THE Ambitious Slave: OR, A Generous Revenge, A TRAGEDY, Acted at the THEATRE ROYAL.  
Written by E. SETTLE.  
Tantane Irae.  
LONDON, Printed for A. Roper, and E. Wilkinson, at the Black-Boy in Fleetstreet, 1694.   

To the Honoured John Bright Esq  
SIR,  
WHen this Unfortunate Play implores Your Patronage, it is an Humble Addressor to You, even for that common English Humanity, as the Reception of a persecuted Refugee, hunted out of the World, and now a Shelterer under Your Hospitable Roof. And if Your Good Graces shall vouchsafe it that kind Entertainment, I Beseech You to look upon it as a forlorn Brat, turned out abroad under the Curse of those Sour Grapes, the Faults and Misfortunes of the unhappy Author. And really, under that Prejudice that lours upon me; I may truly say, could I pretend to never so great an Interest in the Muses, as that I am far from; I Plant but at a North-Wall, rear that Fruitless Nursery, where I am certain to be Chilled and Blasted: So miserable it is to live, where not one Beam smiles.  
And indeed, a Poet, under a hard Name, groans beneath a perfect Turkish Subjection, where Sentence and Execution are so wholly Arbitrary, that the Black Robe, and the Bowstring are sent him, without Process or Trial.  
But the happier Favourite Quills, (Lord!) What Wonders can they perform! Can Write as the Famous Witherington Fought, upon their very Stump. For, 
The Lucky have whole Days, and those they choose.  
Th' Unlucky have but Hours, and those they lose.  
— As a Poetic Oracle tells us.   
Poetry is so much the Creature of Favour, that 'tis not the Oar, but the Stamp that sets the value. A Darling Muse shall make Medals of what an Abdicated Scribbler shall hardly pass for Counters.  
But to leave this Melancholy Theme, the severity of this poor Plays Fortune, and change to a cheerfuller Cause; 'tis now Lodged in the hands of Mercy; for 'tis Dedicated to Worth and Goodness; Titles, so properly Your own; that to a Natural Candour, Sweetness of Temper, prideless Familiarity, and all that Generous Disposition of Mind, that warms where You Favour, and charms where You Converse; You have the Additional Acquisitions and Improvements of the most Generous Education too, as no small Superstructure upon so ample a Foundation. You challenge that bountiful Literature, a Feather not in every Gentleman's Crest, that we may trace Your Rich Fountain up to the Banks of Cham, as nurtured and cherished no less by the Beams of an Alma Mater, than Your own smiling Genius; Insomuch that so truly accomplished, You are equally furnished as well for the Courtier as the Country Gentleman.  
And, faith, Sir, now I have named an English Gentleman, he that with all the true Qualifications of Gentility, lives like Yourself, above the World, Attendance and Dependence the Cowlean Curse far from his Door, a plentiful Estate his fair Field Argent, and a Bravery of Spirit to enrich that fair Coat, may be truly said to be more a Prince than he that fills a Throne: whilst free and uncontrolled, within his own smaller Province of Command, he Reigns more Absolute, than the prouder Crowned Head in all his Realms and Territories, that larger Canton of the Globe; who besides his Cares and Fatigues (a pain You feel not) wields but a shackled Sceptre, under a bounded Dominion, and limited Sovereignty.  
But whatever ample Theme Your Merit furnishes me, I dare not be too bold upon that subject: for Panegyrics are only acceptable Guests where there's Pride and Vanity to welcome and receive them. But so extraordinary a Modesty shines in You, that instead of attempting the Panegyrist, I must rather check the Publication of those fair Truths, though never so justly Your due, as knowing that You can easier deserve Encomiums than hear them; under which silencing Command upon me, I can only conclude with subscribing myself  
Sir, Your most Obedient, And Most Devoted Servant E. SETTLE.   

PROLOGUE,  Spoken by Mrs. Knight. 
TO Gain your favourable smile to Day,  
What a hard Task has our Unhappy Play.  
After so Rich a Feast of Wit before,  
Our Courser Fare, we fear's a Treat too Poor.  
Yet let's Consider, half our fears to Ease,  
What Constitutions▪ 'tis we have to please,  
You, who when some bright Celia you 'ave enjoyed,  
How have we seen you Surfeited and Cloyed  
With the possession of those fairer Charms,  
Run to some Little Paltry Dowdies Arms?  
Change, dear sweet Change!  
There you run on so Fast, Siege, Battle, Storm:  
Could you your feats of War like those of Love perform,  
All so many Young headlong Alexanders,  
You'd make a Swinging Nursery for Flanders,  
That brisk, bold, pushing Race! Lord what a Dance  
Would such a set of Heroes make in France.  
Ah Sirs, so very Fickle in your Kisses,  
Would you treat Poets as you do your Misses,  
Let Wit and Love your Equal Grace's share;  
Our humble Scribbler then need ne'er Despair.  
Ah no!—  
A Poet may, perhaps, once in an Age,  
Have the good fortune your kind hearts t'engage.  
They gain your favours slow, but then they last.  
Your kind Embrace they win and hold as fast.  
With us, our Sex alone, to your disgrace  
False Men, you're every day for a new Face.  
Your Volatile Mercury is all in Love  
We are the Mourning Turtles of the Grove:  
You're those wild Strays, and fly so all at Rovers,  
You're Beaus, Wits, Courtiers, every thing but Lovers;  
Youth, Beauty, Virtue, all will do no good:  
You're Constant every where, but where you should.   

ACTORS Names.  
KIng of Persia, 
Mr. Bowman.  Tygranes, his Brother, 
Mr. Verbruggen.  Orontes, King of Scythia, 
Mr. powel.  Briomar, his Confident, 
Mr. Freeman.  Mirvan a Persian Eunuch, 
Mrs. Rogers.  Amorin, a Persian Lord. 
Mr. Sybars.   

WOMEN.  Herminia, an Indian Princess, afterwards Queen of Persia. 
Mrs. Knight.  Clarismunda, the King of Persia's Sister. 
Mrs. Bracegirdle.  Celestina, a Beautiful Scythian of unknown Birth. 
Mrs. Barry.  Rosalin, her Confident. Attendants, Guards, etc. 
Mrs. Leigh.   
SCENE the Frontiers of Persia.   

THE Ambitious Slave; OR, A Generous Revenge.  

ACT I. SCENE I.  Tygranes, Herminia, and Attendants etc. Ty. 
WELL, Madam, I have played the faithful Advocate,  
Have wooed and won the World's divinest Beauty;  
And with the glorious Prize returned Triumumphant,  
I bring her to an envied Brothers Arms.  
But (Oh) the fatal Embassy! to crown  
His Joys I've Martyred mine.  Herm. 
Unkind Tygranes,  
These too ungrateful sounds I must not hear.  Tygr. 
Not hear me! Is the Voice of Truth so frightful!  
Or start your Ears at what your Eyes have done?  
Oh cruel Brother, in Fates blackest hour  
With thy commissioned Love I went th' unhappy  
Discoverer of that beauteous Coast of Paradise.  
Yes, thou Fair Treasury of Heaven, I landed  
Upon the Golden shore; Surveyed that All  
Celestial Fair, inestimable Brightness,  
And jaded back with the whole freighted Mine,  
To plant this Jewel in a Brother's Crown,  
I make him Lord, Lord of more Wealth, more Bliss  
Then showering Heaven e'er poured on kneeling Man;  
And my poor self the miserablest Wretch  
That Ruin tumbled, or Despair e'er swallowed.  Herm. 
Oh generous Prince, if all my blushing shame,  
My aching heart, and bleeding Soul, for Thy  
Poor suffering pains can be prevailing Orators,  
Recall thy banished Peace.  Tygr. 
My Peace!  Herm. 
Thy Peace.  
Let my imploring Pity beg it of thee:  
Be thy great self, and let surmounting Reason  
Put out this hopeless Fire. Droop not, but wait  
A fairer Fate: The Guardian Gods of Virtue  
Bid thee look up and hope; those great Rewarders  
Of ever cherished Honour, have no doubt  
Reserved some worthier Beauty for thy Arms.  Tygr. 
A second Wound, where those bright Eyes have killed!  
No; fair Destroyer, do not flatter Death.  Herm. 
Cruel Tygranes, cease this fatal Language.  
I sicken at the sound: Commanding Honour  
Has sealed my Ears, and I dare hear no more.  Tygr. 
Commanding Honour then shall be obeyed,  
And you shall hear no more.  
Yes, fair Commissioner of Fate, thou dear  
All Angel Form, I will repine no more.  
Since I was born to wear thee to my Grave,  
I but perform the Work of my Creation,  
And 'tis my Glory to fulfil my Destiny.  Trumpets. 
But hark, the King! Now, Madam, Love and Empire  
Come suppliant to your Feet; Cyrus proud Heir,  
And fair Herminia's prouder slave, comes blessed  
With all the Joys of a possessing Lover,  
To circled that fair Brow with Persia's Diadem.  Enter King attended. King 
Welcome fair Star, descending Brightness welcome.  
But oh— Thus kneeling let me meet the mighty Bliss.  
Kneel! Is that all! For every common Blessing  
We pay that Gratitude. But when Heaven gives Heaven,  
The blessed Receiver with his bending Homage  
And prostrate Soul makes but too poor Acknowledgement.  Tygr. 
Oh King; we Two divide the Stars; thine All aside.  
The smiling, all the blasting Planets mine.  King 
But whilst my Ravished Soul at these dear feet,  
All buisy in the Count of thousand Vows,  
My Souls long hoarded sum, to Sovereign Love,  
Their mighty Tribute pay, indebted Honour  
Demands some payment too. My dear Tygranes,  
Thou Champion of my Love, thou ushering Phosphor  
To all my rising Bliss, my more than Brother,  
Friend, All— oh let these grateful Arms receive thee Embraces.  
But ha! what do I see! methinks I view  
A Cloud hang on thy Brow.  Tygr. 
A Cloud, my King,  
Would be a Blessing here: Indeed I want one.  
For I have stood too near too near that Sun,  
From the bright Beams of whose too fatal Fires  
Oh for a Cloud, dark as my Grave, to shroud me.  King. 
How, my Tygranes! Have Herminia's Eyes  
Brought me a Rival home!  Tygr. 
A Rival! No. Rival's a Title for  
Aspiring Gazers, Beauties bolder Homagers;  
Where kindled Hope, and warm Ambition burn;  
A Name too towering for the lost Tygranes.  King. 
In this surprising Language—  Tygr. 
I have profaned  
Your Royal Ear; but the offending Criminal  
(Pardon his First Last Fault) shall Sin no more.  
Here take this dazzling Beauty to your Arms,  
Take her adorned with all Loves thousand Charms;  
Myriad of Blisses star your happy Night's  
Thick as the Galaxy; and Angel Quires  
Salute your smiling Days.  Herm. 
Virtue like Thine! aside  Tygr. 
And now if my small Services deserve it,  
And this young Arm may be that bold Petitioner,  
Grant me the Glory in your Royal Cause,  
Against your Honours and your Kingdoms Foes  
To wield a Sword. Yes send me to the Wars,  
The walks of Death, and Scenes of Desolation;  
Far, far from Courts; that I may live removed  
From those destroying Eyes. For, oh, my King,  
I would not stay within that dangerous Air  
Where the least Rebel Murmur may but rise  
To envy your fair Bliss.  King. 
I am all Confusion!  Tygr. 
So dear, so sacred your Divine Felicity,  
I would not blot my Soul but with a Thought  
My King can be too blessed.  Herm. 
Oh Prince  
Thy generous Goodness loads me with that shame  
As fires my glowing Cheeks. But if thy heart  
Thy poor lost Heart has played th' unhappy Fugitive  
Into that barren Starving Field of Love,  
By all my Hopes I'll drop a tear to Heaven  
To call the wanderer home.  Tygr. 
A Tear!  Herm. 
A Tear, Tygranes,  
Shed from that melting pity, till the Gods  
Softened to Mercy a kind Ear incline,  
And grant thee peace or else deny me mine.  King. 
Thou Miracle of Truth, and Life of Honour,  
There's something in this moving Tale of pity,  
Breathes with so sweet an Accent, that if aught  
Less than resigning the Divine Herminia  
Could bless thy soft Desires, my bounding Soul  
Should leap all Bars to crown thy tenderest Wishes.  Tygr. 
This is too kind.  King. 
But since a Sword, a Sword  
Is all the Boon thy modest Prayers can ask,  
And Love can give no more;  
Thou shalt have thy Desire. Yes, my Tygranes,  
I have a Cause that wants an Arm like Thine.  
For in thy Absence I have lost a Battle.  
Persia's proud Foe, th' insulting Scythian Tyrant  
Wears my lost Honour on his conquering Sword.  
Nor is this all, I have lost a Sister too.  Tygr. 
And with that Sister, Sir, the noblest Martyr  
Tyrannic Sword e'er butchered, poor Orsanes  
That Royal Syrian, our unhappy Friend,  
By Wars rough chance the barbarous Scythian's Prisoner;  
By his inhuman Rival Jailor's Rage,  
In his cold blood sent t' his untimely Grave.  
My Dear wronged Sister, thou too wretched Mourner,  
The Lord of all thy Vows that bloody sacrifice,  
So loud thy Ruins, and so deep thy Wounds,  
That bleeding Persia groans for thy Revenge.  
Thine, Thine's a Cause—  King. 
Reserved for brave Tygranes;  
For Thee, young Worthy; thy Illustrious Arm  
Shall lead my fighting Legions to the Field.  
Wash thou the Persian Stains, and Scourge that Tyrant;  
Whilst Clarismunda's Wrongs edge thy keen steel,  
With mine and heavens' Commissioned Vengeance strike.  Tygr. 
Ye Gods I ask no more.  King. 
Yes; go my Soldier,  
Go where Fame calls. But thus, far far from Courts  
Whilst to rough Wars a Rival I remove,  
Think how I send thee to a Laurel Grove,  
To plume in Honour, whilst I blush in Love. Exeunt  SCENE, changes to a Pavilion. Enter Briomer, meeting Celestina and Rosalin. Briom. 
Good morrow my Sweet enemy; the Smiles  
Of a kind Morn gay as your Eyes Salute You.  
I come my pretty one, t' inquire the Health  
Of that bright Excellence, the fair Clarismunda.  
Say is your Princess waking?  Celestina. 
Is she sleeping  
Had been a properer Question to her Miseries.  Briom. 
