
Employed his skill in nothing but Commanding  
A safe Retreat?  Agam. 
Alas! my Lord, how easily, whilst secure  
From my impending Woes, you seem undaunted!  
But was your Son Telemachus the Victim,  
●ow soon the ghastly image of his Death,  
Would turn to Tears your proud insulting Speech?  
How deep you'd feel the Torments I endure  
From struggling Nature! And how swift you'd fly  
To snatch him from the Priest! Yet since my promises past.  
If my unhappy Daughter meets us here,  
I'll not recall it, but if kinder Fate  
Prevents her coming, you'll not think it strange,  
If I accept the welcome Help of Heavens  
Too long your Counsels have prevailed upon men  
I blush to think o●'●—  Enter Eurybates. Euryb. 
My Lord— ●  Agam. 
Gods! The News?  Euryb. 
The Queen bid me haste  
To tell you her Approach: And that she brings  
her Daughter, to resign her to your Arms.  
She had arrived before, but that she lost  
her way, through those thick Woods that shroud the Camp  Agamemnon 
Oh! Heaven!  Euryb. 
They are attended  
By young Eriphile, Achilles' Lesbian Captive,  
Who being unacquainted with the Parents,  
Designs to learn her Fate from Renowned Chalebas.  
The News of their arrival is now spread  
Through all the Camp, and with loud Acclamations,  
The joyful Soldiers crowd about the Queen,  
And your fair Daughter; some inquire the Cause  
That brings them hither: Others are contented,  
To pray the Gods for their Prosperity.  
But with a common Voice, all blest their General,  
As the most glorious King, and happy Father.  Agam. 
'Tis well—, you may retire—, I'll make them welcome.  Exit. Eurybates. 
Thus to secure its Vengeance, angry Heaven  
Breaks all the Measures of my Policy!  
Yet if I was allowed the Privilege  
Of soothing Tears, it were some Comfort! But  
The barbarous Fate of Kings sets us on high,  
To lie exposed to all the Bolts of Fortune,  
And be a gazingstock to those below.  
Thus still beset by troublesome Spectators,  
Tho' most unhappy, we must least complain.  Ulys. 
My Lord, I am a Father, nay, a tender Father,  
Who feelingly resents your cruel Woe:  
I shudder at the stroke that makes you sigh,  
And e'en would weep to countenance your Tearse  
But your denial can have no Excuse,  
The Gods have brought their Victim to the Camp,  
Calchas expects it, and will soon demand it.  
Yet, whilst we are alone, let flowing Tears  
Express your Sorrow: Your concern allows them.  
But, no—, let rather your undaunted Soul  
Consider the vast Glory you shall reap.  
Behold the Hellespont yields to our Oars;  
Behold our Flames devour perfidious Troy;  
Her Subjects made your Slaves; King Priamus'  
Grasping your Knees, and Helena restor'd.  
Behold our numerous Fleet returns to Aulis  
Crowned with success: Behold that pompous Triumph,  
That will be the famed Tale of After-ages.  Agam. 
My Lord, I find how weak and impotent,  
All my Efforts would be t'oppose the Gods.  
And since it is decreed, that Innocence  
Must be oppressed, I—, no—, ● I'll never yield:  
Oh! Cruel Fate! Inexorable Gods!  Ulys. 
My Lord, remember  
Your solemn Vows, and dread th' Almighty Powers.  
Consult your Safety—; Nay, consult your Honours  Agamemnon 
Oh! Hard Necessity!  
Oh! Wretched Father! Yet engage the Priest  
To Silence for a while: Let me, at least,  
Be Guiltless for one Moment: Let me hide,  
From Clytaemnestra, my black, barbarous Arts;  
And spare her tender Heart the cruel Sight,  
Of a dear Daughter bleeding on an Altar.  Exit. Agamemnon. Ulys. 
I've done my Task: Nature and Love give way,  
The Gods and Honour bear the Sovereign Sway.  
The end of the First Act.   