Then, Madam, in my Royal Master's name  
Sycthia's proud Monarch, but her humblest Suppliant—  Celestina. 
Her Tyrant, thou wouldst say: be honest fawning Parasite  
And give thy proud Barbarian Lord his Titles.  Briom. 
Her Tyrant then; if that hard Name befits  
Her humble Kneeling Slave.  Celestina. 
Hard name! Can there  
Be names too hard for brave Orsanes Murderer!  
What though that Royal Beauty, and her dear  
Illustrious Lover by th' unhappy Fortune  
Of a lost Battle wore the Tyrant's Chains.  
Could his too Barbarous Rage descend to that  
Low-Spirited Murder to remove a Rival  
By such a shameful Blow? unparalled Infamy—  Brim. 
'Tis true I own, wild Rage and wilder Love  
Have played the Savage. But t'atone his Crime  
Has not the sense of his Detested shame  
Touched his Relenting Soul so near, till killed  
Even by the wounds of his own bleeding Sacrifice  
He Dies where he ' has destroyed, so dies— But she  
Deaf to his Wound and blind to her own Happiness,  
By what infatuating Female Folly,  
Her own capricious Frenzy best can tell,  
Disdains his Love, and all his offered Diadems,  
And strangely flies that only Bed of Honour  
Where her dried Tears, and her hushed Wrongs may sleep  
In a long Haltion Rest of endless Glory.  Celestina. 
Well, talking Sir, if her too deep Resentments,  
And tender Sense of her dead Lover's Blood  
Pours down this Scorn on his unpardoned murderer;  
Scythian, what then? Art. Thou, thou bold impeacher,  
A Judge of Honour; Is Imperial Vengeance  
A Depth for every groveling Fool to fathom?  Briom. 
How Celestina, thou'rt a Scythian Born,  
And dar'st thou plead a Cause against thy King!  
Have Clarismunda's Smiles, her darling Minion,  
Bribed thee this partial Advocate for Cruelty?  Cel. 
Against my King! Against the World an Advocate  
In Beauty's Quarrel, Beauty that commands  
When Kings but kneel: that more than Soveriagn power,  
That holds the Scales of Crowns.  Briom. 
Well Celestina, thou correctst my Fault.  
But to perform my King's Commission; (that  
I hope's my Province) in his name I beg  
Thy powerful Interest with thy Angry Princess  
To gain him his Admission to her Feet.  
Tell her 'tis his last Prayer: Nor dares he use  
A Conquerors Right to gain him his Access.  
Love has disarmed that power; and now no more  
Than her Petitioning Slave, th' Approach to those  
Offended Eyes is only on his Knees.  Celestina. 
Well Scythian, tell him my prevailing Eloquence  
Shall gain him his Request.  Exit Briomar. 
So Rosalin, Thou look'st as thou'dst survey me.  
If thou hast read me round, which think'st thou best  
My Face or Pride becomes me? Or dost think  
That the kind Clarismunda's Royal Smiles  
Have raised me higher than my Beauty merits,  
Or my Ambition covets!  Rosal. 
Truly neither.  
If Beauty can deserve, perhaps, that Face  
Has a fair Title; and for thy Ambition;  
I durst defy all the once bold Aspirers  
That battayled Heaven to match thee.  Celestina. 
Truth, thou drawest  
So near the Life, that thou might'st play my Painter.  Ros. 
'Tis not thy Beauty, (that's the gift of Chance)  
Nor is't thy Towering Pride (for that's but woman)  
No, Celestina, 'tis thy wondrous Fortune  
That takes up my amazement.  Celestina. 
That, such wonder!  Ros. 
With Thy course Veins, an humble low born Creature,  
That hardly ownst a Mother, or a Name—  
(You see I love plain-dealing)  Cel. 
Yes, I find so.  Ros. 
With nothing but a Face, all the whole Patrimony  
Thy little unknown Father had to leave thee,  
Perked up the Darling Favourite of a Princess.  Cel. 
A Princess Favourite; Ay, and a Kings too,  
If Fortune play me fair. I'm not the First  
Of my soft Sex, perhaps with Birth as mean  
As Celestina's and a stock of Charms  
Not more than mine, has baited Hooks for Monarchs,  
For Monarch's Girl, Imperial Slaves, my Rosalin;  
Whilst the fair Hand of the poor Spawn of Cottages  
Has struck a Royal Game, and trolled out Princes.  Ros. 
'Tis true, such Gamesters there have been; and, faith,  
'Tis pity but Thy Hooks should be so baited.  
For if those Eyes were born to catch a King,  
Not the fair proudest She, that carthborn Flutterer,  
Rigged up in Ermine, and tricked out with Title,  
That ever betrayed Monarch, or sold Kingdom,  
Could bear her upstart power with half thy Vanity.  Celestina. 
Why Earthborn Flutterer! still thou gratest hard  
On that mean Shame my Birth.— Why must this Beauty  
Be a base Cottage Brat!— They talk of Fairies  
That snatch the sleeping Infant from the Cradle,  
And leave a witless Bastard of their own  
For the poor Cheated Mother.— And who knows  
Instead of some course half-sould Fairy Changeling,  
The kinder Hand of some diviner Genius  
In my poor Cradle made a Nobler Change?  
And in my Sooty Mother's Raven nest  
Hatched a fair eagle's Egg!  Ros. 
Why, truly, some  
Such wondrous Change might be. For (give thy due)  
Thou hast those towering hopes, would out-soar Eagles.  Cel. 
And I have reason for those towering Hopes.  
For by a famous Reverend Scythian Sibyl,  
Even in my Infant Dawn, my Beauty's Nonage,  
Nay in my Native shade, I have been told  
These Eyes the Sovereign Arbiters of Fate  
Are born to Conquer Kings and Ruin Kingdoms.  Ros. 
A very large Prediction! But art sure  
Thy Witches Oracle spoke Truth?  Cel. 
Truth Girl!  Ros. 
Art sure her Prophesying Devils are honest?  Cel. 
Yes, dear kind Heaven I hope so—  
Oh Loves soft Fires, my Eyes, my snares, my Charms,  
Lodge but some doting Monarch in these Arms,  
To mount me a Court-Star, fill my fair Seat,  
The Fear of Slaves, and Envy of the Great,  
Round my bright Sphere my rapid Glories hurled,  
In Powers proud Orb to drive the truckling World;  
But This one Blessing let my Prayers implore,  
And curse me Heaven, if ere I ask thee more.  Exeunt. 
Finis Actus Primi.   

ACT. II. SCENE. I.  A Pavilion Royal. Discovers Clarismunda seated attended by Celestina and Rosalin. Clar. 
ORsanes, Oh that ever bleeding Martyr!  
Murder so black! enough to shame the World,  
And blot the Blushing Skies. Yet why, oh why  
Is Suffering Virtue that neglect of Heaven,  
Not the least care of shielding Providence  
Steps in to guard, nor one just Bolt t' avenge it.  
But can my Sighs or Prayers recall his Breath!  
Ah no; th'irrevocable Dooms gone forth,  
And posting Angels speed in vain to catch it.  Enter Orontes. Oront. 
If trembling Adoration may presume  
T'approach so near; and these unhallowed Knees  
May humbly bend to the Eternal Throne  
To beg down Bessings on that sacred Brow.  Claris. 
Thou wish me Blessings. Fool, why dost thou lose  
That ineffectual prayer, thou who hast entailed  
That lasting shame, and load of Curses on me;  
That distant Blessings and remoter Peace  
Stand those wide Worlds removed from Clarismunda  
That bliss and I must never meet again.  Oront. 
That I have sinned against that Heav'nly-Fair,  
Committed that dire deed of Execration,  
That not the whole detesting World alone,  
But the whole Blushing Host above the Stars  
Confront my Impious Guilt; That I've done this,  
Tormenting Conscience with ten thousand Horrors  
Haunts all my sleepless nights.  Clar. 
A sleepless night? And is that all thy punishment?  
Each puny Crime  
May wound as deep as that. But canst thou think  
Orsanes Blood, and all my wrongs demand no more.  Oront. 
Thy wrongs demand  
All all fates Bloodiest Shafts, the heaviest Load  
That ere crushed Guilt, or struck confusion dead,  
This single Criminal Head deserves 'em all.  
Unless a kind Reprieving Mercy dawn  
From those fair Twins of Life.  Claris. 
Mercy to Thee,  
Thy Crimes, thou dire Destroyer! Can thy baseness  
Dare lodge so vile a Thought of Clarismunda!  
The Sacred Blood of the immortal Cyrus,  
That tame forgiving Fool.  Oront. 
Alas dear Madam!—  Clar. 
No King, I have a Lucrecian Soul within me:  
With more than all her Wrongs, my Hope, Peace, Life,  
All ravished by thy worse than Tarquin Cruelty.  
And if perhaps I have outlived her Fall,  
'Tis only to outact her Vengeance. She  
Poor Martyr died too soon. Her closing Eyes  
Shut out that charming scene, the rowzing Thunder  
Hung o'er her punished Ravishers head: she died  
Before her dear Revenge. But I would live  
For mine (if thou dar'st let me live,) live Tyrant  
To wake the arming World for thy Destruction.  Oront. 
Oh hold my fair Accuser, think, oh, think  
When my mad Rage and all my brutal Fires  
Walked forth with that too hideous Arm of Death  
'twas only Love that struck the barbarous Blow.  Claris. 
Love!  Oront. 
All commanding all resistless Love.  
Alas, I saw the cruel Clarismunda  
Deaf to my sighs and prayers; my happy Rival  
With all the Pride of an insulting Conqueror  
Even in his Chains my Tyrant, the blessed Lord  
Of Clarismunda's Heart: Think how I saw  
The flaming Sword, and my sealed Gates of Paradise.  
And if my burning Love and boiling Envy  
Swelled my Despair too high, impute th' Effects  
To a too powerful Cause. Alas, I cut  
Th' excluding Barr betwixt my Heaven and Me.  Claris. 
Yet hold— This Insolence outsins thy first black Guilt.  
What though th' Injustice of our partial Destiny  
Threw the unhappy Champion of our Cause,  
By Wars rough Chance a Captive in thy Power;  
Dares thy Barbarity make Love, great Love,  
A Plea for Murder? Could that noble Passion  
Transform thee to a Ruffian? Hadst thou been  
That Godlike thing a Lover, thou'dst have seen  
Thy happy Rival with more generous Envy:  
And in thy glorious Indignation freed him  
From his vile Chains; bid him dispute his Title  
To Clarismunda's Heart with his drawn sword.  
Had he so fallen, and his triumphant Conqueror  
Stained with his warm warm Blood— thus hadst thou wooed me—  
But in cold Murder, his poor naked Throat  
Given up to Butcher's Hands, thy Slaves and Hangmen!  
Shame of a Throne, thou eternal Brand of Empire!  Oront. 
And is this all my Love must ever hope!  Claris. 
Hope wretched King; why does thy tiresome Folly  
Force my repeated Scorn both of thy Crown and Thee  
Thus often to pronounce the fatal never?  Oront. 
Never!  Claris. 
Should this degenerate Breast descend so low  
But to Dream Kindness to Orsanes Murderer;  
I'd tear my Traitor Heart up by the Roots,  
But for so poor a Thought. Love thee! Yes, King,  
If to owe thee Curses more than Plagues can pay thee  
Thy dying Groans more Music to my soul,  
Then all the Quires of Heaven, be Love, I love thee,  Oront. 
Well, Madam, you have sworn my sealed Destruction;  
And rather than a Doom from that fair Mouth  
Should want the Weight of Fate, with my own Hand,  
I'll aid my Labouring Destiny. Go, Briomar,  
Draw out ten Thousand Horse, and in their Head,  
Bear that relentless Beauty back to Persia,  
A Presentt' her avenging Brothers Arms.  Claris. 
Ay, King, do This—  Oront. 
Yes, go, dear charming Death.  
Bring the whole summoned Force of Heaven and Earth  
To hunt down this Babarian.  
Too cruel Vengeance, at Thy Tyrant call,  
All thy armed shafts on this doomed Head must fall;  
And Humble kneeling Love shall bear 'em all.  
But dear remorseless Fair; if all the pangs  
Of my poor bleeding Heart—  Claris. 
All the old Hateful Theme. No more: no more.  
Remember, King, I have Your sacred Promise  
To send me back to my avenging Brothers.  Oront. 
True; I have promised, and the dread Command  
Of Clarismunda, though at no less price  
Then my Souls Death, shall be obeyed. Go; Briomar,  
Perform your Charge; conduct that fair Inexorable  
T' her Royal Brother's Arms— But tell those Brothers—  
Yes, lay my blushes and my shame before 'em;  
And tell the injured Majesty of Persia,  
My soul unmanned, and all my Reason drowned,  
I did that shameful Deed. But tell 'em too,  
The Brute offended, but the King repents.  
Tell 'em instead of all their Armed Revenge,  
Death, Fire, and Sword, sack Towns, and burning Cities  
Kind Hymen's Torch presents a gentler Fire.  Claris. 
No more, vain talking Frenzy—  Oront. 
Yes, beauteous Cruelty,  
Tell 'em that Mighty Love—  Claris. 
That Mightier Vengeance—  Oront. 
With all the Eloquence of immortal Truth—  Claris. 
With all the Horrors of Eternal shame—  Oront. 
For Mercy, Mercy, call.  Claris. 
For Blood, for Blood.  Oront. 
For Blood than, since no less than Blood must pay.  
Go, Briomar, that Voice of Death obey.  
Arm▪ Arm the World against this hated Head:  
And forge the Bolts to strike this Monster dead.  
Go, Fairy Treasure, Vanishing Brightness, go.  
But Clarismunda,  
If Thou must kill, why the poor Persian swords,  
Why arming Worlds, and angry Heaven against me.  
No, fairer Deity; weiled thy own bright Vengeance:  
Thy Eyes the God's Expense of Thunder save,  
And lend me from their Darts a nobler Grave.  Exuent all but Celestina and Rosalin. Celestina. 
Now Rosalin, what thinkst thou of my Sibyl,  
My Scythian Prophetess!  Rosal. 
Think!  Celestina. 
Dost not see  
We are moving to a fairer Field of Fortune,  
The Court of Persia, Beauties bright Meridian!  
How looks her kind prediction now? Does not  
My Royal Conquest wear a promising Face?  Rosal. 