ACT II.  Enter Eriphile, weeping, Doris. Eriph. 
DOris, Let us retire: And whilst within  
They feel the Raptures of their mutual Love,  
Both in a Father, and a Husband's Arms,  
Here let me vent my unrelenting Grief.  Dor. 
Why, Madam, will you thus provoke your Sorrows?  
And waste those Beauties with incessant Tears?  
'Tis true, nothing seems Charming to a Prisoner,  
Captivity turns all to Bitterness;  
Yet, shall I tell it? When we Courtwit the Seas  
With proud Achilles, when yet a trembling Captive,  
You viewed your Conquerour, me thought your Eyes  
Were less employed about your Miseries.  
Now Fortune seems to smile, since Iphigenia  
Like a fond Sister soothes your Cares with Friendship,  
And gives those Comforts you had found in Troy.  
You longed to come to Aulis, and your Wishes  
Are all accomplished, yet your Grief redoubles.  Eriph. 
What! Dost thou think that sad Eriphile,  
Can be a calm Spectator of their Joys?  
Canst thou believe my Griefs will disappear,  
When I behold a Heaven I cannot reach?  
Blessed Iphigenia hugs the dearest Father,  
She is the Pride of a fond haughty Mother,  
Whist from my Infancy exposed to Dangers,  
My unknown Parents never Smiled on me.  
I am a Stranger to my very self;  
And to complete my Woes, the Oracle  
Bid me continue in my Ignorance;  
For when I ask to whom I owe my Birth,  
'Tis answered, in this Knowledge lies my Loss.  Dor. 
But why should this deter you from your Search?  
All Oracles lie hid in dubious Riddles,  
Who knows but by the losing a false Name  
You'll find your own: This, sure, must be the Loss  
The Oracle foretells, for in your Cradle,  
Your Name was changed—  Eriph. 
Of all the Circumstances of my Fate,  
This is the only one I e'er could learn,  
From thy unhappy Father, who knew all.  
Indeed he used to tell me, that in Troy,  
I should retrieve my Glory, my true Name,  
And find my Royal Parentage— But oh!  
I had within my view the wish'd-for City,  
When fierce Achilles led his Conquering Host,  
'Gainst Lesbos, and made all yield to his Sword;  
Thy Father buried in a heap of Dead,  
Left me a Captive to myself unknown:  
And of all those great Honours I expected,  
Vile Prisoner of Greece, I only keep  
The Pride of a High Birth I cannot prove.  Dor. 
How great's the Loss of such a Faithful Witness!  
How much you ought to hate the Barbarous Hand  
That gave the fatal Blow! Yet renowned Calchas,  
Who holds a Correspondence with the Gods,  
And knows what's past, what's present, what's to come,  
Calchas may, sure, acquaint you with your Fate.  
Besides, this Camp affords you safe Protection:  
Kind Iphigenia will soon be joined,  
In happy Marriage to our Conqueror,  
And make our Chains the lighter; doubt it not,  
She has engaged her Promise—  Eriph. 
What! If of all my Woo'st  
This fatal Marriage were the cruelest?  Dor. 
How! Madam?  Eriph. 
Be not surprised my Griefs admit no Cure,  
But rather wonder I have lived so long,  
With such a load of Cares and Misery.  
I am unknown, a Stranger, and a Captive:  
All these were little— But, oh! I'm a Lover.  
That fierce Destroyer of the Lesbian State;  
That fatal Author of our dire Misfortunes,  
Who with Hands drenched in Blood made me his Captive,  
And with thy Father robbed me of my Birth,  
Achilles is the dearest Man I view.  Dor. 
Heaven! What do I hear?  Eriph. 
I first designed  
Eternal Silence should conceal my Weakness:  
But I must speak to ease my Soul oppressed,  
And in thy friendly Bosom vent a Secret,  
Which ought for ever, ever be forgotten.  
Yet, Doris, ask me not with what fond Hopes,  
I entertained this Passion in my Breast?  
I will not charge it on that kind Concern,  
With which Achilles seemed to soothe my Woes.  
No, no; 'tis unrelenting Heaven's Decree,  
still to pursue me with immortal Hatred.  
And crush my tender Heart with Cares of Love.  Dor. 
Oh! cruel hopeless Love!  Eriph. 
Shall I call back to my distracted Mind,  
The sad Remembrance of that dismal Day,  
When first we lost our Liberty?  
speechless and Trembling for a while I lay,  
Buried in gloomy Night; at last my feeble Eyes,  
Began to seek the Light, and as I saw  
The pressing Hand of my fierce Conqueror  
Reeking with Blood, I fear'd to meet his Looks.  
As I embarked with him, I still endeavoured,  
To shun the dreadful and detested Sight;  
But, oh! I saw him; saw him with a Blush;  
Nay, which is more, I saw him with concern.  
His Aspect was Serene, and my Reproaches  
Could find no Tongue to Curse the pleasing foe;  
My Heart rebelled against my Miseries,  
And all my Anger melted into Tears.  
I followed with Delight my Charming Guide,  
And as I loved him then, I love him still.  
Kind Iphigenia offers me Protection,  
But all in vain, since my tormenting Furies  
Bid me lay hold of my Protectress' Hand,  
Only to crush a Rival, and unseen  
Disturb those Joys which cause my Sufferings.  Dor. 
Alas! What can your feeble Hate perform  
Had it not been much better t'have remained  
Still Prisoner at Mycenae; there to quench  
Your fatal Fires, and shun the cruel Woes  
Of unregarded Love—  Eriph. 
'Twas my Design; but tho' my Rival's Triumph  
Threatened my newborn Love with endless Torments,  
Yet driven by Fate I came: A secret Voice,  
Bid me attend my Guardian—  
Presaging that I might leave on this Shore,  
All my Misfortunes, and like a Libation,  
Pour them upon the Heads of these blest Lovers.  
This is the Reason I appear in Aulis,  
And not a fond Desire to know my Birth.  
Or rather I am come to let their Nuptials  
Pronounce my final Doom; for if accomplished,  
A speedy Death will end my Miseries;  
And without wasting time in fruitless Search,  
After my unknown Parentage, the Grave  
Will hide my Love and Shame—  Dor. 
How much I do lament your cruel Fates  Enter to them Agamemnon, Iphigenia. Iphig. 
My Lord, What makes you thus Fly from my Sight;  
And shun the Clasping of a Daughter's Arms?  
My dutiful Respect made me forbear,  
Till the transported Queen had first expressed  
Her joys in your Embrace, Must Iphigenia,  
Retire without a Blessing, and a Kiss?  
Mayn't I?—  Agam. 
Yes— you may embrace a Father, Embraces her.  
Who loves you still—  Iphig. 
How dear I value such a Father's Lover  
What pleasing Raptures do I feel, to see  
Th'Excess of Power and Honour that surrounds you?  
Fame's busy Tongue had entertained my Ears,  
With wondrous Tales of your supreme Command;  
But all comes short of what I now behold;  
My Joys and my Surprise at once redouble:  
You have the general Love of all the Grecians,  
And am I then beloved by such a Father?  Agam. 
Alas! A Father to so good a Daughter,  
Deserved to be more Fortunate—  Iphig. 
Is there a greater Fortune can attend a King?  
I thought you reached the Top of humane Bliss,  
And that the Bounteous Gods could give no more.  Agam. 
Just Heaven! Must I prepare her to her Fate? Aside.  Iphig. 
You Sigh my Lord, and seem to cast your Looks,  
Unwillingly upon me; Pray, dear Sir,  
Is it against your Orders we are come?  Agam. 
Daughter, I see you with a Father's Eye;  
But at this Time and Place, perplexing Care  
Disturb my Joys—  Iphig. 
How sad are the effects of tedious Absence!  
Alas can't you forget your high Degree,  
And learn to be a Father for a moment?  
Here is no Witness that can make you Blush;  
You see before you, none but a young Princess,  
To whom I often told how blessed I was  
With the most Tender and Indulgent Father,  
Who would at my Request end her Misfortunes.  
What will she think of your Indifference?  
Must all her Hopes be vain? Pray, gentle Father,  
Dispel those Clouds that hover on your Brow.  Agam. 
Alas! My Daughter—  Iphig. 
My Lord, Go on.  Agam. 
Oh! I cannot—  Iphig. 
Curst be th'adulterous Trojan,  
The fatal Author of our dire Al●●ns!  Agam. 
his Ruin must be bought with Floods of Tears.  Iphig. 
I hope propitious Heaven will Protect your Head.  Agam. 
The Gods of late seem dull to all my Prayers.  Iphig. 
Calchas, they say, prepared a Sacrifice.  Agam. 
May Heaven be appeased before 'tis Offered!  Iphig. 
Pray, when is that to be?  Agam. 
Too soon, Alas!  Iphig. 
Shall I be suffered  
To join my Vows with yours before the Altar?  Agam. 
Oh! me!  Iphig. 
My Lord; you're silent—  Agam. 
No— Yes— You will be there, My Daughter—  
Farewell— Exit Agamemnon.  Iphig. 
His cold Reception fills my Mind with Doubts.  
A secret Horror seizes all my Limbs:  
near— But know not what, May Heaven avert  
Th'impending Woes— Yet, whom they seem to threaten.  
The Good alone can tell—  Eriph. 
Madam, I wonder that amidst those Cares,  
Which now employ your Father, a small Coldness  
Can discompose your Mind? Also! How anxious  
My Thoughts must be?  
Wherever I set my Steps I am a Stranger;  
Lost and abandon'd from my very Cradle,  
My unknown Parents never cast upon me  
A flattering smile; You, if a cross Father  
Reject your datio●s Love, may yet complain  
To a 〈◊〉 Mother; my, i● both should prove,  
Unkind, a Lover 〈◊〉 dry up your Tears.  Iphig. 
Yes, dear Eriphile, I own my Tears  
Will soon be dried at my Achilles' view:  
His worth, my Father, my Heart bid me Love him.  
Yet, What must I believe of this fond Lover?  
Who seemed to turn with longing expectation  
To meet me here? What keeps him from my Sight?  
I have, for these two Days, upon our Journey,  
sought him with trembling Looks; but all in vain.  
At last I'm welcomed by an unknown Crowd,  
And still he keeps away: Sad Agamemnon  
seems shy to name him to me. Where is he?  
I'm full of Doubts and Fears—, What! Have the Cares of War,  
Chilled both a Father and a Lover's Heart?  
But, no—, I wrong him by unjust Alarms:  
For he alone did ne'er engage his Promise  
To Helen's Father: 'Tis on my Account  
He flies to Troy; I am the only Prize  
His generous Love expects to Crown his Valour.  Enter Clytemnestra, with a Letter in her Hand. Clyt. 
Daughter, we must be gone, and by a speedy Flight  
Prevent our Shame; 'tis now no more a Riddle,  
What made your Father troubled and uneasy  
To see us here: This Letter clears all Doubts;  
By faithful Areas he had sent it to me,  
To spare us the Affront of a Denial.  
But wandering from our Way, that Messenger  
Could not convey it sooner—.  
He writes, Achilles having changed his Mind,  
Defers the Nuptial Rites till his Return.  Eriphil. 
What do I hear!  Clyt. 
You blush, and seem concerned at the Abuse—;  
But let your Spirit arm you with Disdain. To Iphigenia.  
Ungrateful Wretch! Deceived by his Renown,  
I did at Argos countenance his Love,  
And thought a Goddess' Son would make you Happy.  
But since his vile Inconstancy belies  
His noble Offspring from th'unchanging Gods,  
Let's now despise the basest of Mankind,  
And fly this hated Shore; lest he should think,  
We stay to court his dull Indifference.  
Your Father is acquainted with my Purpose,  
I only wait him here to take my leave.  
In the mean time I'll see all Things prepared  
For our departure—. As for you, Madam, To Eriphile.  
You'd think it hard to follow; our Retreat  
Leaves you in better Hands; too well we know,  
That 'tis not Chalchas that you came to see.  Exit, Clytaemnestra, in a Fury. Iphig. 
In what amaze of Trouble has she left me,  
By her perplexing Speech! Achilles' having  
Changed his Mind,  
Defers the Nuptial Rites till he Returns;  
I must prevent my Shame by hasty Flight;  
And 'tis not Calchas that you came to see. To Eriphile.  Eriph. 
The meaning of her Speech is a dark Riddle,  
I cannot apprehend—.  Iphig. 
Nay, Madam, too, too well,  
You know its meaning—, yet, if barbarous Fate In an Ironical Tone.  
Robs me of a Husband, sure, you'll be more kind  
Than to abandon me in my Misfortunes.  
' 'had been a Torment for you to have stayed  
At Mycenae without me—, Shall the Queen  
Now leave you here alone?  Eriph 
Madam, I designed  
To consult Calchas—.  Iphig. 
Then what's the Reason you don't haste to see him?  Erip. 
You speak of being gone within a Moment.  Iphig. 
Sometimes one Moment may clear many Doubts:  
But, Madam, I'm too pressing: And now plainly see.  
What I could ne'er have thought— Yes, 'tis Achilles  
Who makes you so uneasy till we're gone.  Eriph. 
Can you suspect me of such Treachery?  
ay! Madam, Love a furious Conqueror,  
Whose bloody Image haunts my fearful Mind,  
ere since with Fire and Sword he spread Destruction,  
Through all the Lesbian State?—  Iphig. 
Yes, Traitress, Yes, you love the fierce Destroyer:  
And all those Horrors with which you describe him,  
His Hands embrued with Blood, his reeking Sword,  
And flaming Lesbos are the Characters,  
Which left his pleasing Image printed in your Soul.  
This, I remember, this made you so fond,  
Still to repeat to me the doleful Story  
Of your Captivity— I might have seen  
Your eager Passion through your feigned Complaints.  
But my fond Friendship banished all Distrust,  
I hugged and cherished a perfidious Rival;  
Credulous Fool● I lov'd her: Nay, I offered  
The safe protection of her perjured Lover.  
The Robbing me of him, I could forgive,  
But to be brought to this detested Shore,  
To meet th'ungrateful Man who now forsakes me,  
And grace the Triumph of a treacherous Friend,  
This, this is an Abuse I cannot bear.  Eriph. 
Madam, you give me Words I ne'er was used  
To hear before—; And tho' hard Fate pursues me  
With cruel Hate, yet such harsh sounds till now,  
Were Strangers to my Ears; But I excuse  
Th'unjust Reproaches of an incensed Lover.  
Which way could I prevent your Journey hithero  
Can you suspect Achilles will prefer  
A forlorn Maid to Agamemnon's Daughter?  
One, who all she can learn of her Condition,  
Is, that she is the Offspring of that Blood  
He longs to spill—.  Iphig. 
The barbarous Wretch insults o'er my Misfortunes!  
And still compares her vileness to my Glory,  
Only to heighten her perfidious Triumph.  
Was this then wanting to my load of Woe?  
But have a care your Raptures be'nt too rash:  
That Agamemnon you have dared, commands  
All Greece; He is my Father; nay, he loves me,  
And feels my Sufferings deeply as myself.  
My Tears did melt him: I perceived those Sighs  
He strove to hide from me; Fond Fool! I blamed  
That Coldness which his Tenderness had caused.  Enter Achilles. Achil. 
Is't possible then, Madam! Do I see you?  
Or is it fond Delusion? No! For the whole Camp,  
Assured me you was here—, But, Madam, What concern  
Has brought you to this Shore, since Agamemnon,  
Give out Mycenae would enjoy you still?  Iphig. 
My Lord, hear not my hated Presence here,  
For Iphigenia will soon be gone.  Exit Iphigenia with a disdainful Air. Achil. 
She shuns me! Do I wake? Or is't a Dream?  
Gods! How I am distracted at this Flight!  
What shall I do?— Madam, can I presume To Eriphile.  
To meet your Looks, and not provoke your Hatred?  
Yet, if Achilles did ere pity you:  
If you can now receive your conquerors Prayer,  
Inform me why they're come—, sure, you can tell.  Eriph. 
My Lord, I wonder  
You should be unacquainted with their Journey;  
Since you have been a Month upon this Shore,  
Still pressing their arrival and your Nuptials.  Achilles. 
I Madam? I was Absent this whole Month,  
And only came last Night—.  Eriphil. 
How, When Agamemnon did write to Mycenae,  
And not your Love Indite and Guide his Hand?  
I thought you was transported with the Charms  
Of his bright Daughter—.  Achil. 
Yes: I still adore her.  
Nay, if I had consulted but my Love,  
〈…〉 have 〈◊〉 to see her at Mycenae.  
Yet, I 〈◊〉 shunn'd; but for what Crime I know not.  
〈◊〉 I cast my Looks I meet a Foe:  
And 〈◊〉 this Moment Calchas and Ulysses  
Display'd their Eloquence t'oppose my Love,  
And seem'd to intimate it shocked my Honour.  
What can their Counsels mean? Am I abused?  
And made a Tale to entertain the Armies  
〈◊〉 in—, And wrench the Secret from their Souls.  Exit. Achilles. Eriph. 
Ye Gods! Who see my Shame, Where shall I hide it?  
Proud Rival, thou art loved, and yet thou murmurest.  
Must I at once behold thy haughty Triumph,  
And bear with thy Insults? No—, Let me rather—:  
But, Doris, I'm deceived, or some great Storm,  
Is gathering thick to break upon their Heads.  
I've Eyes:— Their Happiness is not yet settled.  
King Agamemnon Sighs, and is in Trouble:  
He shuns his Daughter: Both avoid Achilles.  
There's something in it; I'll not yet Despair:  
And if Fate listens to my Hatred's Call,  
all die, but crush a Rival with my Fall. Exeunt Eriphile, Doris  
The end of the Second Act.   