Fantom and Frenzy.  Celestina 
Spite and Envy! No;  
Thou snarling Infidel, th' Oraculous Truth  
Had Heaven in't, and I must, and will believe her.  Rosal. 
Well, if your Faith's so strong, believe, and prosper.  Celestina. 
Yes Rosalin, and to confirm that Faith  
Sleeping this night I saw the sweetest Vision.  
Methoughts, a glittering Troop danced all around me,  
Clapped their gay Wings, and in one echoing Voice,  
Stupendious Words, that lightend as they spoke,  
Saluted me with  
Hail thou Beauteous Miracle,  
Go on, thou Royal Conqueror; so conquer  
Till Poets make thee their Eternal Song;  
And wanton Painters like the bold Prometheus,  
When they'd give Souls to shadows, from thy heavens'  
Shall Steal th'immortal Fires.  Ros. 
By Love all Rapture!  Cel. 
No sooner was the gaudy Vision vanished,  
But straight I dreamed of that fair Grecian Dame  
That drew the Swords of the Contending Universe,  
The glorious subject of a ten years' War;  
And the no less immortal Cleopatra,  
Her bleeding Antony, and pursuing Caesar,  
With burning Troy's, and Worlds for Beauty lost.  Ros. 
Well, Celestina, if no less Originals  
Then Egypt's Cleopatra, or Greek Helen's,  
Are those fair Eyes your golden Dreams must copy,  
In that blessed day expect my duteous Homage  
Amongst your kneeling slaves.  Cel. 
Yes, that blessed Day!  
Now to the Court, that Lottery of Beauty,  
Where all the Fair for the great Prize put in,  
And boldly stake their All to lose or win.  
And whilst one Hand at an unhappy Fling  
Draws but a Blank, the other draws her King.  
With the same Hope for the same Lot 'll'le go,  
And try if there's a Monarch for my Throw.  Exeunt. Scene changes to a Palace. Enter Tygranes. Tygr. 
What art thou Love, that thus out liv'st Despair?  
Oh thou, whose too strong vital Pulses beat  
When hope thy Life is dead. Too fair Herminia,  
Tho' lost, for ever lost, thy haunting Form  
Arrayed with all thy Charms glides dazzling by,  
Whilst my devouring Soul leaps forth to meet thee  
And grasps at fleeting Ayr. Too dear Herminia,  
Yes, I will love thee still— But (oh) so love thee,  
Love thy bright Glory, thy unenvyed Happiness,  
Thy Monarch's Arms, and all thy Nuptial Blisses,  
My whole unmurmuring Soul's divinest Music.  Enter Messenger. Mess. 
Sir, some Officers wait your Command.  Enter Officers. Tygr. 
Admit 'em. Well, my Warriors  
How fare my valiant Hearts?  Offi. 
Tough as our Arms,  
And cheerful as our Cause!  Tygr. 
Thou speak'st my Soldier—  1. Offi. 
As all our Veins, and all our Lives shall speak.  2. Offi. 
Already, Sir, Your great Allies have joined us;  
A noble Train of War. From Western Nile  
To Eastern Indus Streams, united Asia,  
Brings her proud Banners to your Royal Standard.  
By this good Sword, and this old Arm, I think  
More gallant Troops, nor more resolved Battalions,  
A fairer Front of the bold Sons of Glory  
Ne'er shook the Earth beneath them.  1. Offi. 
And great Sir,  
May I presume to add one bold Word more.  
To cheer our Hearts after our last lost Battle  
And edge our Swords for a new fairer Game,  
Persia fought then, but Clarismunda now.  Tygr. 
Yes, my kind Soldier, in your last lost Game  
A weaker Quarrel, and a fainter Arm,  
Only Powers wanton Luxury, Ambition,  
Fought then; But a Diviner Cause, wronged Honour,  
And Sacred Vengeance now.  Enter King and Herminia, Mirvan, Amorin, Guards, etc. King. 
My best Tygranes  
Life of my Cause, thou Eldest Son of War,  
And boldest Heir of Fame; my waiting Armies  
Call thy Commanding Arm to lead 'em forth to Glory.  Tygr. 
As far as humane Strength can push for Glory  
This Arm shall lead; and Sir to join that Arm  
I hope the Great Deciding Powers, that hold  
The Fate of War and turn the Scales of Battle,  
Have one kind Laurel for the poor Tygranes.  
For 'tis but Justice, Heaven; one Smiling Day  
For all the melancholy niggard Portion  
Your unkind Stars have dealt me. And for all  
The Massy Favours you have heaped upon me,  
Great Sir permit my bending Duty fall  
Thus low to take up the fair Load of Honour.  King 
Rise, my Tygranes, This too humble Gratitude  
Orepays the Gift I make.  Tygr. 
Orepays! No! Sir.  
You've lodged in this Young Arm a Trust so glorious—  King 
And thou'lt discharge it with a Faith more glorious.  Tygr. 
I hope indeed I shall. This I dare promise;  
I go so keen for War, so armed for Battle,  
My Cause so Precious and my Life so worthless,  
That the Great Game of Death was never played  
By a less shaking Hand.  King. 
So speak the Souls  
Of our Great Race, the transmigrating Fires  
That warm thy noble Breast.  Tygr. 
But Sir before I go, take my Last Prayer:  
May all the Sweets of ever fragrant Love  
Heap your full Joys. 'Twixt that fair Heaven and You  
Eternal Jo Paeans sing before you:  
Smiles wake Your Morn's, and Angels lull your Sleeps.  King. 
This is too kind Tygranes,  Tygr. 
And when in my Rough Toils and heavyer Marches  
Amidst the Shriller Louder Voice of War  
Some softer Trump of Fame shall sweetly Chant  
In my pleassed Ears how fair Herminia loves:  
How that all Nuptial Truth, all Bridal Sweetness  
With all the Riot o unmeasured blisses  
Crowns the dear Love of her embracing Lord;  
When I shall hear that dear that blessed Sound,  
With open Arms I'll meet the darling Joy,  
And clasp it as the Mrs. of my Soul—  
Thus I may love Herminia—  Herm. 
Love me Prince!  
Yes such a Love Tygranes— Oh thou matchless  
Original of Virtue! Love like Thine  
How shall I ere return. Go then, brave Warrior,  
Go where bright Honour calls, and when thy Sword  
Thro' grappling Dangers hews thy path to Glory,  
Be thou Herminia's Champion and I Thine.  
For oh Tygranes to adorn that brow  
And pull down Victory on that blessed Head,  
I'll borrow from the Arms of my kind Lord  
A bending Knee to Heav'n for dear Tygranes.  Tygr. 
And will the kind Herminia do all this,  
For lost Tygranes, the Divine Herminia  
A Beauteous Suppliant to th' immortal Throne  
Breath a soft Prayer, and melt the listening Gods,  
And all for worthless me! Then I am orepayed  
For all my bleeding sighs. So blessed—  Herm. 
So blessed, if she can give thee blessings, all my Orisons  
My tenderest Vows for Thy Success I'll pay,  
With so much Zeal the pious offering given  
Whilst thou shalt combat Earth I'll wrestle Heaven.  King. 
Hold my Herminia, thou too Godlike Goodness,  
And take me with thee in this generous Contest.  
A Prayer for dear Tygranes! Prayers and Hecatombs:  
Incense and Sacrifice, all Pomp Divine;  
Altars shall smoke and blazing Temples Shine.  
United Heaven and Earth shall join for Thee;  
Thou and the World, brave Youth, the Gods and we,  Enter Messenger. Mess. 
Your Royal Sister  
Conducted by ten-thousand Scythian Horse  
Sent by the Mercy of her pitying Conqueror,  
Free and unransomed is returning home.  King. 
Free and unransomed! Yes, relenting Tyrant,  
Like flowery Garlands to a bleeding Victim,  
A poor amends for Clarismunda's Wrongs.  Tygr. 
For the Reception of our Royal Sister,  
Haste, Orimon, draw forth a thousand Horse  
That these embracing Arms may fly to meet her. Exit.  King. 
My dear Herminia, the soft sweets of Love  
Till this blessed Minute have been all my Theme.  
But now, my fairest, I am forced to borrow  
From the kind Arms of Joy one hour for pity.  
I have a mourning Sister,  
A wronged one my Herminia, whose Return  
Must call one Tear even from the Eyes of Love.  Queen. 
A Tear for Clarismunda! Yes my dear  
Loved Lord, if that wronged Sister does demand  
The Royal Tribute of those richer Pearl,  
I hope you'll give these Eyes the Leave to add  
Their pious Offering too.  King. 
Thine, my Herminia!  Queen. 
Mine, and all Eyes. At bleeding Virtues Sufferings  
Our Griefs are but our sympathetic pains.  
Each melting Eye at that sad Object mourns:  
The Lodestar draws, and trembling Pity turns.  Enter Tygranes Leading Clarismunda, Celestina, Rosalin etc. Clars. 
My Brother and my King!  
Take to thy Arms, thy generous pitying Arms  
This Load of Misery, Despair and Ruin,  King. 
Fair Flower of Paradise, the sweetest Rose  
Set in the Thorns of Life, dear Royal Mourner  
My Souls best half, my own immortal Veins.  Clar. 
Thy Veins! No Sir that once fair Crystal Fountain  
By the embittered Gall of Woes all poisoned,  The King gazes on Celestina. 
My blood runs Death, and I am thy Veins no more.  King 
What do I see! Great Gods!  Clar. 
But, oh, dread Sir,  
In my affrighting Wounds, my Savage Wrongs,  
I have brought home—  King, 
Those Eyes, my Clarismunda—  Clar. 
Eyes Sir!—  King. 
Those Wrongs, my Sister— But proceed.  Clar. 
Those Wrongs indeed! So wronged,  
There's not that ministering Saint at Heavens high Throne  
But midst his Scenes of everlasting Joys,  
Looks down on Clarismunda's hideous Ruins.  
Mine, mine's a Cause—  King. 
By Heavens, amazing Fair—  Clar. 
What says my King?  King. 
Thy Cause my Sweet, go on.  Clar. 
Yes, my dear Brother, and what's more than Brother  
My Champion and my King; By those great Names  
I call and challenge thy avenging Sword,  
Thy Sword, my Sovereign Justice  King. 
Artaban? withdrawing from Clarismunda and whispering, Clarismunda strikes into Discourse in the mean while in dumb show with the Queen and Tygr.  Amor. 
Mirvan, dost mark that Charming Stranger there?  Mir. 
Ay, and that firing King too. aside to Amorin.  King. 
That Lady to Artaban.  Art. 
My dread Lord!  King. 
That fair one.  Celestina. 
Shoot home my Charms! now my Prophetic Glory! aside  Mir. 
Shine out fair stranger aside to Celestina.  Celestina. 
Boy!  Mir. 
There's Honour near ye.  Tygr. 
Dear Sister these Resenting Murmurs speak  
With such an Emphasis.  Clar. 
Do they speak Brother!  
They must act too: These wrongs that find a Tongue  
Must find an Arm, Tygranes.  Tygr. 
Yes Royal sufferer,  
Thou shalt have Vengeance, Vengeance, Clarismunda,  
If Arming Man and aiding Heaven can give it thee.  Clar. 
Do this, and all my work of Life is done:  
And when thy Sword draws blood, drink deep, my Brother;  
Remember nothing but a pile of Death  
Can build the Tomb of Love. Build thou that Tomb  
For Clarismunda; then I dare die pleased  
When I have seen my blazing monument raised.  King. 
Succeed and Challenge that Reward, my Artaban to Arta.  Exeunt all but Celestina and Mirvan. Celestina. 
'Tis don 'tis done; I read it in his Eyes;  
The Golden Shaft and all the whole Blind God.  
Now my kind Sibyl thou hast fulfilled thy Promise:  
And I could kneel to thank thy Charming Oracle.  
Oh Beauty! Love and Triumph wait thy Throne,  
Hold my kind Toil but fast, the Game's my own. Exit.  Mir. 
So;— a poor Slave has Charms to snare a King:  
Yes, fair unknown, th' Imperial Thunderer  
Hangs gathering o'er thee in a glittering Shower,  
And 'tis but spreading of thy Smiles before him  
To catch the Golden God.— well! There's Love for you—  
Death! what was I born for! Love's not my Province:  
The Sweets of Life are banished from these Lips.  
Kind Nature stamped me in Heaven's Image, Man,  
Born with a Face perhaps t'have Captived Queens.  
Till mercenary Infamous Barbarity  
(An Eunuch Monster) basely robbed my Cradle,  
And left me a dull Drone of the Creation.—  
Since then the Gall, and dregs of Life, are all  
My Portion; to requite the spiteful world's  
Unkindness, let me this one pleasure find  
To doal round my own Draught to all Mankind.  
Finis Actus Secundi.   

ACT. III. SCENE. I.  Herminia discovered Sleeping on a couch attended by Mirvan and Amorin. 

Song.  
WHy does the Idle World mistake,  
And Love a Godhead make?  
If Love were Heaven, like Heaven 'twou'd last,  
And the Immortal Joys would never die.  
Ah no, false man, at every blast  
In broken Vows Loves fleeting Shadows fly.  
Down then let all his Glories fall,  
His Templet, Altars, Empire, all  
To dirt and Ashes trod:  
For oh the Fools, for oh the Fools, that make blind Love a God.   

So when fair Celia mourned to find  
Philander so unkind;  
She saw the Tempest yoll too fast,  
And all o'erspread her rising Morning's dawn;  
Her louring Fate was quite overcast  
And her Eclipsing Glories all withdrawn.  
But tho' there shine such fading Jemms  
In brittle Earthly Diadems,  
Poor Celia ne'er despair:  
There's Stars above, there's stars above to crown thee brighter there.   The Scene shuts and Mir. and Amo. advance upon the Stage. Amor. 
OH Mirvan, this fair Scythians Charms are sure  
Made up of Prodigy; and the blind God  
Has stocked her with such Shafts, her Eyes Disdain  
To play a lesser Game than Miracles,  Mir. 
Miracles indeed: An unknown Stranger face  
Who, or from whence Hell knows, to catch a Monarch  
from a young Princely Bride the fair Herminia,  
A Beauty scarce Enjoyed.  
The very Virgin Blushes on her Cheeks  
Still warm; that loveliest Rose gathered but yesterday,  
And all the fragrant Sweets thrown by to day.  
Abandoned, Slighted— ay and all this too  
By the strange Charms of such an Easy wanton  
That Scarce held out the Courtship of an hour.  
But See the glittering Pageant moves this way.  