ACT III. SCENE 1.  Enter Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra. Clyt. 
YES, my Lord,  
My Indignation made me leave the Camp,  
And fly Achilles' view: Scorned Iphigenia  
Designed Mycenae should lament her Woe.  
But that young Hero wondering at our Flight,  
Called all the Gods to prove his Constancy,  
And stopped our Journey. Nay, he presses now  
That Marriage, which before, 'twas said, he shunn'd●  
he seeks you full of Passion and of Love:  
Furious to know who raised this false Report,  
And punish his audacious Insolence.  
Therefore let no Suspicions pall our Joys.  Agam. 
Madam, 'tis well: Achilles must be trusted:  
I own we wronged him: And I share your Joys,  
As much, as least, as my concern allows.  
Now since you wish that Calchas should perform  
The Nuptial Sacrifice, 'tis fit you send  
Your Daughter to the Altar: I'll there wait her coming.  
Yet first in private let me here advise you:  
You see what place you're in, how every thing  
Seems bitter for a Fight, than for a Marriage;  
The Tumult of an Army, and a Fleet:  
An Altar bristling with Pikes, Darts and Spears,  
Such horrid Pomp may suit with fierce Achilles,  
But is not calm enough to court your Sight,  
It were unseemly that the Greeks should see,  
Their Queen bereft of awful Majesty,  
And undistinguished in a Crowd of Soldiers.  
Believe me, let your Maids alone attend  
Your Daughter to the Altar—.  Clyt. 
ay, Sir, resign my Daughter to my Women:  
And not accomplish what I have begun?  
Have I then brought her hither from Mycenae,  
And shall I now refuse to lend my Hand  
To lead her to the Priest?— Is not this a Duty  
Incumbent on a Mother?— Who shall order  
The Marriage Festival?— ●  Agam. 
Madam, That might have been your Care  
In Atreus' Palace: Now you're in a Camp.  Clyt. 
Yes, I am in a Camp,  
Where the whole Fate of Troy depends on you;  
Where all the Grecians bow to your Command;  
Where Thetis' Son will this Day call me Mother;  
Pray, in what Palace could I ere appear  
With greater Splendour and Magnificence?  Agam. 
Madam,  
By all th'immortal Authors of our Race,  
I do conjure you, grant me this Request:  
I have my Reasons.  Clyt. 
My Lord,  
By all those Powers you named, let me entreat you  
Not to deny my Eyes that blissful show.  
Vouchsafe to see me there without a Blush.  Agam. 
I thought much better of a Wife's Compliance,  
〈…〉 my Arguments, and my Entreaties  
Can have no force to bend your stubborn Mind,  
Madam— it is my Pleasure— I command you—  
Obey—  Exit Agamemnon. Clyt. 
Ye Gods above! What makes my Husband use  
Such barbarous Care to keep me from the Altar.  
Is he so elevated with his Power,  
That he disdains to own me for his Wife?  
O● is his new Command yet so unsettled  
That he dares not appear with Helen's Sister?  
But why that Nicety? Yet, since 'tis his Command  
I willingly submit; my Daughter's Bliss  
Makes me amends for all; th'indulgent Gods  
Unite her to Achilles, and my Joys  
Are Infinite to think she shall be called—  
But here he comes himself—  Enter Achilles. Achil. 
Madam, all things succeed to Crown my Wishes:  
The King desires no further Satisfaction,  
But truths the Raptures of my eager Love.  
scarce began to clear my Innocence,  
When with a kind Embrace he called me Son.  
his Words were few: But, Madam has he told you  
What happy News was spread at your Arrival?  Clyt. 
What's that, my Lord?  Achil. 
The Gods will be appeased: The Priest proclaims  
That the next Hour by solemn Sacrifice,  
Neptune will be propitious to our Vows,  
And wake the drowsy Winds; sure of his Promise  
The joyful Mariners unfurl their Sails,  
And turn their Prows to Troy. As for me, Madam,  
Tho' I were glad if to indulge my Love  
The Winds should still be silent for a while:  
Tho' with regret I quit the happy Shore,  
Where Iphigenia will soon be mine,  
Yet with delight I grasp the blessed Occasion,  
To Seal this noble Match with Trojan Blood;  
And in the Ruins of perfidious Troy,  
Bury the Shame of that respected Name,  
To which mine will for ever be allied.  Enter Iphigenia, Eriphile, Aegina, Doris. 
Fair Princess, all my Bliss depends on you:  
Your Father waits our coming to the Altar; To Iphigenia.  
Haste Madam, to receive the plighted Faith  
Of your Adorer—  Iphig. 
My Lord, before we go,  
I hope the Queen will suffer me to ask you  
A Boon to prove your Love: Here's a young Princess  
Whose noble Aspect speaks her high Descent:  
Her Eyes continually dissolves in Tears,  
You know her Troubles, for 'tis you have caused them.  
And I just now transported with rash Passion,  
Rudely insulted over her Affliction.  
I would atone for my too-hasty Carriage,  
And soothe her into Ease, but how I know not,  
Unless it be by interceding for her.  
My Lord, she is your Captive, and those Chains,  
Whose weight I pity, will at your Command  
Fall from her Hands: Let then your generous Deeds  
Begin this happy and auspicious Day.  
Let sad Eriphile be now discharged  
From our Attendance— Let all the Grecians see,  
That the great King to whom I plight my Faith,  
Is not contented to spread dire Alarms,  
And wild Destruction through th'affrighted World,  
But that he can relent at a Wife's Tears,  
And like the Gods from whom he is Descended,  
Will be disarmed by the Unfortunate.  Eriph. 
Yes, my Lord, you may alleviate  
The quickest Pain a Woman ever felt.  
'Tis true the Fate of War made me your Captive;  
But still you strain too high its rigid Laws,  
Thus to o're-bear my Heart with all the Torments  
I suffer here.  Achil. 
You, Madam?  Eriph. 
Yes, my Lord, and waving all the rest,  
Could you impose a more severe Commnd,  
Than here to make my Eyes the sad Spectators,  
Of the Prosperity of all my Foes:  
My Proud, my Haughty, Persecuting Foes.  
Wherever I go, I hear th'insulting Threats  
Of a fierce Army, ready to destroy  
My native Countrry: And to break my Heart,  
I see, I see that fatal Hymen's Brand,  
Which will devour it, and consume my Hopes.  
Therefore permit me to retire from hence:  
And wand'ring from your Sight, and still unknown,  
bewail the hardships of that dismal Fate, Weeps.  
Which nothing but my Tears can well express.  Achil. 
Fair Princess, that's too much: Wipe of those Tears,  
You have your Wishes; follow to the Altar,  
That all the Greeks may witness you are Free;  
And may the Hour that gives you Liberty,  
Make me for ever Blessed. Enter Arcas. To Clytem.  Arc. 
Madam, all things are ready for the Sacrifice;  
The King waits at the Altar for your Daughter,  
And sends me to Demand her— Or rather,  
Sir, I come To Achilles.  
To beg your help against him.  Achil. 
What say you, Arcas?  Clyt. 
Ye Gods! What News is this?  Arc. 
You 〈◊〉, my Lord, To Achilles.  
Can now protect her.  C●hil. 
Against whom?  Arc. 
My Lord 'tis with regret I name him—  
But I can keep no longer the black Secret,  
And to be silent would be Treachery.  
The Knife, the Fillet, the Pile, all is ready;  
But were that fatal Pomp designed to take  
My Life for the Discovery— yet I must speak.  Clyt. 
Heaven! How I tremble! Quickly; Arcas,  
Explain your meaning—  Achil. 
Whoever it be, speak boldly, fear him not.  Arc. 
My Lord, you are her Lover; and you, Madam,  
Her tender Mother; suffer not the Princess  
To meet her Father—  Clyt. 
What should we fear from him?  Achil. 
Why should we distrust him?  Arc. 
He waits her at the Altar, with intent  
To Sacrifice her—  Achil. 
He! Agamemnon!  Clyt. 
His Daughter!  Iphig. 
My Father!  Eriph. 
Oh Heavens! What News!  Achil. 
Gods! What blind Fury  
Can Arm his cruel Hand against his Daughter?  
'Tis Impious but to think on't.  Arc. 
Alas! my Lord, there is no room for Doubt:  
The Oracle and Calchas have pronounced  
The fatal Doom, and stubbornly reject  
All other Sacrifice: The Gods themselves  
Protect the Ravisher, and bid the Winds  
Lie hushed till that be offered.  Clyt. 
How can the Gods decree so black a Deed?  Iphig. 
Heaven! what's my Crime, that merits such hard Fate?  Clyt. 
Now 'tis too plain  
Why he imposed on me such strict Commands,  
To keep me from the Altar.  Iphig. 
Is this the Marriage was designed for me? so Achilles.  Arc. 
The King to blind you, did suppose this Marriages  
And the whole Camp is still in the same Error.  Clyt. 
My Lord, Kneels.  
Here let me grasp your Knees—  Achil. 
Alas! Madam— Raising her.  
Pray rise—  Clyt.. 
My Lord, let me forget my troublesome State:  
This low Submission suits my cruel Fortune;  
I were too happy if my Tears could touch, Weeps.  
Your Heart with Pity— Alas! 'Tis your Bride  
They snatch away from you. I brought her up  
To the fond Hopes of this auspicious Match.  
'Tis you we sought on this detested Shore;  
And 'tis your Name betrays her to her Fate.  
Must she then go t'implore the Angry Gods,  
And grasp that Altar dismally Adorned,  
To Sacrifice her? You alone are here  
Her Father, Husband and protecting God.  
I read your Grief in your distracted Looks.  
Daughter, I leave you in a Lovers Arms.  
My Lord, I beg you, stay till I return.  
I fly to meet my cruel, treacherous Husband,  
And with just Rage oppose his wild Design.  
I'll force the Priest to seek another Victim;  
Or should my best Efforts prove vain, to ward  
The fatal Blow, I'll die with my dear Daughter.  Exit Clytaemnestra. Achil. 
Madam, all this while  
My wonder kept me Dumb and Motionless.  
Was it to me she spoke? Am I Achilles?  
And must your Mother and a Queen disgrace  
My noble Passion, to descend thus low  
With unbecoming Posture, Prayers and Tears  
To move my Pity? Who is more concerned  
Than Thetis' Son in your Prosperity?  
Yes; you may trust my Love, th'affront is leveled  
At me alone: Whatever they attempt,  
I answer for a Life on which my own depends.  
But my just Anger does engage me further:  
'Twere ●i●tle to protect, I will revenge you,  
And punish all at once th'ignoble Cheat,  
〈…〉 my Name for your undoing.  Iphig. 
Pray, My Lord, slay— Hear me—  Achil. 
Gods, must a Barbarian  
Affront me thus! Whilst to revenge his Sister,  
I fly to Troy; whilst by my leading Vote,  
he holds Command o'er twenty Rival Kings;  
Whilst for my Services, and Warlike Toils:  
Whilst for the Price of that great Victory,  
〈◊〉 will 〈◊〉 him, Vindicate his Wrongs,  
And Crown 〈◊〉 Name for ever with Renown;  
I am contented with the glorious Title  
Of being yours; the bloody Perjured Man  
Thinks little to despise the sacred Laws  
Of Love and Nature, and to rack my Soul  
With the sad view, of your dear, Virgin Heart  
Reeking upon an Altar, his black Deed  
Must still be cover'd by a Marriage Pomp;  
'Tis I must lead you to the Sacrifice;  
My credulous Hand must guide the fatal Knife;  
And in the place of Husband, I must prove  
Your Executioner— Gods● I grow Mad to think on't.  Iphig. 
My Lord, let not your Passion thus transport you.  Achil. 
Just Heaven! What had become of all my hopes,  
Had not my coming forestalled your Arrival?  
The harmless Bride abandoned to their Fury,  
had vainly sought her absent Love, and met  
A Butcher Priest: Still charging on my Name  
The bloody, barbarous Cheat. Such Treachery  
I will expose here before all Greece  
Madam, your Honour is concerned in mine.  
And therefore you'll approve my just Revenge  
The cruel Man shall know Achilles's Wrongs  
ne'er went unpunished—.  Iphig.. 
My Lord, if ever you did truly Love me,  
Let now my Prayers and Tears disarm your Anger.  
Consider that Barbarian whom you dare.  
That cruel, 〈◊〉, treacherous Enemy,  
Is still my Father—,  Achil. 
Your Father, Madam? No— His black Design  
Leaves him no other than a Murtherer's Name  Iphig. 
My Lord, I still repeat it, He's my Father  
A Father whom I love, whom I revere;  
A Father who till now has cherished me,  
With all Indulgence and Paternal Care.  
My Heart brought up even from my Infancy,  
To dutiful Respect, is sad when he's offended.  
'Tis not our Nuptial tie can make me lose,  
My Duty, and allow your furious, Passion.  
Yet, see, my Lord, how very much I love your  
Since I could bear to hear th' outrageous injury,  
You offerred to his Name. But how can you  
Think him so barbarous that unconcerned  
He'd see his Daughter bleed, if any way  
He could prevent the cruel Sacrifice.  
Believe me, Sir, I saw him sigh and weep.  
Do not condemn him till you hear him speaks  
Must his Heart, filled with Horrors, still encounter  
Your raging Hatred?—  Achil. 
Is't possible, Madam  
Amidst your Danger is this all you hear?  
A wild Barbarian (for this Name befits him)  
Betrays you to the Priest like a tame Victim,  
And when my Tenderness would stop his Fury,  
You seem concerned to trouble his Repose;  
I'm silenced he's excused, he is lamented;  
For him you tremble, and 'tis me you fear.  
Has then Achilles sued and sighed in vain?  
Is this the Progress of my constant Love?  Iphig. 
Oh! Cruel Man! How can you doubt that love,  
Of which I gave you such convincing Proofs?  
You saw how with dry Eyes, and undisturb'd,  
I heard the bloody Messenger of Death;  
But, all ye Powers of Love! How deep was my Despair,  
When at our first Arrival the false News,  
Of your inconstancy came to my Ears?  
My just concern made me accuse the God's,  
Reproach your Falsehood, and curse all Mankind.  
Then, then you might have seen, how much 〈◊〉  
Your Love before my Life— Alas! I thought  
My generous Flames had raised me 〈◊〉 all Mortals  
Perhaps the envious Gods have been provoked,  
By the Excess of my felicity.  
  

ACT IV. SCENE I.  Enter Eriphile, Doris, they sit on a green Bank near 〈◊〉 Sea-Shore. A SONG Set by Mr. PURCEL, and Sung by Mrs. ERWIN. 

I.  
MORPHEUS, thou gentle God of 〈◊〉 Repose,  
Th' unruly Tumults of my Mind compose;  
Alloy the Fury of my anxious Care,  
Drive hence black Thoughts, and chase away 〈◊〉  
Here let indulgent Fancy soothe my Pain,  
Here let me sleep, and never wake again,   

II.  
What's this I feel? What this within my Breast,  
Strikes such alarms, and will not let me rest?  
'Tis jealousy, tormenting jealousy!  
The Bane of Love, tormenting jealousy   

III.  
I rage, I rave, I burn, my Soul's o' ●●re:  
Tortured with wild dispair● and 〈…〉  
My Strephon's 〈◊〉, I cannot, 〈…〉  
〈◊〉 be revenged, and more than 〈…〉  
Death, only Death can now my 〈…〉,  
I must my R●●●●, or 〈…〉.   DOP. 
Madam, what 〈…〉  
 
An 〈◊〉 and 〈…〉— 〈…〉  
 
〈…〉 me 〈…〉  〈◊〉 
Yes, Doris, yet: My Heart perplexed with Cares,  
〈…〉 with envious Eyes my Rival's Fate.  
〈…〉 her Dangers. And how cursed my Hopes!  
Didst thou not see her Triumph? How Achilles  
Was troubled and concerned? I saw, I saw it;  
And sh●nn●●he Signs of her undoubted Bliss.  
The valiant, proud, insulting, Fierce Achilles,  
〈…〉 to all humane kind;  
Who 〈◊〉 never a Tear, but what he draws  
〈…〉 yes: Achilles, who 'tis said,  
Was ●●ckled by a Lioness or a Tigress;  
Achilles' 〈◊〉 her now begins to tremble,  
Sighs and 〈◊〉 pale, and weeps, and yet thou pitiest  
Here blest Condition; Death itself were pleasing,  
If I could purchase fierce Achilles' Tears. Weeps.  Dor. 
Dear Madam, moderate your Sorrows:  
Or if you weep, let Iphigenia  
Bespeak your Tears; she was our kind Protectress,  
And in an hour she dies.—  Eriph. 
No, Doris, she'll not die—  
Dost thou believe Achilles wept in vain?  
Thinkest thou his Love and Courage will lie buried  
In shameful Unconcern? No, he'll prevent  
All her impending Dangers: Thou shalt find  
The angry God's pronounced this Oracle  
To raise her Glory, aggravate my Woes,  
And make her still the dearer to her Lover.  Dor. 
What Reasons, Madam, can breed this Suspicion?  Eriph. 
Dost thou not see  
How all endeavour to prevent the Blow?  
The fatal Sentence is still kept a Secret;  
And tho' all things be ready at the Altar,  
The Camp is unacquainted with the Victim.  
Does not this silence speak a wavering Father?  
What can he do? What Heart of Flint or steel  
Could e're resist th' Assaults he must encounter?  
The Rage and Fury of an incensed Wife;  
A 〈…〉 and Tears: the deep Despair  
Of a whole Family; fond Nature's struggles;  
●ebill●●'s threatning 〈◊〉. No, 'tis in vain  
The God's pronounced her Doom, for she shall live  
I, I alone m●●t be 〈◊〉.  
Oh! 〈…〉—  Dor. 
Madam, what do you mean?  Eriph. 
Why don't I follow  
The angry Dictates of my jealous Mind?  
And publish to the Camp the fatal Sentence,  
The Oracle pronounced, and how by impious Silence  
They strive to make it void, and save the Victim  
The God's demand—  Dor. 
Oh! What a wild Design!  Eriph. 
Oh! What excess of Joy!  
What Altars would the Trojans raise to me,  
If vindicating my Captivity,  
I sowed Dissension through the Grecian Camp,  
And armed Achilles against Agamemnon!  
If I could make them lay aside their Quarrel  
'Gainst Troy, and turn their Arms ' against themselves!  
If my malicious Whispers could destroy  
The Grecian Army, and secure my Country!  Dor. 
Madam, I hear a noise— 'Tis Clytaemnestra:  
Compose your self, or else avoid her Presence.  Eriph. 
Let's in: And to prevent this hated Marriage,  
I'll use all means— The Gods allow my Passion.  Exeunt Eriphile, Doris. Enter Clytaemnestra, Aegina. Clyt. 
Thou seest, Aegina, I must ply my Daughter  
So far she is from shedding any Tears,  
Or trembling for her Life, that she excuses  
Her cruel Father, and would have my Grief  
Respect the Hand that strikes the cruel Blow.  
Oh! Constancy! Oh! Reverence! Oh! Love  
Yet to reward all these, my Savage Husband  
Complains of her Delay. I'll here expect him:  
For, sure, he'll come t' expostulate with me  
The reason of her stay. But he appears:  
Be hushed my Passion; let me try how far  
He can dissemble his base Artifice.  Enter Agamemnon. Agam. 
Madam, what do you mean? How comes this 〈◊〉  
Don't offer Iphigenia to my sight?  
I sent Arcas to demand her from you—  
Where have you left her—  
What stays her? Is it you? 〈◊〉 you not grant  
My just Request? And do you still 〈◊〉  
To follow to the Altar?  Clyt. 
My Lord, if she must 〈◊〉,  
My Daughter's ready: But does nothing stop you?  Agam. 
Me! Madam?  Clyt. 
But have you taken care of all?  Agam. 
Calchas is ready; th' Altar is prepared.  
I have done all my Duty bid me do.  Clyt. 
My Lord, you tell me nothing of the Victim?  Agam. 
Madam?  
What means this jealous care? Aside.  Enter Iphigenia. Clyt. 
Come, Daughter, Come; they only wait for you:  
Be thankful to a kind, a loving Father,  
Who will himself conduct you to the Altar. Weeps.  Agam. 
What do I see! What means my Wive's discourse?  
Daughter, you weep, and look with downcast Eyes:  
What's this Disorder?  
But both the Daughter and the Mother weep.  
Oh! Arcas! I'm betrayed.—  Iphig. 
Father, be not alarmed: You're not not betray'd:  
Command and I'll obey; my Life is Yours,  
You may retake it without Artifice.  
With that contented and submissive Heart,  
With which I did accept a promised Husband,  
If I must needs submit to Heaven's Decree,  
I'll prove an innocent Victim, and respect  
The Blow you order; with all due obedience  
I'll spill that Blood, I have received from you.  Agam. 
Oh! dutiful Respect! Oh! wondrous Love!  Iphig. 
Yet, if this Reverence, this humble Love  
Seem to deserve a better Recompense;  
If you can pity a fond Mother's Grief,  
My Lord I dare to say, that as I am  
Surrounded with bright Honour, I could wish  
A milder Fate, and that the bounteous God's  
Would not cut off my Life so near its Spring.  
'Tis I 〈◊〉 called you by the Name of Father;  
— ●h●● 〈◊〉, endearing Name—  
〈…〉 th●● Name so o●● you thanked the Gods  
〈◊〉 I made your Delight; with me you learned  
〈…〉 Majesty, and not disdain  
— With fond Caresses to assume the Father.  
Alas! With how much eagerness and Joy,  
I loved to hear the Names of all those Countries  
You went to Conquer? My presaging hopes  
Began t' anticipate the wish'd-for News  
Of Troy's Destruction, and prepared a Feast  
To grace your Triumph. Little did I think,  
That to obtain your Victory, my Blood  
Must first be spilled by you.—  Agam. 
Oh! She'll unman me with her tender Words?  Iphig 
Not that the horror of the threatning Blow  
Makes me remind You of your former Kindness  
Fear not: My Heart still careful of your Fame,  
Shall ne'er expose my Father to a Blush.  
And had my Life alone been my Concern,  
My grateful Thoughts had been concealed for ever  
Within my duteous Breast. But, Sir, you know  
That on my wretched Fate a tender Mother,  
And a fond Lover fixed their Happiness.  
A King whose worth you own, looks on this Day  
To light the Torch of our illustrious Hymen;  
Sure of a Heart, you gave me leave to promise,  
To his undoubted Love, he thought himself  
The happiest of Mankind:— But since he knows  
Your fatal purpose, judge of his Alarms  
You see my Mother's woe, pardon, dead Father,  
My weak endeavours to prevent their Tears. Weeps.  Agam. 
Daughter, ●is but too true: The angry God's  
Demand a Victim, for what Crime, I know not:  
But you are named. A cruel Oracle  
Commands that you shall bleed.—  
To save your precious Life from the black Doom,  
My Love prevented your endearing Prayers.  
I wave to tell you how long I withstood:  
Believe that Love which you just now attested.  
This very Night I did recall the Order.  
Which they before had wrested from my Hand.  
I sacrific'd to you the cause of Greece,  
My Ambition, my Safety, nay, my Honour.  
Arcas was sent to keep you from the Camp.  
But the God's would not suffer he should ●eer you;  
They baffled my Efforts. Oh! Wretched Father,  
Who vainly Strove to guard, what they pursue!  
Trust not to my unsettled feeble Power:  
What Curb could hold a 〈…〉  
〈◊〉 From th' uneasy 〈…〉  
By holy Zeal, and 〈…〉  
Daughter, your hour 〈…〉 yield.  
But, even in Death, regard 〈…〉 ●●ee;  
And mind a Counsel which I 〈…〉 follow:  
Since the sad Blow that strikes 〈◊〉 Heart shall sink  
Deeper in mine; yet, let your Constancy,  
Approve your Birth, and make the God's ashamed  
Of their black Sentence. Go— Let all the Grecians  
Know by your Courage, 'tis my Blood they spill.  Clyt. 
No: Do you not belly your fatal Race:  
'Tis plain you spring from Atreus and Thyestes.  
Butcher to your own Daughter, to complete  
Your natural Cruelty, you only want  
To entertain me with the ghastly Feast  
Of all her slaughtered Limbs. Oh! Barbarian!  
Is this th' auspicious Sacrifice your care  
Prepared with so much Art and Secrecy?  
How could your Hand subscribe the black Decree,  
And not be stopped by th' horror of the Deed?  Agam. 
Oh! Wretched Father! Wheeps.  Clyt. 
Force not before us a dissembling Woe;  
Nor think your Tears can prove your Tenderness.  
What Fights are those you fought in her Defence?  
What Floods of Blood were spilled to save her Life?  
Where's the wild Havoc that speaks your Resistance?  
What Heaps of Slain can silence my Complaints?  
These Savage Man, these are the Witnesses,  
By which your Love should show your just Concern,  
For Iphigenia's Life.  Agam. 
Madam, the God's must be obeyed:  
A fatal Oracle pronounced her Doom.  Clyt. 
Have not all Oracles a dubious meaning?  
Are the just God's so pleased with murderous Deeds  
That innocence must bleed? If Helen's Crime  
Must be aton'd for in her Family,  
Let then Hermione be fetched from Sparta,  
She's her own Daughter: Let fond Menelaus  
With his own Blood redeem his guilty Wife.  
But what blind Fury leads you to the Altar,  
To expiate her Crime, and be his Victim?  
Why must rend and tear a Mother's Breast,  
And pay his Fondness with my dearest Blood?  
Nay, is this Author of so many Jars,  
This great Disturber of the East and West,  
A worthy Prize to crown your warlike Toils?  