With what Devouring ravenous Eyes he swallows  
The fair Destruction.  Amor. 
Put my dear Lost Mrs.  
The poor Herminia, what a mournful part  
Hast thou in this gay Scene. Too unkind King—  
Was it for this, in thy first blooming Youth,  
By thy Imperial Father's kind Commission  
A Visitant in the fair Court of India,  
That Early Votary t' Herminia's Eyes,  
Thou knelst at those dear Feet— Sweet injured Goodness  
My heart bleeds for thee.  Mir. 
Troth so does not mine.  Amor. 
How Mirvan, canst thou see our Royal Mrs.  
The poor neglected Queen, thus Scorned, thus Slighted,  
Without one pitying Thought.  Mir. 
A pitying Thought!  
Faith none at all.  Amor. 
Canst thou be Man and say this?  Mir. 
No, Fool, were I a man I should not say this.  
But when the cursed Luxury of Greatness  
As the early brand of a Court Slave,  
(A dog a nobler Creature) took Man from me,  
It took Humanity too— Spite, darling Spite.  Amor. 
But See the Queen and Princess  Mir. 
Well if this fair Scythian Wanton  
This white she-devil do not prove at last  
That firebrand, that State-Firebrand, as shall one day  
Set Persia in a Flame:— if this she-Phaeton  
Prove not at last the arrantest State-grievance  
ere ruined Monarch, or Sucked Nation poor,  
May my Propheticks be believed no more.  Enter Queen and Clarismunda. Queen. 
The Treasure of my soul, my dear Lords Love,  
The hoarded Mass of a whole Age's Bliss  
All by one midnight Thief for ever lost.  Clar. 
Indeed my Royal Sister thy sad Story  
Melts pity from my Eyes; and trust me, dear Herminia,  
My own unhappy Load of Miseries  
Have drained these Streams so low, their did not want  
Thy Sufferings to raise a second Spring.  Queen 
This generous Sense of my hard Fate speaks thee  
So truly kind—  Claris. 
So truly just, Herminia.  
For in the deep Resentments of thy Wrongs  
Mine is no common Share. 'Twas Clarismunda  
Was their unfortunate Cause. That infamous Creature  
That Scythian Devil my unhappy Favourite;  
By my mistaken Charity to that  
Deluding Face, the fatal Cockatrice Egg  
Hatched by my warmth to all this brood of Mischief.  Queen. 
Nay Clarismunda, charge not Thy fair Virtue  
With so unjust a Stain. Thy part was innocent.  
When angry Providence resolves to kill  
It easily finds the Means. Misery, and  
Misfortune still like Weeds and poisons Shoot.  
Alas they want a very little Root.  Clar. 
Sweet murmuring Turtle hush thy mournful plaints  
And bear thy Soul above the World's poor spite.  
Let thy dark shades make thy fair Truth more bright.  
'Tis the True Diamond that shines by night.  
And then the frowns of Fortune we out brave  
When Grief is not our Tyrant but our slave. Exeunt.  Enter Orontes disguised attended only by Briomar. Oront 
Yonder she moves, my louring planet moves.  
But why do I not follow her, run to her,  
Run to my doom, and catch her blasting fires.  
Bid all her blazing Bolts of Thunder turn;  
Court the Keen Lightning of her Eyes, and burn.  Briom. 
Oh Royal Sir, think to what threatening Danger  
Will your Rash Love expose your Life and Glory.  
Yes, if bold Truth may speak, to what unprincely  
Nay what unmanly Dangers.—  Oront. 
Preaching fool  
No more profane Reflections on a Cause  
So sacred.—  Briom. 
Can there be a Cause so sacred  
To draw you forth from your abandoned Kingdoms,  
And in this poor Disguise to quit your Throne? Briomar  Oront. 
Quit Thrones! quit Worlds, quit Earth and Heaven my  
Run mad, despair, and die.  Briom. 
die Sir!  Oront▪ 
Yes, die.  
To Death's short pain from lingering Tortures fly:  
Plunge the Vast Deep, and launch to that blessed shore  
Where Clarismunda's Scorn can kill no more.  Briom. 
Death I confess is Woes last certain Remedy.  
But when the Great seek Death, they ought to meet him  
In the fair Paths of Glory. Poorly dying  
Is worse than basely Living. Sir, consider  
You're born to Empire, hold the Charge of Kingdoms,  
A Royal Cause, and a protected people;  
Besides behold a gathering Storm before you,  
Arms at your Gates, and Vengeance round your Walls,  
advancing Enemies, and pushing Fate.  
That Death thou seek'st, seek nobly, King. Crowned Heads  
Should not fall crushed like poor despairing slaves,  
But build their Monuments when they dig their Graves.  Oront. 
Kind Briomar, I thank thy honest Love.  
'Tis true the Charge of Empire lies upon us.  
Yet heavens' Vicegerents are not so all Gods  
But we have a little of the Man about us.  
Shackled with Sovereignty, and tied up to Honour,  
We are not so fast to golden Fetters cursed,  
But Love one Link of the long Chain may burst.  
Oh Briomar— I have that last Account yet to make up  
To that Fair Tyrant's Ear before I die.  
That as thou valuest my Eternal Peace,  
By all thy Loyalty I must conjure thee,  
Under the shelter of this kind Disguise,  
To gain me an Access. But one blessed Minute  
At Clarismunda's Feet.  Briom. 
But in this kind Disguise can you so rule  
Your mastered Passion, as to keep your shroud,  
No frantic start to burst your guardian Cloud.  
Sir, dare you promise me.—  Oront. 
Yes I dare promise.  
Shall I perform my Briomar?  Briom▪ 
How Sir.  Oront. 
No more; I'll be obeyed.  Briom. 
Then Sir, my Duty shall dispute no more;  
Th' Access shall be obtained: Though I much fear  
Effects too dismal.  Oront. 
Leave Effects to Fate:  
Love spurs the Leap, and Danger Checks too late. Exeunt.  Scene a Room of State. Enter Celestina, Rosalin and Women. Ros. 
Madam, five hundred Talents from the King,—  Cel. 
Have Kissed my Hand this Morning.  Ros. 
From Great Love  
A fair presented Sum.  Cel. 
To buy me pins.  
A small Oblation. But my Royal Vassal  
Remembers his Allegiance; knows his Duty,  
And pays my Eyes their Tribute— Now, my Rosalin,  
How dost thou like the Port our Greatness bears?  
Say is a Monarchs Hear a Toy worth wearing?  Rosal. 
Your Conquest is a perfect Reign of Wonders.  Cel. 
Nay, I have conquered now: And such a Conquest,  
That surfeited Delight, and gorged Ambition  
Have drunk so deep, that they can thirst no more.  Ros. 
Madam, the Princess—  Cel. 
Ha! What brings her here.— perhaps  
The Conscientious Fool comes to Preach Honour,  
Herminia's Wrongs, and Celestina's Frailty;  
If so; I am resolved I will receive her  
Like my great self, the Mistress of a Power  
The World's too weak to shake.  Enter Clarismunda. Claris. 
I stoop beneath Myself when I descend  
To talk with Sin and Shame. But sweet Herminia  
A Champion in Thy Cause commanding Justice  
Forgive the Faults offending Honour makes  
No; the proud Thief, the Siren has undone thee  
Shall not move off with Her Rich prize so tamely.  
I'll talk with the gay Sin, and glittering Infamy.  Celestina 
These happy Walls and their more happy Mistress  
Thus honoured and thus graced! Believe me Madam,  
You've so surprised me with this wondrous Goodness,  
Took me so unprepared for a Reception  
Worthy of such a Guest—  Claris. 
Hold, there's no need  
Of so much courtly Ceremony. All  
I came to meet I've found, thyself; and wish  
The Visitant I bring thee may receive  
But half this promised welcome.  Cel. 
If I am All  
You came to seek, I am proud that you have found me,  
And prouder to receive whate'er Commands  
Honour can give, or Honour can obey.  
As such, no doubt, you bring me, speak Your pleasure.  Clar. 
Honour! Oh thou hast named the richest Gem  
That e'er adorned the Fair True Honour, Beauties  
Inestimable wealth; whilst we wear Thee  
We have inexhausted Mines of endless Treasure,  
Enough t'enrich the world. Where Honour Shines,  
Our Eyes are Sparks of Heaven, 'Tis that kind Sun  
That lights 'em into Stars. The Great just Powers  
Made us the fairest work of their Creation,  
Till our own faults our own defacing Shame  
Unmakes the work of Gods.  Celestina. 
Ay, now you charm my Ear with ravishing Music,  
Honour our Sex's warmest Pride, Our whole  
Devotion, Saint, Heaven, All we kneel and pray to.  
And Madam, if those Powers you name have made  
Beauty the Master-stroak of their Creation,  
I thank their Generous Moulding Hands These Eyes  
Are not their poorest stamp. And to do Justice  
To Heavens unfinished Piece, I shall take care  
In the bright sphere to which my charms have raised me,  
Not to unmake, but mend the work of Gods.  Claris. 
The Sphere thy Charms have raised thee to! No thou  
Gay gilded Vanity, call 'em thy sorceries,  
The ' infatuating, false deluding Fires  
Of Sin plumed up with Power, thou vile Usurper.  Celestina. 
Usurper! That diminutive Imp of Majesty,  
That puny poor Prerogative! no Madam  
Your kinder Justice sure can find my Glories  
A fairer name.  Claris. 
A fairer name!  Celestina. 
perhaps  
The little Murmurs Envy and Ignorance,  
Have been too buisy with your Royal Ear,  
And breathed my Name with their unhallowed Lips.  
But to correct th'ill mannered Grin of Fools  
Let the King's Heart, and these victorious Eyes  
Tell the vain babbling world I reign by Conquest.  Claris. 
What do I hear! Oh thou amazing Front  
Of blushless Guilt! Thou sittest enthroned in Sin then.  
Hold'st thy black seat of shame by Claim and Title,  
And stampst a Royal Sovereignty on Damnation.  Cel. 
Madam, this Language— But no more  
You are too blame, mistaken angry Princess;  
For when I shall inform that Peevish Snarler  
For whom thou play'st the Champion, what good Offices  
I've done her with the King, She'll have but small  
Occasion of Complaint, For I must tell you  
As my peculiar Grace I have given him Leave  
T'allow her a fair Court, Guards and Attendants,  
And all the Decency that suits her Quality.  
Nay, and to show you I'm more generous still  
I have permitted him to pay her the  
Civilityes of a Wife.  Claris. 
Civilityes!  Celestina. 
And let me tell you. 'Tis not  
A Common Condescension in a Mrs.  
To give a Wife that Liberty.  Claris. 
Great Gods! This is beyond all mortal Patience.  
She gives her Husband Leave; 'tis she allows her;—  
Her Favours all—  
Oh poor Herminia, whither art thou fallen, aside.  
Brought thy rich Royal Veins from thy fair India,  
To be a Pensioner to a vile Wanton;  
Reign the Precarious Partner of a Throne.  
But thou rank Weed, thou poisonous plant of Death,  
Oh that thou'dst give thy Soul but so much Leisure  
As even to think—  Cel. 
Think! I have Thought.  
For Thinking's half the pleasure  Claris. 
No, thou too hardend Brow, didst thou but know  
What 'tis to be—  Cel. 
The Mrs. of a King—  
Yes, very well.  Clar. 
The Mrs. of a King! no fair Perdition  
Change that gay name and call thyself a Prodigy.  Celestina. 
A Prodigy! Right; all made up of Wonders.  
The very Thing I would be.  Claris 
Barbarous Creature!  
Is thy Lethargic Sleep of Death so deaf  
To all th' Alarms of Infamy and Vengeance;  
That not one frighting Dream nor waking Horror  
Tells thee what hideous Loads of Woe thou hast heaped  
On Wailing Innocence, the wronged Herminia;  
Snatched a loved Lord from her embracing Arms,  
And left her mourning Days and widowed Nights:  
robbed all her Dearest Joys.  Celestina. 
'Tis, true, I have so.  
And I confess the Loss is something hard.  
But to repair that Loss, tell the fair Mourner,  
Her Charms are not so lost, but thousand Cupids  
With thousand Darts, and every Shaft a Heart,  
Attend the daily Triumphs of her Eyes.  Claris. 
Oh my chaste Ears! aside.  Cel. 
What though th' ungrateful King  
Has played the Wanderer; can that fair Shrine  
Want Homagers! The world is not so poor.  Claris. 
Hold profane Insolent! stop that sulphurous Breath.  
Rooted with horror I have heard thee out;  
And a i'll Damp about my trembling Heart  
Has but just left me blood enough to blush  
That thou wert born of Woman.  
Quick Let me fly that cloven footed Treason,  
Lest yawning Earth, and swallowing Graves receive me. Exit.  Cel. 
Poor angry thing farewell; such chattering Daws  
Dismount my Eagle Flight!  
That bugbear Conscience! No,  
I've Loves whole Feast before me. And let those  
Dull puny squeamish Fools that dare not carve  
Hug their Lean Virtue, pine, Despair, and starve. Exit.  Scene Changes. Enter Herminia and Amorin. Herm. 
Art sure this is the Kings Retiring Hour,  
And this the place to meet him?  Amor. 
Every Minute  
His Presence is expected. But dear Madam  
I have one humble prayer, that this small service  
Of your Obedient slave be kept a Secret;  
This is forbidden Ground, and 'twill be more  
Then half the price of my poor Life to serve you.  Her. 
Fear not sweet Youth, I'll guard thee from that Danger. Ex. Amo.  
Forbidden Ground! Is Love a Crime so mortal?  
And am I grown that poison to his Eyes!  
Oh for the Spirit of the great Semiramis  
To meet my wrongs, and stem the storm that sinks me  
No, I've too much the Mother's Milk within me,  
Weep like a Girl, and bend beneath my sufferings;  
Nature intended me some humble shepherdess,  
A Creature born to breathe her plaints to Woods  
And helpless Groves, to mix her feeble Tears  
In murmuring Brooks; too weak to wield the Thunder,  
And rouse the sleeping Rage of injured Majesty.  Enter King. King. 
Herminia! Ha! That Face, and in these Walls!  
Methinks I feel a chilling Damp within me,  
A secret check from those accusing Eyes—  
Let my retiring shame— going back.  Herm. 
My Lord, my King!  King. 
Madam—  Herm. 