How often have we blushed at her Disgrace?  
Before your Brother by a fatal Tie  
Made her his Consort, had not Theseus dared  
To steal her from her Father? Does not Calchas  
Assure us that from their clandestine Match  
A Princess sprung, who still is left unknown?  Agam. 
Oh! Cruel Honour!  
Unfortunate Alliance!  Clyt. 
But, no: A Brother's Love, his injured Honour,  
Are the least Cares that trouble your Repose.  
Your Thirst of Empire, nothing can allay;  
Your haughty Pride of having twenty Kings  
Attend and fear You: The supreme Command  
Lodged in your Person, these, Oh! Wild Barbarian,  
There are the Gods to whom you Sacrifice;  
And careless of the Blow, your Unconcern  
Courts the Applause of the affrighted Greeks.  
Too jealous of your fatal envied Power,  
You're glad to purchase it with your own Blood:  
And by so dear a Price deter the Boldness  
Of your Competitors.— Is this to be a Father?  
Oh! I grow mad— This cruel Treachery  
Hurries my Senses into wild Distraction.  
A Priest, surrounded by a barbarous Crowd,  
Shall lay his Murdering hand upon my Daughter;  
Shall Tear her Bosom, and with cruel Eyes  
Consult her panting Breast—  
Whilst I who brought her to the Camp in Triumph,  
Must return home, disconsolate and attended  
With black Despair: I must behold the Way  
Still fragrant with the Flowers strewed on her Passage  
No, no: It shan't be said I brought her here,  
To be thus butchered, if with the same Blow  
You offer not a double Sacrifice.  
No Tears, No Duty shall e'er part me from here  
Unless you tear her from my Slaughtered hands.  
Barbarous Husband, no less barbarous Father,  
Come, if you dare, and wrest her from her Mother  
Daughter, go in: At least this time for all  
I'll be obeyed—  Exeunt Clytemnestra. Iphigenia 〈◊〉 Agamemnon Solus. 
These are the furious Clamours I expected:  
These are the loud Complaints I feared to hear.  
Yet, in my wavering and distracted Mind,  
Feared nothing but their Cries, I'd not regard them.  
Alas! Why did the Gods impose upon me  
so rigid a Command, yet, leave me still  
A Father's Heart?  Enter Achilles. 〈◊〉 
My Lord, a strange Report has reached my Ears  
〈◊〉 both our Sakes I wish it may be false,  
〈◊〉 said, and with just horror I repeat it,  
That Iphigenia by your Command  
Expires this day; That having silenced Nature,  
And all the Dictates of Humanity,  
With your own hand you give her to the Priest;  
That ' ti● my Name that brings her to the Altar;  
That you supposed  
These Nuptials to amuse us; and to make me  
The shameful Instrument of this black Murder.  
What say you to 't, My Lord? What must I think on't?  Agam. 
My Lord,  
I never give account of what I do:  
My Daughter's unacquainted with my Will;  
But when I think it proper to inform her,  
You then may learn her Fate: I'll give the Camp  
My Sovereign Orders.—  Achil. 
Too well I know what cruel Fate attends her.  Agam. 
Then why d' ye ask?  Achil. 
Why I do ask? Ye Gods! Is't possible,  
That he can dare t'avow so black a Deed?  
Think you I will approve your wild Design?  
Think you my plighted Faith, my Love, my Honour,  
Will e'er consent to let your Daughter bleed?  Agam. 
But you, who dare to speak with threatning Voice,  
Have you forgot who 'tis you ask such Questions?  Achil. 
And have you, Sir,  
forgot who 'tis I Love? Whom you affront?  Agam. 
Who bids you be concerned about my Family?  
Mayn't I dispose of Iphigenia  
Unless you be consenting? Am I not  
Her Father still? Is She your Wife? Mayn't she—  Achil. 
No— she's yours no more—  
I'm not to be amused with frivolous Hopes:  
You swore she should be mine; and therefore, Sir,  
As long as I have blood within my Veins,  
I will maintain those Rights your Promise gave.  
But, Sir, was't not for me she came to Aulis?  Agam. 
Expostulate with the Gods, 'tis they demand her.  
Accuse the Priest, Ulysses, Menelaus:  
Accuse the Camp; nay, first accuse yourself.  Nihil. 
Me!  Agam. 
Yes, you: Who greedy of the Eastern Conquest,  
Quarrel each day with Neptune and the Winds.  
You who offended at my just Alarms,  
Have spread your eager Fury through the Camp.  
My tender Heart had found a way to save her:  
But Troy is all you wish, all you demand.  
I stopped the Race which you desir'd to run,  
Her Death will set it open; Go— depart.  Achil. 
Hell-Furies! Can I hear and bear all this  
Is't thus you aggravate your Perjury  
With base Affronts? What! Did I e'er desire  
T' obtain a Wind with Iphigenia's Blood?  
What great Concern makes me repair to Troy?  
For whom do I neglect my Parent Goddess,  
And my disconsolate Father's fond Advice?  
Why do I court that Death the Oracle  
Foretold their Son? What Wrongs are those I suffered?  
Was e'er a Trojan Fleet so bold to dare  
Make a Descent on my Thessalian Shore?  
Did e'er a Ravisher come to Larissa,  
To steal away my Sister or my Wife?  
What loss have I sustain'd? In't not for you,  
Barbarian as you are, ay fly to Troy?  
for you, whom I invested with Command  
O'er all the Grecian Princes and my self.  
For you, whom I revenged in flaming Lesbos,  
Before your gathered Forces met in Aulis.  
But what prevailing Motive called us hither?  
Was it not to restore a ravished Wife  
To Menelaus? Then who can think I will  
Be wanting to my self, and tamely yield  
The Bride I Love. 'tis true your Brother suffered  
A base Affront; but then has he alone  
A Right ●o 〈…〉 Wrongs? I too will vindicate  
My injured honour— I love your Daughter:  
She only has my Vows: To her I promised  
My Ships, my Soldiers, nothing to your Brother.  
Let him pursue his Wife, and seek a Triumph  
The Gods have promised to my Blood alone.  
What's Helen, Paris, Priamus to me?  
.  
〈…〉 the Prize for which I'll quit this Shore,  
And fly to Troy.  Agam. 
Then, fly from hence: Return to Thessaly.  
I 〈◊〉 you from your solemn Vows.  
Others will come submissive to my Power,  
To keep those Laurels, which to you were promised  
And forcing Destiny by glorious Deeds,  
Will gladly meet their Death before the Walls  
Of ruin'd Troy. I see through your Contempt,  
How dear I bought your haughty, proud Assistances  
By your insulting Speech it seems you are  
The Arbiter of Greece, and that I bear  
An empty Tide. To your boasted Valour  
All must submit: All follow your Command.  
A kindness when reproached becomes a Wrong:  
I ask less Valour, but more Obedience.  
Away— I cancel all our former Ties,  
Regardless of your Friendship, or your Hatred.  Achil. 
Thank that one Tie that holds my boiling Passion.  
I still respect my Iphigenia's Father.  
But wer't not for that Name, perhaps the Chief  
Of Twenty Kings had dared me once for all.  
One Word and I have done: But mark me well.  
Your Daughter and my Honour lie at stake:  
I will defend them both; And if you'd reach  
The Heart you aim to strike, This is the way Points to his Breast.  
Through which your Blow must pass.  Exit Achilles Agam. 
And this shall make her Sentence passed recall:  
My Daughter was more dreadful by herself.  
Thy haughty Love, that thinks to make me tremble,  
Anticipates the Blow, thou meanest to ward.  
No more Debates—  
It is resolved I'll dare his Insolence:  
My injured Honour summons all my Reason,  
And his proud Threats determine the Contest,  
'Twixt Nature and the Gods; for now my Pity  
Would look like Fear— Guards—  Enter Eurybates, Guards. Euryb. 
My Lord.  Agam. 
What am I doing!  
How can I give the bloody, rash Command?  
Barbarous Man!  
What Fight dost thou Prepare? What hated Foe,  
Art thou exposing to their Violence?  
A Mother waits me: An undaunted Mother,  
Who will defend her 'gainst a murdering Father.  
I shall behold my Men less cruel than myself,  
Respect my Daughter guarded by their Queen.  
'Tis true Achilles threatens and contemns me:  
But still my Daughter's constant to her Duty;  
She neither flies the Altar, nor declines  
With murmuring Discontent the Blow I give,  
What means my horrid, sacrilegious Zeal?  
What Vows can I address for such a Victim?  
A glorious Harvest waits me: But what Laurels  
Can please, when stained by Iphigenia's Blood?  
I will appease the angry Gods: But, oh!  
What Gods, can be more cruel to me, than I am to myself?  
No: 'twill not be. I yield to Love, to Nature:  
I'll not blush at my Pity, she shall live.  
But what! Am I  
Regardless of my Fame? Must proud Achilles  
Carry the Day, and think I feared his Threats?  
What frivolous care disturbs my anxious Mind!  
He loves my Daughter:  
She'll make another blessed.— Eurybates  
Call hither Clytaemnestra and the Princess:  
Tell them they need not fear.—  Exit Eurybates 
Almighty Powers!  
If your immortal Hatred perseveres  
To wrest her from my Hands, what can weak Mortals do,  
I know my Love destroys what I would save:  
Yet such a Victim does at least deserve  
A confirmation of your rigorous Laws,  
And that you should demand it once again.  Enter Clytemnostra, Iphigenia, Eriphile, Aegina, Doris, Eurybates 
〈◊〉 you and your Daughter may depart:  
〈…〉 be your Care. Haste from this Place  
Wh●r●●●●●lty bears sway. My Guards, commanded  
By 〈◊〉 ● shall attend you; I excuse  
〈◊〉 happy Rashness. Secrecy and Speed  
Are now required: Both Calchas and Ulysses  
Have hitherto been silent; and therefore  
Take 〈◊〉 they're not acquainted with your Flight,  
〈…〉 Daughter, that the Camp may think  
● keep her here, and send you back alone.  
Go, Fly—  
And may the Gods contented with my Tears, Weep.  
Spare me the sight of Iphigenia  
For a long time.— Guards, attend the Queen.  Clyt. 
Oh! Husband! Weep  Iphig. 
Oh! Father! Weep  Agam. 
Once more, avoid th' impatient, barbarous Priest:  
Be gone, fly Hence— To favour your Escape  
all find some Reasons to make him suspend,  
The fatal Sacrifice till the next day.  Exeunt all but Eriphile, Doris. Eriph. 
Doris, this Way.  Cor.. 
Madam, don't you follow:  Eriph. 
Oh! I yield at last.  
〈◊〉 the Power of Jealousy and Love:  
nng Tenderness fills me with Rage.  
It is resolved, I'll be revenged or fall,  
Come, to the Priest I will discover all.  Exeunt Eriphile, Doris. 
The END of the Fourth ACT.   

ACT V. SCENE I.  Enter Iphigenia, Aegina holding her. IPhig. 
Aegina, cease to stop me: Go, return  
To my abandoned Mother: Th' angry Gods  
Must be appeased; see how they are provoked  
By our Efforts to rob them of their Victim.  
Behold what Storm is gathering thick around us;  
Consider to what State the Queen's reduced;  
See how the furious Camp prevents our Flights  
How with bold Insolence their pointed Spears  
Stop up our Passage—  Aegin. 
Dear Madam, stay:  
Don't run to certain Ruin.  Iphig. 
All hopes are vanished:  
Our Guards repulsed: My Mother in a Swoon!  
Oh! Why should I expose her any more?  
Or wait her feeble help in vain? No, rather  
Let me fly from her, whilst her troubled Senses  
Will suffer me to meet my cruel Fate.  
See, see how all conspires for my undoing,  
For even my Father when he bids me Live,  
Commands my Death.—  Aegin. 
He, Madam? How!  Iphig. 
Achilles, I suppose, offended him,  
Too eager to defend his injured Love.  
Yet, as he hates him, I must hate him too.  
My Heart must offer up this Sacrifice,  
This horrid, cruel, Sacrifice of Love.  
Arcas declared to me my Father's Wills  
He orders I shall never speak to him.  Aegin. 
Oh! Cruel Father!  Iphig. 
Oh! Fatal Doom! Oh! Rigorous Decree  
The milder Gods demanded but my Life;  
Then set's they Lets die:— What do I see?  
Heaven! 'Tis Achilles.  Enter Achilles. Achil. 
Come, Madam, follow me: Fear not the Tumult  
Of that weak crowd that presses round this Tent.  
Do but appear: You'll see this Multitude  
ne'er dare to stand the fierceness of my Blow,  
But open of themselves to let you Pass.  
My Friend Patrocles, with some other Captains  
That follow my Command, fly to your Succour  
With all the Choice of my Thessalian Troops.  
The rest assembled near my Tent will offer  
Th' impenetrable Bulwark of their Ranks.  
Behind this shelter you may bid defiance  
To all your Persecutors: Let who dares  
Approach nng Tent. But, Madam, is't thus  
You second my Efforts? And answer me  
Only with Tears? You tried their feeble Succour  
Before your Father, yet 'twas all in vain.  Iphig. 
My Lord, too well I know it, and therefore  
I have no hopes but from my certain Death.  Achil. 
Oh! Name not Death: Consider by what Tie  
You're joined to me: Consider all my Bliss  
Depends on you.—  Iphig. 
No, No: The Gods did ne'er intend  
To fix your Bliss on my unhappy Days.  
Our Love deceived us: 'Tis by Heaven decreed  
My speedy Death shall cause your Happiness.  
My Lord, consider what a Crop of Glory  
Victory presents to crown your warlike Toils.  
Yet all those Fields of Honour will prove barren,  
Unless besprinkled with my fatal Blood.  
In vain my Father strove to evade the Sentence  
That Calchas had pronounced: Th' immortal Gods  
Loudly declare their Will by the whole Camp  
Combined for my undoing.—  Achil. 
Madam,  
Achilles will encounter the whole Camp,  
And silence their loud Threats.  Iphig. 
My Lord,  
〈◊〉 not my Life deprive you of your Honours:  
Make good the Oracle: Go, Signalise  
〈…〉 hero promised to our Country,  
〈…〉 you Grief upon its cruel Foes  
Now Priamus turns Pale: Now Troy alarmed  
Does bear my Funeral Pile, and dreads your Tears  
Lay waste the hated City: Leave my Death  
To be lamented by the Trojan Widows.  
I die contented with these pleasing Hopes,  
That if my cruel Stars do not permit,  
I should live happy with my dear Achilles,  
Yet After-Ages will record my Name  
With your immortal Deeds, and that my Death,  
The Spring of your famed Actions, will begin  
The wondrous Story.—  
Farewell, my Prince: Blessed Offspring of the Gods  
Farewell.—  Achil. 
No, no: You shall not take your fatal leave:  
In vain your cruel and persuading Arts,  
Slily endeavour to deceive my Love,  
And serve your barbarous, inhuman Father;  
In vain you're obstinate to your undoing,  
And strive to make my Honour an Accomplice;  
That Crop of glorious Laurels, that Renown,  
I find them all in saving what I Love.  
Who, for the future, would court my Assistance,  
If I could not secure my promised Bride?  
My Love, my Honour, both bid you should live.  
Madam, obey their Call, and follow me.  Iphig. 
What! Sir, rebel against my Father!  
And so deserve that Death you bid me shun!  
What must become of my Respect, my Duty?  Achil. 
Discharge them both in following a 〈◊〉.  
Your Father has approved. In vain he strives  
To rob me of that Title; I'll ne'er suffer  
The Violation of his solemn Promise.  
Madam, yourself, whom rigid Duty awes,  
Did not you own him as your Father, when  
He gave You to me? Do you only follow  
His sovereign Will when ceasing to be Father,  
He Murders his own Daughter?  
But, Madame we waste Time, and my ju●●●e●r—  Iphig. 
Wh●●● My Lord, would you 〈…〉  
And hurried by your fierce and impious 〈◊〉  
Complete my cruel Woes? How can you be  
Less tender of my Honour than my Life?  
Alas! My Lord, spare Iphigenia:  
Spare my Affliction. I have 〈…〉  
That rigorous Law ● ought to 〈…〉  
 