I have a Grace to beg. Not that I'd ask  
Ungrateful Favours from You. But methinks  
From all your long long Hours of happier Blisses,  
Herminia, sure, may beg one borrowed Minute—  King 
That painful Minute aside.  Her. 
There was once a day  
When underneath my Native Royal Roof,  
Th' Imperial Towers of the proud Indian Court,  
To my first Virgin Charms a gaudy Train  
Of suppliant Kings, all Captives to my Eyes  
Knelt at my Feet, unless their Sighs deceiveed me,  
(For they were men and 'tis a flattering World)  
I think (if you have not quite forgot) my Lord  
Was one of that fair Train, and loved me too,  
Or else my Virgin heart was poorly won.  
I think you loved— But if I am mistaken,  
Correct my Fault, and I will weep and mend it.  King. 
This is too much thou murmuring Sweetness:  
Dry up thy Tears, and weep no more.  Herm. 
No more!  King. 
No more; for trust me  
It is a shower too rich to fall for me.  Herm. 
Ah King, to dry these ever streaming Sorrows,  
Is not my work but Thine. To stop these Fountains  
Shut thou the springs that feed 'em. Ah my Lord,  
Remove the fatal cause of all these Tears  
And then I'll cease to mourn.  King. 
Alas Herminia!  
Upbraid my Guilt no more; but think me punished  
Even in my very Sin: for when I am false  
To so much Truth, a Love like thine; 'tis with  
That conscious Shame, and those accusing Horrors—  Herm. 
That pleasing Pride and those transporting Charms:  
Thou wouldst say— Poor Herminia, has no Charms  
Or if she e'er had any, even their very  
Remembrance, like a last night's Dream, the thin  
And vanishing Shadow gone, they are all lost  
In Celestina's Arms, that fatal Ravisher  
Of all my hopes, my Joys, my Life.  King. 
Ah Madam,  
Cease this too killing Theme: consider me  
As a poor helpless Wretch driven headlong by  
An unaccountable resistless Power.  
Alas, I would be faithful if I could.  
All that I can, command my bleeding heart,  
My bending Neck, my Head beneath thy Feet:  
These I can grant; but do not ask impossibles.  Herm. 
Impossibles! nay then I read my Fate.  King. 
If it be Fate 'tis past our humane power  
To reverse Destiny, and in submitting  
THE immutable Decree exalted Virtue  
Exerts her noblest Wisdom Patience.  Herm. 
Patience. Enter Tygranes.  
Yes Sir you take the nearest way to teach it me,  
For when your strange unkindness gives me death,  
I shall be hushed all Patience in my Grave.  King. 
Madam, my Charity takes me from your sight  
The greatest Height of pity we express  
To shut our Ears from Griefs we can't redress. Offering to go.  Herm. 
Oh stay upon my Knees I do conjure you.  
Move not that way: That killing passage leads  
To Celestina; And in all your Cruelty  
Show that poor Mercy to the lost Herminia,  
To stay one little Minute from her Arms.  Tygr. 
Oh King, can so much Beauty plead in vain?  
All those rich pearl, those dear fair Streams of Life  
Drop from those Eyes and unreguarded fall.  King. 
My Brother!  Tygr. 
My dread Lord, couldst thou but think  
What Glory waits on Majesty, where Virtue  
Shines the bright Gem of Diadems, that sweetness  
Need not have Knelt thus long.  King. 
Tygranes!  Tygr. 
Thou dear all Sovereign Goodness, turn but one  
Kind look, and view that lovely Kneeling Mourner  
Charming in Tears, and beauteous even in Ruins.  Herm. 
Kind Prince, no more: spend not thy prodigal Breath  
On a poor Outcast Wretch, not worth his Thought.  Tygr. 
But one one Look. Think but what charms invite thee.  
Humanity, Religion, Nature; the  
Whole pitying World entreats thee back to Love.  
Oh Sir consider raise your mounting Thoughts  
To the exalted charms of Godlike Virtue:  
Think what soft Down in Love's rich Bed of Honour,  
Fills the calm pillows of embracing Innocence.  King. 
Oh my Tygranes.  Herm. 
Yes my dear loved Lord  
In these encircling Arms these chaste Embraces  
No guilty Dreams the starts of frighted sin  
And pangs of aching guilt will wake your sleeps,  
But fair all Heavenly Forms seal your closed Eyes,  
And Quires of Angels lull your Golden slumbers.  King, 
Alas my poor Herminia,  Herm. 
Oh my Stars!  
I see a dawning pity in his Eyes  
Break forth my rising Sun and make it all  
Immortal Day and ever shining Joys.  
Take Take your kneeling Mourner to your Arms;  
Take me to love, be kind and bid me live,  
And stab my bleeding breaking Heart no more.  King. 
Thou talk'st, sweet Murmurer—  Tygr. 
Oh Sir embrace the blessed Minute,  
Return to her dear Arms, return to all  
The Joys of Earth and the Rewards of Heaven:  
Think but what shining Host of Suppliant Saints  
Expand their Arms t' embrace thy blessed Repentance.  King. 
My dear Tygranes,  
My Fame, my Crown, and my Imperial Cause  
Call thee to Arms, to Arms: My mustered Legions,  
And marching Armies wait thee in their head.  
Go forth my Son of War: the great To morrow  
Leads to the Field.  Tygra. 
Doubt not that great To morrow;  
Be you but Just to day. Run to her Bosom:  
Oh run, and take her to your pitying Mercy,  
Myriad of Joys and thousand thousand Blisses—  King. 
Battles and Arms! Hark the Shrill Trump Tygranes,  
The Alarm of Honour calls.  Tygra. 
The Trump of Virtue, King;  
'Tis that that sounds to call thy wandering Heart  
To these abandoned Arms.  King. 
The Scythian Tyrant,  
And Clarismunda's Wrongs.  Tygr. 
The Scythian Sorceress, Exit King forcing himself from them.  
And lost Herminia's, Wounds.  Queen. 
Too cruel King.  
Sure I am not the first unhappy Woman  
That wept for Broken Vows, and faithless Man:  
Yet sure the first that ever wept so soon:  
So Young, so early lost, i'th' very Morn  
Of Love for ever set— Put generous Prince.  
So much I owe thee for this wondrous Goodness;  
What kind Return can this vast Debt defray?  
What I am too Poor I must beg Heaven to pay. Exit.  Tygr. 
Such charms and this unkind Return! Ah King,  
Had those dear Eyes but smiled on blessed Tygranes  
How had I loved! Oh Beauty, in thy whole Divinity  
How narrow is thy Attribute of Mercy;  
Thy Sovereign power of Life and Death so shackled,  
That in a thousand Bleeding hearts before thee,  
Thy kind repreiving smile can save but one!  
Nay, and that very single Mercy too  
Is often dealt with that unlucky Hand,  
Made some ungrateful tasteless Infidels prize,  
Whilst perishing Truth stands by and starving dyes. Exit.  
Finis Actus Tertij.   

ACT. IV. SCENE. I.  Celestina and Rosalin. Cel. 
TH' Embraces of a King! Poor Satisfaction!  
A Monarch's Darling, but a Kingdoms Loathing.  
All a dishonoured Blot, the World's cheap Theme,  
And common Tale of every grinning slave.  
The Queen!— Ay, she even in her lowest sufferings  
Outshines my tallest Pride. The people's Love  
And th' universal pity of mankind  
Like perfumed Sweets embalm her fragrant Fame.  
But me their Hate and Scorn; my very Sex  
Stand at a Bay all frighted at my Name  
And drive me like a hunted Fugitive  
From out the Herd of Life. I cannot bear it.  Ros. 
Dear Madam—  Cel. 
Oh thou lying Oracle, where's  
My promised Mountains, all your Boasted Miracles!  
No; Flattering falsehood, tell thy Lord of Darkness  
There is no Faith in Hell. Didst thou not Promise  
False Prophetess, that I should reign in Pleasure.  Ros. 
If Sovereignty, Dominion; if to hold  
A King in Chains, and Crowns in Vassalage, be  
To reign in Pleasure, she has performed that Promise.  Cel. 
A King my Slave! poor narrow-bounded Throne!  
Thin empty Bliss; for in Possessing His,  
I have lost the Hearts of all the World beside.  
Nay what has all my mighty Conquest made me  
That little despicable Wretch a Harlot.  
Oh the foul Blister, Cankers and Diseases!  
Is there that humblest of my cringing Flatterers,  
That waits th' uprising of my morning Smile,  
And pays me his (All Hail) for the snatched blessing,  
Even with those Lips that kiss the Earth I move on,  
No sooner is his fawning Face turned from me,  
But with a low reviling Eye puts forth  
His forked Tongue and hisses at my Shame.  Ros. 
Why all this foolish Murmur! Thus concerned  
For that Course Vulgar Blast the Popular Breath!  
Does your exalted Greatness want Their Love!  
It is enough they fear you. Fear the noblest  
Prerogative, 'twas Fear that first made Gods.  Cel. 
No, Girl, this Shallow Sophistry—  Ros. 
Nay Madam  
Your Witches and your Propheycing Devils  
I'm sure have done their Part. And if you have still  
A giddy roving uncontented Thought,  
E'en blame your own unsatisfyed desires:  
If Woman's vain Ambition covets more  
Than all Hell has to give, 'tis not Hell's Fault but Woman's.  Cel. 
But oh my Rosalin, I cannot bear  
This public Odium of the World and live.  
Only the Mistress of his loose Desires.  
His burning Kisses all but Sooty Fires.  
That little Outly of his Love, his Mistress.  Ros. 
His Mistress!  
Why would you be his Queen?  Cel. 
His Queen! Ay, that's  
A name indeed, that Sacred Post of Honour;  
Myriad of pleasures wait the hallowed Brightness;  
A Solid Heaven of Constellated Blisses,  
Substantial Power, untainted Glory: Then  
I should have Hearts as well as Knees to serve me.  Ros. 
His Queen!— Why truly Madam, since your Wishes  
Must soar so high, I know no wondrous Stops  
That hold their Flight, considering your Ascendant,  
The Eyes you wear, and the fond Heart you govern  Cel. 
Ha▪  Ros. 
Were the Gordian Bar removed between you.  
The golden Fruit would meet your reaching Hand,  
And fairly bid you carve your own Desires.  Cel. 
The Gordian Bar removed! and fairly carve  
My own Desires!— What Bar but poor Herminia?  
That feeble Thread— Thou dear inspiring Devil!  
Oh what a mountain Thought of vast Ambition—  
Comes pouring o'er me like a rolling Deluge.  Ros. 
Madam, Young Mirvan the Queen's favourite Eunuch.  
Waits for Access as your petitioner.  Cel. 
Mirvan!  
Admit him. Enter Mirvan.  Mir. 
Madam, amongst the universal Knees  
All bending to salute the rising Sun,  
Might poor I dare t'implore one smiling Beam.  Cel. 
Push thy fair suit, and try thy generous Fortune.  Miru. 
Then Madam, I've a Brother, and a Brother  
Not born like me to curse his riffled Cradle:  
A Brother that writes Man, and would write Man  
In Characters of Blood. A Youth that dares  
As much as Courage can, or Honour aught.  
And tho' his praise suits not my Mouth, to give  
Fair Truth her due, he wears a Sword, he thinks  
Too brave to rust, a Boy that would lead Men;  
And therefore begs by me your gracious Interest  
For a Commission for him.  Cel. 
If thy Brother,  
Sweet Boy, but fights with half the Grace thou suest  
He might lead Arms: Well, kind Advocate,  
He shall have a Commission, and a Noble one.  Miru. 
Thus low my Kneeling Gratitude—  Cel. 
Rise Mirvin.—  
This Boy well managed— aside.  
Rise, my pretty Suppliant,  
Thou look'st and talk'st so winningly, there's nothing  
I can deny to that petitioning Face.  Miru. 
My Face! 'Tis well  
I have a Face to beg a Lady's favour. aside.  Cel. 
Well, gentle Boy, such early Wit as Thine  
Tells me thou know'st the World. How dost thou like  
The pleasures of a Court!  Miru. 
How should I like  
What I want power to taste?  Cel. 
Nay, fie, my Boy.  
Thou wrong'st my Innocent meaning.  Miru. 
Then to answer  
Your Innocent meaning with an Equal Innocence,  
That downright Truth your Bounty merits from me  
How can I love the Court who hate the World?  Cel. 
Thou hate it. What have Thy young Years to quarrel at,  
That thou shouldst hate the World!  Miru. 
I had a Father in't.  
And for his sake I hate it.  Cel. 
For his sake!  Miru. 
A poor meanspirited Slave, that got me Man,  
And for a wretched Bribe of the Court Gold  
Unmade the Thing he got me— For which I owe him  
My honest hearty Curses in his Grave,  
And for his sake hate the whole loathed Creation.  Cel. 
How Mirvan if thou hat'st the whole Creation,  
Thou must hate me, and 'tis not safe to talk with thee.  Miru. 
Nay Madam (and believe I Scorn to flatter)  
Of all the hated World I love you best:  
Because I fancy all those Charms were given you  
To do a little Mischief in the World,  
That darling Mistress of Eyes dear Mischief.  Cel. 
Hate the whole world beside? and I alone  
The favourite! Nay this is kind indeed.  
But may I trust that Kindness?  Mir. 
Trust me Madam!  
Now by those Eyes I swear, those bright Incendiaryes  
What is't I dare not do to serve that fair Destruction.  
Play the proud Juno and command me Labours  
Like a young Hercules; and if I shrink or tire  
Say I've a Soul as abject and as base  
As the poor frame the Imp of man that holds it.  Cel. 
This is so generous—  Miru. 
Trust me say you.  
Nay I will trust you First; and with a secret  
Of that prodigious weight.  Cel. 
The rarest Tool!  Miru. 
Know then the Queen, the more then Widowed Queen,  
Too sad a Mourner at your fatal Triumph  
In pure Despair for her deserting Lord  
Resolves this very night—  Cel. 
Oh my big Hopes! aside.  Mir. 
In a disguise to leave the Court and Kingdom;  
And bury all her Sorrows in a Cloister.  Cel. 
To my best wish! [aside.]  Mir. 
For this Religious Voyage  
Who should she choose her Pilot but myself;  
Her singular Trust of my confiding Truth,  
Has picked out Me, her only leading Guide  
T' her Melancholy Cell.  
Peruse this Letter,  
Committed to my Care to leave behind her  
As her last farewell to her unkind Lord.  Cel. 
Reads.  
Letter.  
That I have loved you even to a Superstition, planted my very Heaven in Love, the Transports of my Despair too plainly testify. But when my feeble frailty can bear my Wrongs no longer, pardon the Effects of what Your Unkindness is but the too fatal Cause, when I thus fly from so much Inhumanity to the Arms of a kinder Heaven.  
Herminia.  Mir. 
Now Madam, as you like it, make your best on't.  Cel. 
Oh Mirvan! now I must believe thou lovest me.  
This is so kind a Trust. Thou toldst me too  
That thou lov'dst Mischief.  Mir. 
Faith, woned You durst try.  
How much I love it.  Cel. 
Sayst thou so, my Boy!  
Nay than dar'st thou be kind, and let me in  
A Party to this Plot, a kind Assistant  
To hand this Mourning Wanderer to her Cell!  
Say, dar'st thou let me choose her Cloister for her?  Mir. 
With all my Soul. If any Noble Spite  
Glow warm within your Breast, set it a blazing.  
At that sweet Game form your own dearest Wish,  
And mould Your slave to serve you.  Cel. 
To my Arms  
Thou kindest little Engine, serve me, but  
As the Rewards I'll pay thee shall deserve,  
And melt me into Gold.  Mir. 
Alas dear Madam,  
There needs not a Reward to buy my Faith.  
Be but your Great Designs what I can wish 'em,  
Without the needless Bribe of Gold or Treasure,  
I would give Wealth to purchase such a pleasure. Exeunt.  Scene Changes. Enter Orontes disguised. Oron. 
From Scythia's Throne, and my proud Army's Head,  
From softer Majesty, and rougher Wars  
All glittering Plumes, all my once bright Regalia  
Stripped to this narrow shroud to wrap my Woes,  
And bring my Death to Clarismunda's Feet.  
Oh Love! How unaccountable's thy Power.  Enter Clarismunda attended. Clar. 
From that loathed Name—  Oront. 
From that loathed Name Orontes  
To that loved Heaven, his cruel Clarismunda,  
He has commanded these Commissioned Knees  
To beg one listening Minute.  Clar. 
Your Petition  
Is an Ungrateful Theme. Yet I am not  
So deaf to my worst Foe, but my kind Patience  
Shall lend the Ear thou ask'st.  Oront. 
Thus then by me  
That Sentenced Criminal speaks. If by that fairest Hand  
Death shakes his Glass, and waves his Brandished Shaft;  
If executing Destiny's gone forth,  
And meager Graves with all their hungry Yawn  
Wait their last Gorge of poor Orontes Blood:  
To his adored destroying Angels Ear,  
Thus breathe his Dying Accents.— Oh Bright Madam!  
If Tears that would melt Rocks, if Groans enough  
To wake the Sleep of Tombs; if tortured Conscience  
Above the very Pangs of lost Eternity.  
And to all these a Penitence so true,  
Enough to unlock Heaven.— If these, all these  
Might beg his Life from Cruel Clarismunda,—  Clar. 
Could all these beg his Life—  Oront. 
And with that Life  
His Clarismunda's Love  Clar. 
My Love!  Oront 
Thy Love,  
Dear, all Divine! For without Love 'tis Death still.  
Oh could that dear forgiving Mercy take  
A pardoned Penitent to those dear Arms,  
Not Ransomed Slavery, not Life Reprieved,  
Not Crowned Ambition, nor translated Martyr,  
Halfpenny, half so blessed as he! To those fair Eyes  
He'd raise those Monuments of mighty Love  
Should outlive Worlds; and finishing Time close up  
His last Recorded Volume with the Story  
How blessed Orontes loved.  Clar. 
Mistaken Advocate  
To have tried the Eloquence of those soft Sounds,  
They should have spoke before Orsanes Death.  Oront. 
And does that Louring Vision wake for ever;  
The lost Orontes Crime so all impardonable!  Clar. 
So impardonable, that  
To leave the World with my loud wrongs unrighted,  
When I shall meet my great Forefathers Souls,  
'Twould make me blush in Heaven.  Oront. 
Too Cruel Fair!  Clar. 
Sir, I must hear no more. Go bear your Master  
This Answer, as my fixed Eternal Vow,  
I will have my Revenge: But tell him too  
So much I owe to his Repenting Tears  
That when my Arming Wrongs that hunted Blood  
Shall spill, I'll give the Executing Blow,  
Calm as the Priestess at an Altar Kills,  
Yet still must Kill.  Oront. 
But can that Beauteous Priestess  
Accept no gentler Sacrifice, no less  
Appeasing Victim than the poor Orontes  
All streaming Blood? And is one Thought of Mercy  
That strange Impossible?  Clar. 
So much Impossible,  
Perhaps beyond the Grave I may forgive him,  
On this side Death I must not.  Oront. 
Then dear Cruelty, Discovers himself.  
Take, take my thirsted Blood.  Clar. 
Good Gods, Orontes!  
Oh King! How poorly thou hast thyself undone?  
Hast put thy wretched Life into my Power;  
And I must tamely take it. Hadst thou met  
My Nobler Vengeance in thy Army's head,  
Thrust thy bold Breast against ten thousand Javelins,  
Thou might'st have fallen with Honour, Honour, King!  
But now, now I must take this poor Advantage.  
(Thou killest Orsanes poorly)  
Forget thou art a King, Uncrowned, Unthroned,  
Led like a Vulgar Slave, bound in Vile Chains,  
And at the Tomb of the great Cyrus, there,  
There through thy humble naked yielding Throat  
Hue out my Vengeance, carve thy bleeding Heart  
A Sacrifice to Clarismunda's wrongs.  
My Guards, my Slaves there. Enter Attendants, Guards.  1 Attend. 
Madam, Your Commands?  Clar. 
If your lost Honour, and your bleeding Country,  
An injured Monarch, and a Kingdom's shame,  
Can rouse your Swords—  Oront. 
Strike, strike 'em through this Breast.  
Yes, generous Persians, behold before ye  
The black Orontes, Scythias Tyrant Lord,  
Stained in the Blood of Thousand, Thousand Persians;  
And the deplored Orsanes barbarous Murderer.  
But bear me to the Tomb of your great Cyrus;  
There hue your Vengeance, carve my bleeding Heart  
A Sacrifice to Clarismundas Wrongs.  Clar. 
So pleased with Fate! Then thou'rt in love with Death!  Oront. 
So much in Love, that on my Knees I'll meet it.  
I wear a Load of useless Life about me;  
And thou'rt so kind to ease me of my Burden.  
Now Gentlemen, perform your Royal Charge:  
Bear me to Death, to Death with the Vile Monster.  
Loaded with Chains, led forth a public Spectacle  
To pointing Infamy and hissing Scorn:  
For that fair Doom will have it so.  Clar. 
Will have it so!  Orant. 
Quick, quick, ye tedious Slaves  
Can she speak Death, and you want Wings to execute?  
Let not Crown'd-Head, nor King, those titular Sounds  
Tie up your Hands, those forfeit Names my Crimes  
And this wronged Fair—  
But bear me to my Death, to Scaffolds, Gibbets,  
Stripped to a Naked Dungeon Malefactor,  
Tread my crushed Soul.—  Clar. 
Stand off ye Impious Villains!  
A Monarch's Blood, and shed by Hangman's hands!  
Oh, whither was my Fleeting Glory going!  
His bending Neck like a tame bleating Sacrifice,  
A stroke beneath my Scorn— But haste Arsaces.  
Raise all my Persian Guards, and in their Head  
Go, bear him back, back to his moving Armies,  
Safe to his headed Legions. There Orontes,  
At the Proud Front of all thy Royal Squadrons,  
With Groves of Spears, and walling Shields around thee,  
Rich in thy Crested Plumes, and Glittering Steel,  
Worthy the Persian Swords, and Clarismundas Vengeance,  
Strike then my Arm of Fate.  Oront. 
Oh wondrous Honour!  
Even in amazing Cruelty!  Clar. 
Yes Scythian.  
Though all the Persian Bolts  
Are leveled at that Heart, thy Blood Orontes,  
My whole rich Game of Death; yet not to snare  
My hunted Lion in Ignoble Toils—  
No, King; Return, return; thy Crown, thy Arms,  
And Royal Standard want thy leading Sword.—  Oront. 
So brave a Foe!—  Clar. 
Reserve thy Sword thy Answer:  
Armed at the head of slaughtered Fields, there Scythian  
Fall thy great self, Die warm my Royal Enemy;  
To morrows hotter Veins my Vengeance pay:  
Thy Blood Orontes is too cold to Day. Exit.  Oront. 
Die warm! Yes, Generous Foe, thy envied Glory  
Shall light my Fire; Despair to Fury turn:  
In my last Flash my brightest Blaze shall burn.  
Through Blood and Death move on 'gainst all thy odds,  
Thy Wrongs, the Arming World, and battailing Gods!  
For by those Eyes a Sacrifice decreed,  
'Tis just I should a glorious Victim bleed. Exit.  Scene Changes. Enter Celestina, and Rosalin. Cel. 
The Bolt is shot, and now a Crown stand fair. aside.  Ros. 
Madam, I'm all Amazement at the News!  Cel. 
Amazed, at what? To hear a mad young wife  
Has took a Midnight's Ramble!  Ros. 
But the Queen!  
Oh Madam! Certainly some strange Despair  
Has caused this Secret Flight, perhaps to seek  
Some solitary Grot to Sigh and Die.  Cel. 
To Sigh and Die! Poor innocent Simplicity!  
What if she's stolen to some retiring Solitude,  
To meet a private Lover?  Ros. 
How! a Lover!  Cel. 
Mark the Truth, I tell thee  
That very thing a Lover.  Ros. 
'Tis impossible!  
Such Tears, and so much Nuptial Faith—  Cel. 
Why, All  
That's nothing: Woman's Truth like Woman's Beauty,  
Is not a thing Immortal.  Ros. 
But dear Madam,  
Herminias rigid Principles of Honour,  
And her fond Sighs even for her Faithless Lord,  
Admit a Lawless Love!  Cel. 
Though it be Lawless  
Is it not Love still, Fool? Enter King.  King. 
Dear Sovereign of my Soul,  
Asia's fair Pride, and Persia's more than Conqueror,  
Thou all amazing Brightness to my Bosom.  Cel. 
Oh Prince! Encircled in these Arms, methinks  
The Transport of my Joys bears my winged soul so high  
Till I look down on Under-Worlds beneath me.  King. 
Look down indeed, thou dear Triumphant Fair,  
Whilst those poor Under-Worlds all blushing own  
Their whole Creation cannot match these Eyes.  Cel. 
Nay, now you flatter.  King. 
By those sweets I cannot.  
For thine are Charms above the reach of Flattery.  
But, Madam, t'add one Trophy to your Eyes,  
The poor Resenting Queen (wouldst thou believe it)  
Is this Night fled from Court.  Cel. 
Alas, poor pitied Sweetness!  King. 
Prithee be kind, and Read this murmuring Scroll,  
A Farewell Letter she has left behind her.  Celestina. Reads. 
That I have Loved you to a Superstition, planted my very Heaven in Love.— Your Unkindness is the too Fatal Cause when I thus fly— to the Arms of a kinder Heaven.  
Herminia.  King. 
That she is gone, and th'angry Cause that drives her,  
Her Letter speaks too plain. But whither gone?  
That she has wrapped in Mystery. I suppose  
I must be kept in Darkness from that Secret.  Gel. 
Darkness and Mystery! Why is there any thing  
In this plain, easy, naked, honest Letter  
Writ in that cipher that it wants a Key to't?  King. 
Why, Canst thou Read her meaning?  Cel. 
Fie, my Lord,  
Can you not Read it?— Why this idle Question?  
You will not Read it, Sir.— And 'tis so generous  
I love you for this goodness.  King. 
Will not Read it!  Cel. 
Ay, will not, must not: And 'tis Noble in you.  
A little innocent Ignorance is sometimes  
A Manly Virtue, worthy even a King.  King. 
Madam, This is all Riddle!  Cel. 
Riddle!— Nay, Sir, as if you did not know  
Where, and to whose Embracing Arms she's gone.  King. 
Arms, and Embraces!  Cel. 
Ah poor Lady!  
We little guess the pains of slighted Love.  
But her Despair has took the wisest remedy.  
Her Griefs found a very gentle Cure.  
Nay, she's so kind to make it her Confession,  
And you're more kind to wink at little Frailties  King. 
Still you talk in Clouds.  
Has she made you the Confident of her Flight,  
Or is there aught couched in that mystic Scroll  
My shallow Reason has not depth to fathom!  
If so, 'twere kind you would instruct my weakness.  Cel. 
Nay, if you'll force me then to play th'interpreter,  
T'explain a Ladies blushing weakness. Mark Sir—  
She tells you first she loved t' a Superstition,  
Planted her very Heaven in your embraces.  
And when that slighting unkind Heaven forsakes her,  
Tells you, as honestly, to supply your room,  
She's chose the Arms of a much kinder Heaven;  
And pray what Heaven, what Arms, but kind Tygranes?  King. 
My Brother! ha!  Cel. 
You know he's gone to th' Camp:  
And she's as kindly gone to meet him there.  King. 
God's! 'tis impossible▪  Cel. 
Nay, to convince you.  
'Tis now stale news, even Boys and Varlets talk it.  King. 
Confusion!  Cel. 
The young Mirvan, Sirs, my Oracle.  
That ushering Squire to her amorous Errantry;  
The Boy (as Boys will talk) the mighty Secret  
Alas, too weighty for his tender strength,  
Amongst his small Companions at their parting,  
Dropped it behind him, and the Tale thus handed  
Amongst my laughing Slaves it reached my Ear.  King. 
So hot my Minion,  
A follower of a Camp,  
A Leaguer Devil.—  Cel. 
Nay, now you're too unkind. What has she done!  
Remember, Sir, she brought you Youth and Beauty,  
And scarcely tasted Love before she lost it;  
And if poor Lady, forsaken thus unkindly,  
It takes some harmless freedom. Is't so great  
A Fault in our poor Sex to look abroad  
Only to borrow what we've lost at home!  King. 
My Brother too, that Preaching Saint her Stallion!  Cel. 
Oh fie, Sir, such hard Words, and such sad Names!  King. 
Damnation! This is Impudence enough  
To fire the Veins of Statues. Had she played  
The private Wanton, took her 'scapes in Covert,  
In Groves or Shades— But in the face of Day.  
To run t' a Camp, and publish my Dishonour  
Before Two hundred thousand Witnesses,  
Like a trailed Scent for the whole Hunting World  
To run me down a Monster—  Cel. 