Would strive t' oppose the Storm with dauntless Courage;  
Madam, what can he do? What Valour could dispel  
That Multitude of Foes that will surround him.  Clyt.. 
Then let them come and prove their 〈◊〉 Zeal  
On forlorn me: Let their blind Fury take  
The weak Remainder of my wretched Life.  
Death, Death alone is able to unclasp  
My grasping Hands from Iphigenia.  
My Soul shall first be sever'd from my Body  
Than I from my dear Daughter— ●  Iphig. 
Oh! Madam! What cruel Star did 〈◊〉  
That inauspicious Day when you brought 〈◊〉  
Th' unhappy Object of your tender Love  
Alas! What can your weak Efforts performs  
Abandoned as we are? You must encounter  
Both Gods and Men confederate to undo me.  
Meet not the Rage of a fierce Multitudes  
Let not your Fondness lead you to the Camp,  
Against ●●usband's Orders, and alone  
Strive not in vain to save me—  
Don't aggravate my Woes with the sad View  
Of a dear Mother basely dragged along  
By a licentious Band of furious Soldiers.  
Go— let the Greeks appease the angry Gods;  
And leave for ever this detested Shore.  
Fly from the sight of those devouring Flames.  
Which would oppress your tender Heart with 〈◊〉  
While they consume your Guiltless Daughter—  
And, as you love me with Maternal Fondness,  
I beg you ne'er reproach my Father with my Death.  Clyt. 
What! Not reproach the wild Barbarian,  
Who leads his Daughter to a Murdering Priest!  Iphig. 
Madam, Consider  
All he has done to save me, and prevent  
Your cruel Woe.  Clyt. 
Oh! By what Treachery  
The barbarous Man deceived me!  Iphig. 
Madam, He but resigns me to the Gods  
That gave me to him: Yet Death takes not from you  
The only offspring of your nuptial Joys.  
Your mutual Loves have still another pledge  
In young Orestes: May he prove less ●●●al  
To his dear Mother, than his wretched Sister.  
Madam.  
You hear the Voice of an impatient People. Shouting within.  
Summon 〈◊〉 Constancy; Pray, let me go—  
Now take my last Farewell— Clytaemnestra faints.  Arcas, 
Lead to the Altar.  Exeunt Iphigenia, Arcas. Clyt. 
Where? Where's my Daughter? Recovering.  
〈◊〉 no, you shall not go alone—  
but I am stopped— Guards stop her Passage.  
〈◊〉 treacherous Villains let me go  
Or 〈◊〉 your Thirst of Blood in me.  〈◊〉. 
Madam, what would you do? Where would 〈◊〉 run? Holding her.  〈◊〉. 
Alas! My Spirits waste in fruitless, struggles:  
〈◊〉 relapse into that faint disorder,  
〈◊〉 I had 〈◊〉 recover'd— Must I live  
Only to die a thousand Deaths!  〈◊〉. 
〈◊〉 be that treacherous, inhuman Serpent  
〈…〉 cherished in her friendly Bosom.  
〈…〉, whose jealous Fury  
R●ve●●d o●●●●ight to Calchas and the Camp.  〈◊〉. 
Oh! Monster, whom Tisiphone brought forth!  
〈◊〉, whom Hell conveyed into our Bosoms●  
〈◊〉 of Envy, Jealousy and Rage!  
What●●halt th●n ●ive● Must thy black Treachery  
〈◊〉 un●uni●h'd● But why should my Grief  
D●●a●● 〈…〉 a Victim?  
〈…〉 ●u●t Neptune see his Ba●ks distained  
With innocent Blood, and not devour the Grecians  
In the dark Bottom of the watry Deep?  
Shall then the Winds, whom they so long accused,  
be Partners in their Crime, and not destroy  
Their guilty Fleet?  
And Thou, immortal Sun, who on this Shore  
Behold●● the Son and Heir of bloody Atreus:  
〈◊〉, who disdained to light the barbarous Feast  
Of his inhuman Father, now withdraw  
〈◊〉 Beams, and shine not on this impious Deed.  
〈…〉, Oh! Heaven! Oh! Earth! Oh! Wretched Mother!  
With fatal Garlands Iphigenia crowned,  
Like a tame Victim, waits the cruel Knife  
Her Father has prepar'd; the murderous Priest  
Is just ready to strike— Hold, Butchers, hold:  
The Blood you spill derives from mighty Jove—  
Hold— Hold. Runs off with her 〈◊〉.  Exeunt Omnes While a Symphony is playing an Altar is raised near the Sea Shore Enter King Agamemnon weeping; Menelaus', Nestor, Ulysses, Arcas, etc. Calchas the High Priest; Iphigenia between two Priests; Eriphile, Doris. A CHORUS of PRIESTS. 

The INVOCATION to DIANA.  

I.  
OH! Diana! Whose dread Eyes  
Delight in humane Sacrifice:  
Oh! Diana! Cease to frown  
And with gentle Smiles look down,  
While with flowery Wreaths we this fair Victim crown.  
Chorus ● Crown, Crown, the Victim Crown  
That bleeds for bright Renown;  
And on her Virgin head  
The pure Libation shed,  
While these to chaste Diana holy measures tread.   

II.  
Guardian of each Hill and Grove,  
And Queen of the great Gods above,  
Fill, oh! Fill with prosperous Gales  
Our spreading Sails;  
And to the Phrygian Coast  
Convey the Grecian 〈◊〉  
That with avenging Arm's 〈…〉  
Th' adulterous Guest, with his perfidious 〈◊〉  
Chorus That with avenging Arms. 〈◊〉 & ●●   

III.  
The Royal Victim 〈◊〉 atonement makes  
For 〈◊〉 The 〈◊〉 Winds awakes  
See, see the Fleet now big with War,  
Flies swiftly to the Trojan Shoar.  
Hark! Hark! Now the glorious Din's begun, Last Chorus.  
Now, now the Drum's rattle,  
And all around,  
The loud Trumpets resound,  
And Clanglors rebound,  
Oh! The wild Furies of Battle!  
The Vict'ry's won,  
They run, they run, they run:  
I●●●o! Victoria! They all shout amain,  
Victoria! Great Hector, great Hector is slain  
Troy's's won: Her lofty Towers tumble all, 〈◊〉 Iphigenia is leading to be Sacrificed the Sun is Eclipsed; Struck. in the Air; Subterranean Groans and Howlings; Thunder.  
See, see, how they fall,  
Ioh Io! Victoria! Victoria! Last Chorus.  
Now, now the Drums rattle, etc. etc.    Calch. 
What mean these Horrors!  
The Sun withdraws his beamy Light; the Air  
I● filled with hideous Skrieks, and gloomy Well  
Sends up fierce Groans and Subterranean Cries.  
Almighty jove himself, with threatning Thunder,  
〈…〉 his Wrath; all Nature is in Pain.  Eriph.. 
Oh! Doris, how I tremble.  Clashing of Swords within. Enter Achilles, Patroclus, and Followers. 〈◊〉 
Where! Where's my Iphigenia!  
Hold, Ma●de●●●s● hold.  Calch. 
My Lord, contain your Passions I bid you, hold.  
The Gods themselves are angry— They must must be heard.  Thunder. Calchas 〈◊〉 behind 〈◊〉 Altar to consult the Oracle and then returns with a wild. 〈…〉 trembling Hands etc. 
I●● speak, 〈◊〉 speak: ●et all the Camp be silent::  
〈…〉—  
 
〈…〉 Will 〈◊〉 my 〈…〉.  
Another Princess of the Blood of Hellen,  
Another Iphigenia must fall a Victim.  
From Helen ravished by bold Theseus  
A Princess sprung call'd Iphigenia,  
Who still remains unknown.  
I saw. I saw my self th' unhappy Fruits  
Of their unlawful Love, and even then foretold  
〈…〉 Do●●—  
By D●stiny'●●mp●lse, and her own Furies,  
One's come to Aulis with a borrowed Name.  
She 〈◊〉 the 〈…〉: There she stands: ●Tis she Points to 〈◊〉  
The God's 〈◊〉.—  As Calchas ●s going to lay hold on Eriphile snatches the Knife. Eriph.. 
Butcher, a●aunt●●et not thy impious Hand  
profane that Blood from which thou sayst I spring  
Now, Doris, all my Fears are come to pass To Doria.  
Yet, tho' the angry Goddess bids me die,  
I fall a Victim to a greater Power.  
Almighty Love now strikes the fatal Blow: Stabs ●● self.  
Achilles, Dear— Achilles— Dies.  Iphig. 
Unhappy Maid!  Thunder and Lightning; The Altar is lighted; The f●at Scene opens, and 〈…〉 a Heaven at a distance; Diana, in a Machine, 〈◊〉 the Stage; the Priests worship as she passes. Calch. 
Great Sir, the Gods are satisfied; Gives Iphig. to Agamemnon.  
And Iphigenia is yours 〈◊〉.  Agam. 
Must I believe 〈◊〉 Eyes! Oh! Sire Oh! Daughter Embraces her.  Achil. 
Oh! Infinite 〈◊〉  
Arcas. fly to the Queen, To Arcas.  
Tell her the Princess lives. My Lord, I hope Exit Arcas.  
You will forget—. To Agamemnon.  Agam. 
Yes: I forget all:  
Now. I 〈◊〉 my self, I'm last i● 〈◊〉  
〈…〉  
My Daughter shall be 〈…〉 Queen shall give her;  
 
 〈◊〉 Winds and 〈…〉 S●out●●●●● Achil. 
Oh! Transports of Delight! Oh! Raptutous Bliss!  
My Love is crowned; The Winds begin to roar,  
And fill our spreading Sails; to Troy, to Troy,  
To Victory and Fame.—  Calch. 
Let After-Ages learn from this great Day,  
To reverence the God's supreme Decrees:  
For they are just, and ever recompense,  
True Piety, and spotless Innocence.   
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  
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