Now the kind Gods defend your Sacred Peace.  
Why all this Rage?  King. 
Death! At an Army's head;  
The Din of War to tune her sporting Dalliance,  
‛ Larmed to Lust, and Trumpeted to Infamy!  Cel. 
Nay, if I thought I should have raised this Storm!—  King. 
Now, by the Fame of all my Royal Ancestors  
That sleep beneath the Dust, or wake above the Stars  
If I show Mercy on 'em—  Cel. 
How, Sir, Mercy!  King. 
Bring the returning Fiends but to my reach;  
Not interceding Victory, Crowns, Laurels,  
The Conquered Scythia, nor Orontes Head  
Shall buy their forfeit Lives.  Cel. 
How, Sir, their Lives! Oh Heavens what have I done!  King. 
Madam, forgive me one retiring Minute,  
And think no common Fire my Bosom warms,  
When it has power to snatch me from these Arms. Exit.  Cel. 
Both, both their Lives! A hearty Promise King,  
And I'll take care thou shalt perform as heartily.  
Yes, through their Hearts my path to Empire lies;  
Chalked out so plain my Devils must booty play,  
If in so fair a Walk I miss my way. Exeunt  Scene, A Camp Enter Herminia and Mirvan. Miru. 
Command the Chariot to attend.  Queen. 
Where is't thou leadest me, Boy!  Miru. 
To a Cloister, Madam.  
The silent Cell for your reposing Sorrows.  Queen. 
But Boy, is this my way! Methinks I hear,  
The sound of neighing Steeds, and echoing Trumpets,  
And view a spacious Plain before me, covered  
With Tents and Standarts, say, my gentle Boy  
Where am I?  Miru. 
In the Camp?  Queen. 
Ha! In the Camp.  Miru. 
The Persian Camp.  Queen. 
Oh Boy, What hast thou done?  Miru. 
Nothing, dear Madam; only executed  
Your dread Commands.  Queen. 
Mine!  Miru. 
Since the Glorious choice  
Of your retiring Solitude, a shrine  
Worthy so bright a Saint, was Charge, too weighty  
For my young Years, I have conducted you  
This way, that kind Tygranes—  Queen. 
How! Tygranes!  Miru. 
Yes, Madam, that that generous Prince's care  
May be your Nobler Guide, and kindly finish  
That Sacred Trust my weakness undeserves.  Queen. 
Good Heaven! The Prince!  Miru. 
Madam, I have sent for him.  
Pardon th'officious Zeal of your poor Slave.  Queen. 
Thou rash unthinking Boy Enter Tygranes.  Miru. 
And see he's here.  Tygr. 
Madam, a pleasing, but surprising Message  
Told me, that that all beauteous Excellence  
My Camp thus Honoured with her Royal Presence,  
Was pleased t'have some Commands for poor Tygranes.  Queen. 
Commands, Tygranes! No; that idle Boy,  
That naughty thing— Oh Prince, I am all Confusion.  Tygr. 
Let not a faint desire check your fair Thoughts.  
Nor doubt your Vassals Honours, nor Obedience  
If there's aught lodged within that Sacred Breast,  
There needs no more than that dear Breath of Life,  
To speak and to create.  Queen. 
Alas Tygranes,  
I know not what to say: And yet my Silence  
Has such a guilty Look Forgive my Blushes,  
And I will speak, Oh Prince, despairing Loves  
Tormenting Pangs have brought this wretched wanderer,  
Stolen from a hated Court.  Tygr. 
How, Madam!  Queen. 
Stolen  
From all the Sirens Songs, and Circe's Bowls  
That from these Arms have stolen my dearest Lord.  
I have left th'uneasy Load of tarnished Diadems,  
In some lone Cell to seek my Peace and Grave—  
But this unlucky Guide, this foolish Boy—  Miru. 
My Royal Mistress too much Honoured Confident.  
But the important Charge too great, my Zeal  
For her dear Service has surprised her hither,  
Only t'implore your kind assisting Hand—  Tygr. 
Madam, in this rash Deed, what have you done!  Queen. 
Done Tygranes!  
Left Infidelity, Ingratitude,  
False Oaths, gay Sin, and glittering shame behind me.  Tygr. 
Yes left Shame, to meet Shame.  Queen. 
What says Tygranes!  Tygr. 
What all Mankind must say. Oh Madam, think,  
Think what reflecting Names the censuring World  
Must give so frail a weakness. Fled from Court,  
Run, poorly run!  Queen. 
Yes, with my wrongs.  Tygr. 
Wrongs, Madam!  
Are Wrongs so heavy as to outweigh Honour!  Queen. 
And is it that dishonourable Flight  
To quit the World, to seek the Arms of Heaven?  Tygr. 
Heaven must be sought as Heaven prescribes our seeking  
Thou art a Wife, Herminia; and the Seal  
Of plighted Faith, entailed Obedience on thee.  
Is this Commissioned Flight thy Lords Command?  
Or 'cause he breaks his Vows, must thou break thine?  Queen. 
What's this I hear?  Tygr. 
Wouldst thou seek Heaven, Herminia,  
A noble Patience is thy Scale to mount it.  
Is it a pain to live too near thy wrongs,  
To see thy Lord run Faithless from thy Arms  
To an Adultress Bed? Let thy wet Eyes  
Turn from his Shame, and weep for his Conversion.  
If he be False, wait his return to Truth:  
But if he ne'er return, perform Thy part:  
Finish thy lingering mourning Race of Martyrdom  
And ' win the Crown of Love.  Queen. 
Oh Prince, thou talk'st—  Tygr. 
As thou shouldst Act Herminia. But this mean  
Ignoble Flight will blemish all thy Brightness.  
Thy Fame, thy Virtue, thy Religion, all  
stand frighted at the Thought.  Queen. 
Kind Prince, no more.  Tygr. 
Yes, one thing more, let my prevailing Prayers  
Recall thy wandering Reason, and return thee  
To thy ungrateful Lord.  Queen. 
Enough, dear Prince,  
You've waked my Shame, and touched my Soul so near,  
That I must follow where such Glory leads:  Tygr. 
Then instantly I'll dispatch a kind Express  
T'excuse thy blushing Fault, and smooth thy way.  
Till then, this Night accept a poor Pavilion;  
Too mean a Palace: But Respect and Reverence  
Shall make up what the humble Roof has wanting.  Queen. 
Dispose me as you please.  Tygr. 
To Morrow's Sun decides the face of Scythia.  
If Victory shall please t'attend my Chariot,  
I'll be myself thy proud returning Guard.  
But if I fall, with my last dying Breath  
To the surviving World I will bequeath thee,  
A charge worthy the World, protected Innocence.  Miru. 
It goes on rarely.  Tyg. 
Look up, dear Madam; Heaven may still have Joys;  
Reserved. But if of all all hopes bereft,  
Thy wrongs are all thy mournful portion left;  
Shine through thy Clouds, bear thy fair Head above  
The frowning World, and mount a smiling Star.  
In all thy Loads, too low disdain to stoop  
'Tis brave to suffer, when 'tis poor to droop.  Queen. 
Herm. Oh Prince, thou hast read me so Divine a Lesson▪  
And painted Ruin in a Face so lovely,  
That thou hast tuned my Soul to all the Music  
Of a whole Choir of Angels, Yes Tygranes,  
To my too cruel Lord I will return  
Return to all the Pangs, to all the Miseries  
Of ever mourning Love; Life's bitter Draught  
Lift to my Lips with that unshaking Hand—  
For oh thou hast taught me to be greatly wretched  
To be Divinely Blessed.  Tygr. 
Do this Herminia!  Queen. 
No more my wandering Pilgrimage, no, Prince,  
I'll build my House of Sorrow in a Palace,  
Under my Roof of Gold a Hermit dwell;  
A Court my Cloister, and a Throne my Cell. Exeunt all but Miru.  Miru. 
So now the Toil is set, and dear Destruction  
Comes rolling on apace. What a vast Pile  
Of Ruin shall I build. 'Tis hard Herminia,  
And I could pity thee— Why should I pity?  
My bloody Cradle, and my barbarous Parents,  
And shall I feel remorse; when even my Father  
To his own Blood ne'er felt it. No, vain pity,  
Seek softer Breasts; mine has no room to lodge thee.  
Besides, I move by that commanding Influence  
I know not, Celestina, by what Charm  
But thou hast bound my Soul, and Nerved my Arm,  
Joined in thy Cause, we that bright Comet Reign,  
Thou the Fair Star, and I the Blazing Train. Exit.   

ACT V.  Enter Celestina, Mirvan, and Rosalin. Cel. 
REturning home Victorious!  Mir. 
If to leave  
A hundred thousand Foes in Battle slain.  
If Conquered Scythia, and the great Orontes  
Led home in Persian Chains can write Victorious,  
Tygranes wears that Title.  Cel. 
And to grace  
His Victory he brings the beauteous Fugitive  
A fair Attendants t'his Triumphant Chariot,  
To court the Kind forgiving King's Reception  
Of the returning Wanderer.  Mir. 
If her Religious Ramble (as I've managed it)  
Has not a little paved her Path too rough,  
Some such good natured Office he intends her.  Cel. 
And thou my little Harbinger kindly com'st  
Before 'em to prepare me for their Welcome.  Mir. 
Yes, Madam, That's my Errand. For to give  
Myself, and dear sweet Villainy their due,  
Mischief and I have both rid Post to serve you.  Cel. 
My dearest little Devil, how I love thee!  
But, Mirvan, after this first lucky hit,  
Darest thou be generous, and play out thy Game!  Mir. 
Dare! Can you doubt my Courage, or my Constancy?  
Is glorious Treason a design too great,  
Or this Young Arm too dastard? Have I launched  
Thus far and stood thus firm to stagger now?  
By my fair Truth this poor Suspicion wrongs me.  Cel. 
It does indeed, sweet Youth, forgive my Fears:  
I know thy honest Truth too well— to trust it. aside.  
But my kind Boy, I am afraid I have kept thee  
Awake too long. I know this Night's hard Travel  
Has tired thy tender Limbs, and thou want'st Rest.  
To Bed, my Boy; and when thou hast reposed awhile  
I'll send, my pretty Engineer, and call thee.  
Retire sweet Boy, and Sleep— Exit Mirvan.  
— Thy last; young Fool.  
Thy Bed, thy Grave. Yes, my kind honest Traitor  
Thy hand has done me too much faithful Service  
To leave thee a dangerous Tongue alive to spoil it.  
Besides my little Tool, my ripining Plot  
Has business for thy Death: And bet thy Glory:  
As thou hast lived, so thou shalt serve me Dead.  
And therefore sleep thy last.— Now my designs  
Are all in my own Breast. Treason's a Jewel  
When the rich Cabinet has but one Key.  
They're only truly Great who are safely so.  Ros. 
Well, Madam, Your Propheticks are all Oracles:  
And the mad roving Queens amazing Ramble  
Has filled the World with wonder.  Cel. 
Fame indeed  
Talks something loud.—  Ros. 
'Tis true, the Prince has sent a soft Express,  
And smoothly laid it all upon Religion.  Celestina 
Religion in a Camp.— Ah, Girl, if the  
Soft King has easy Faith enough about him  
To think no warmer a Devotion hatched  
This gentle Pilgrimage, than Zeal and Prayer-Books.  
No, Rosalin, he's not that blind believer;  
I fear thou'lt find that rougher Faith about him,  
A gathering that black Storm as will rain Blood.  Ros. 
Herminia's Blood, and Celestina's Glory,  
Her Scaffold, and your Coronation.  Cel. 
Right;  
That sullen Hour that wraps her head in Dust  
Wreaths mine in Diadems. Herminia's Grave  
The Basis of my Pyramid. 'Tis true,  
It is a little hard, thou poor Herminia,  
To cut so keen as I must. But Ambition,  
Ambition gives the blow; and when that strikes  
Remorse nor Pity, no faint check controls  
That two-edged Fate tho' barred with Lives and Souls. Exeunt.  Enter Tygranes, Herminia, and Orontes Prisoner. Guards and Attendants. 1 Atten. 
A nobler Game of Glory ne'er was played:  
Fortune set high, a Kingdom on a Battle,  
And one bold Throw has swept the mighty stake.  2 Atten. 
By this dear Light that Sun that smiled to see  
The richest Crimson that the Earth e'er died,  
Not the proud Jove from the defeated Giants  
Returned with fairer Laurels than Tygranes.  Tygr. 
Enough my generous sharers of my Fame;  
Your lavish Goodness plays too much the Prodigal.  
My Victory dares not challenge half this Triumph.  
'Tis true, the Fortunate Tygranes fought,  
But 'twas the Justice of his Quarrel Conquered.  
Courage is only ours, Success is heavens':—  
And for thy Fate, Orontes—  Oront. 
Mine, Tygranes,  
Is to curse Life and Thee; my Life alone  
Too much to bear; but Life and Shame together,  
That double load of Misery— Oh Prince!  
When thy keen Sword cut through my Conquered Kingdom,  
Had it been kind, and carved my Heart too, dying  
I could have loved thee, but must hate thee Living.  Tygr. 
If thou repinest at thy ill Chance of War,  
Blame thy bad Cause. If overtaking Destiny  
Has dealt thee that hard Lot that does not please thee,  
Remember King thy Ruin is no more  
Than thy Desert, thy Punishment, Orontes:  
And sufferers are not choosers of their pain.—  
But to perform my last just Rites of Victory,  
Thou Orimon, go Visit our wronged Sister;  
And in a Brother's Name bear her that Trophy:  
A present from her own Triumphant Vengeance.  Oront. 
To Clarismunda! My too generous Conqueror,  
This is so kind, I'll thank thee for this Goodness  
Even in my Grave: For Oh! a Grace so high,  
Thou givest me leave at those dear Feet to die.  Exit Guarded. Tygr. 
But hark, the King approaches.  
My Beauteous Charge I am thy Champion now:  
A prouder Cause than all my Scythian Conquests.  Enter King attended. 
My Royal Lord, low at your Sacred Feet  
With the fair Harvest of your own rich Field,  
Thus prostrate kneels the proudest of your Vassals,  
By your great Cause, that fair inspiring Genius  
Led forth to Victory.  King. 
Mine, Tygranes, my  
Inspiring Genius! No; a little, sure  
Of that fair Cause, that soft Inspirer.  Tygr. 
How, my dread Liege!  King. 
That Beauty, those fair Eyes,  
They were so kind to See you Conquer.  Tygr. 
Sir!  King. 
To stand the kind Spectator of your Victory:  
Oh the fair Hand of a soft melting Venus!  
To buckle on the Sword of her proud Mars;  
To plume his Crest, and send him forth to Battle.  Tygr. 
Death and Confusion!  Queen. 
Oh my blassed Ears!  Tygr. 
Oh thou amazing Voice of Royal Thunder  
Break forth from thy dark-Cloud, thou louting Heaven,  
And say what mean these Mystic Sounds of Horror?  King. 
Mean! Is that a Question  
At this loud Hour of all thy Echoing Treason,  
The crying Shame of that incestuous Devil.  Queen. 
Good Gods!  Tygr. 
Oh King! what false infernal Malice  
Dares blast the Fame of that all beauteous Truth.  Queen. 
For the last Blow to all my bleeding Sufferings,  
My Loyal Faith, and all my Mourning Innocence  
Transformed into this hideous Gorgon!  King. 
Innocence! But my tame Justice sleeps too long.  
Seize this brace of Monsters.  Tygr. 
Hold angry King!  
Oh stop your headlong Fury!  
Till the wronged Virtue of that brightest Saint  
Has wiped the spots from her fair Ermine Whiteness,  
Stabbed the foul Falsehood through the Cankered Throat,  
And Seered the Tongues of Blasphemy.  King. 
No doubt on't.  
Run to a Camp to cool her burning Hell,  
And in the height of the engendering Crocodiles  
Whine Heaven and Sanctity.  Queen. 
How can I hear these dismal Sounds and Live?  Tygr. 
Plot, rank Conspiracy! The Camp!  
That undesigning Chance the foolish Error  
Of an unlucky Boy. But if so slight  
A shadow can assume a shape so dreadful,  
Sir, let the Boy be called, the fatal Cause  
Of this accurst Mistake, young Mirvan.  King. 
How! that young Bawd! Dost thou call him thy Witness!  
No, thou Grand-Fiend, thou know'st thy wiser Politics  
Have hushed that Traitor with a Dose of Poison.  Tygr. 
Riddles and Death! Still more mysterious Horror.  
Poison!  King. 
Yes Poison!  
Your Midnight Purveyor, your trusty Pander,  
In a return for all his faithful Services,  
Your dark designs too great for that weak Counsel-keeper;  
By a kind Drug sent Sleeping from the World.  
But your thin Arts and all your Cobweb-Veils—  Tygr. 
Some most accursed Engine of Damnation.—  King. 
Dull canting Fool— But hence, I'll hear no more  Queen. 
Yes, Royal Sir, Hear your poor wronged Herminia.  
By yond fair Lamps, and fairer Heaven that lights 'em,  
By all the hopes of my Eternal Peace—  King. 
Whining Siren— But  
Treason ne'er wants a Knee, nor Guilt a Tongue,  
Sighs, Prayers and Tears are the false Tools they cheat with.  
Take 'em away; and house 'em in a Dungeon.  Tygr. 
Yet hold your mad blind Rage  
Till some kind God, the guard of pitied Innocence  
In the dear Cause of that all Angel Goodness—  King. 
Silence that poisoned Breath, vain talking Slave,— Exit.  Tygr. 
Oh thou all-ruling Providence, what an  
Ungoverned World thy great first Mover turns,  
If Truth has this Reward— And Thou bright Virtue,  
Thy most inhuman Wrongs, hard-fated Fair,—  
Oh how can the Almighty Justice give  
Prevailing Hell this strange unbridled Power  Queen. 
Yes, Prince, Hell has prevailed, and 'tis a sad  
Sad Portion, but if the Divine Dispenser  
Has so ordained, 'tis not our part to quarrel  
Omnipotence; we may wail Misery,  
But must not murmur at it.  Tygr. 
Miracle,  
Of Goodness.  Queen. 
No, Tygranes, if the Toil  
Of Fate is set, and our pursuing Blood hounds  
Have caught our hunted Lives, our Stars have dealt us  
The hardest-Lot on Earth, only to purchase  
The fairest Crown in Heaven.  Enter a Messenger who speaks to the Officer that has the Custody of the Queen and Tygranes. Mes. 
'Tis the King's Pleasure  
That Execution be dispatched immediately.  
The Queen and Prince are both those popular Darlings,  
Delay may be unsafe; and for that reason  
He calls this hastening blow.  Officer. 
Curse on the Office. Aside.  
If forced Obedience to the King's Command, Kneels to the Queen and Prince.  
And the ungrateful Duty I must pay,  
May hope a Pardon.—  Queen. 
If the King Commands  
Rise and Obey: Thy Part; poor Slave, is innocent,  
If he must Kill, and guiltless Veins must bleed,  
The Axe is blameless, 'tis the Judge that's cruel.  Tygr. 
But, cruel King, thou merciless Arm of Fate.  
Have all my Laurels, And what's more than Laurels?  
Has that chaste Mourner deserved his hard hard Fate?  Queen. 
What we have deserved, Tygranes  
Is ours no more; What we must suffer, Prince,  
Is all our Business now? We must prepare  
For Death. Death! Is that all! Witness ye Powers,  
That I dare Die— The only pain in Dying  
Will be to leave a blotted Name behind me,  
The branding Blazon of Recorded Infamy.  Tygr. 
No, thou fair Saint,  
To Dies too much; fear not a Second Murder.  
Treason and Perjury may have power to Kill  
The Innocent, but not Innocence. The Martyrdom  
Of Honour, Slandered Truth, and traduced Virtue  
Are so Divine a Charge, that care of Providence,  
That if no earlier Justice wakes to right 'em,  
The very Prodigies of Heaven and all  
Their aiding Miracles rise up their Champions.  
Thy Fame, Herminia, must not die, though thou must.  Queen. 
Shall my Fame live? Nay, then to death lead on.  
Lie white my Winding-Sheet, and soft my Grave.  
But Prince, must thou bleed too? Herminia's Ruins  
Pull down thy Fate with mine. Thy Blood Tygranes!  
This is too much, ye Gods. How shall I make  
My last great Audit at th' Eternal Throne,  
For thy unhappy Death. At my own Grave  
There I can smile, but I must weep for thine.  Tygr. 
A tear, that fair rich Pearl of Life for me!  
My poorer Veins not worth the care of Heaven!  
When such neglected brighter Virtue bleeds.  
But, if the generous Fair, must play the Prodigal,  
Oh! let me teach thee how to give me Blessings  
Beyond the price of Lives: When on thy Throne  
Thy radiant Throne of Stars those Eyes I meet  
T'obtain in Heaven what was on Earth too great,  
Shall I have leave to kneel at those dear Feet?  Queen. 
Yes Prince, thou shalt kneel there. And if there be  
One richer, fairer Coronet above  
For wondrous Truth, and more prodigious Love,  
O'er that dear Brow with the Jemmed Wreath I'll stand,  
And Crown thee Martyr with my own kind Hand.  Tygr. 
Nay, then to Death, to Life, to Glory, all  
At one kind Blow.  Queen. 
And oh to meet that Blow  
With all the pomp of Martyrdom we'll go;  
And Shine above, to Light the World below. Exeunt.  Scene Changes, Enter Orontes and Clarismunda. Oront. 
To Heaven the dearest, and on Earth the Fairest,  
Thy Guardian Gods have done thee Justice now.  
A Hundred thousand slaughtered Scythian Ghosts,  
In the fresh Blushes of their Crimson Gore,  
Walk the black Strand, to tell the trembling Shades  
The wondrous Tale of Clarismunda's Vengeance.  Clar. 
Yes, King, my Stars at last are just.  Oront. 
So Just, that all yond bright Eternals,  
The Powers that gilled the Night, and guide the Day,  
Ranked their embattelled Fires for Clarismunda,  
All the proud Champions in thy darling Cause:  
So keen the Sword that arming Beauty draws.  Clar. 
If aiding Heaven has battled on my side,  
It has no more than played its own Revenger;  
Mine are Heavens wrongs, their own Divinest Image  
Stabbed in my Wounds, and their own scourge has punished 'em  Oront. 
If their own scourge has punished 'em, and all  
The pouring Vials of immortal Wrath  
Have filled the whole embittered Draught of Woe,  
May I have leave to ask that beauteous Judge  
Is her avenging Sword of Fate yet satisfied.  Clar. 
Satisfied!  Oront. 
That Sword, thou dear Divine Destroyer.  
After such streams of Blood, and piles of Graves,  
Is the keen Death, the reeking Point still drawn  
At poor Orontes Heart?  Clar. 
Indeed thou askest that Question—  Oront. 
I would have thy Mercy answer.  
Say, thou All-Angel Sweet, if angry Heaven  
Has emptied all its Quivers on this Head,  
Has Clarismunda still new Bolts to Kill.  Clar. 
New Bolts! No, wretched King, those righteous Powers  
Have made my Wrongs that ample satisfaction,  
I now can ask no more.  Oront. 
If those kind Powers  
Have paid thee all the whole indebted Sum,  
May I presume to ask that fair Offended,  
If a poor punished Criminal, his stains,  
Washed with the Blood of thousand thousand Lives,  
From tottering Power, and falling Empire lost,  
From all the glittering Wreaths of Royal Honours  
Crushed to base Chains, a vile inglorious Slave,  
Say, is this little Outcast of the World  
Still that strange hateful Monster?  Clar. 
No, Orontes,  
Thou'rt fallen so low, I must not hate thee now.  Oront. 
What says that Breath of Life?  Claris. 
Must hate no more.  
No, suffering Wretch, thou hast met thy Crimes Reward:  
And Justice, when her executing Aim  
Has struck the Blow, turns her yeiled Eyes away  
And sees the Guilt no more. On thy proud Throne  
And towering at thy prouder Armies head  
When Death met Death, and Thunder grappled Thunder,  
Orontes then in all thy circling Glories  
The Tyrant Lord of Power was worth my Frown,  
I could look up and hate thee, down I must not.  Oront. 
Then farewell Empire, Thrones, Dominion, all  
The plagues of Power, and curse of Crowns farewell.  
And my dear Chains, and Glorious Misery Welcome.  
For now she hates no more, Chant that blessed Sound,  
Ye great Angelic Quires, immortal Sweets  
Perfume the hallowed Breath, and bear it round  
The echoing Skies, and all the listening Globe  
That Clarismunda now can hate no more.  
My Chains, my Fetters! No, thou Dear all Heaven,  
My Bracelets, strings of Pearl, and links of Gold—  
But thou all Sacred Sweetness, could that kind  
Unclouding Brow to all this infinite Goodness  
Add one rich Blessing more, couldst thou love too—  Clar. 
Love! Love!  Oront. 
Yes, Love, thou All-descending Goodness:  
Turn not those beauteous Eyes away. Oh Arm  
Those pointed Deaths no more. I am no longer  
The black Orontes now: 'twas Seythia's Tyrant  
Pride and Ambition's Purple Devil, all  
The burning Hells of Power that sinned against thee.  
But I am now no more. No, thy kind Brother  
Like the Great Jove has crushed the tumbling Giant,  
Script all my guilty Greatness to a little  
Poor naked Slave, an humble crawling Wretch.  
The Sceptered Savage, and Imperial Monster,  
Those hideous Names all banished from the World,  
And I am nothing now but kneeling Love.  
And if that pardoning Mercy—  Clar. 
Oh Orontes.  
Thy Tears, thy Penitence, and to Crown all  
Thy murmuring Love pleads with that courting Eloquence—  
But ha! What says my Heart?  Oront. 
Oh speak thou dearest Oracle of Life,  
Breathe the Celestial Sound— Methinks I saw  
The pitying God in those relenting Eyes  
Just issuing down with all his glittering Mercy,  
But those sealed Lips shut up the lovely Paradise,  
And cruelty hold back the kind descending Heaven.  Clar. 
Well Prince, if I must speak,— But oh forgive  
My blushing weakness, when these Eyes must tell thee,  
That thou hast conquered, thou hast conquered, King,  
My tenderest melting Souls all softest Pity.  Oront. 
And could that softest Pity—  Claris. 
Ask no more:  
For beyond Pity 'tis all vast Eternity,  
The All my utmost Life can ever give thee.  Oront. 
The All.  Claris. 
Alas! my Love's beyond my Power.  
But I have given too much. Hence from my Sight;  
For from this Hour I ne'er must see thee more.  Oront. 
No more!  Claris. 
Retire without Reply, lest my reviving Wrongs,  
Recall my prodigal blushing Mercy back.  
Yes, Fly to some far corner of the Earth  
Whilst I have power to give thy pitied Sufferings  
This last kind Tribute from my melting Eyes,  
Go, and bear with thee round the wandered World  
A Sigh from Clarismunda.  Oront. 
'Tis enough.  
That Sigh, that Pity, all Eternal Bliss,  
And, Gods, I ask no more.—  
But, Madam, when I fly from those dear Eyes,  
The wandered World will be too short a Walk.  
No, Clarismunda, Love's last Race must run,  
Beyond the narrow Travels of the Sun;  
Far above Worlds, and Days dull mortal Light:  
Thus he takes Wing, and thus sets out his Flight. Stabs hiwself.  Clar. 
By thy own Hand thy Hearts last pouring Flood.  
Oh King! so kind a Stream, this rich atoning Sacrifice  
Has washed thee all so White, and touched my Soul so near,  
That I must whisper in thy dying Ear;  
Had I a Heart to give 'twere all thy own.  Oront. 
Oh Divine Harmony! Now I am blessed.  Clar. 
Oh generous Prince! thou fill'st my painting Veins  
With all that tenderest warmth: But hast, oh haste!  
Mount the bright Stars, and bear this Message with thee:  
When thou shalt meet thy own great Martyr there;  
Tell him, thou hast left  
His Clarismunda a Divided Heart:  
Thine all my Pity: all my Love Orsanes.  Oront. 
Yes Madam, I'll obey your blessed Commands;  
Speed, speed my Posting Soul, and when we meet, Orsanes,  
I'll Rival thee in Heaven. But oh! how much are all  
My Sighs overpaid to die in these blessed Arms;  
How worthless is dull Life, when Death's all Charms. Dies.  Clar. 
Now all the work I had on Earth is done!  
My Dear Orsanes, that long waiting Bridegroom,  
Holds an immortal Chaplet for my Brow.  
Shut from the World, then to a Cell I'll fly:  
There my dear Winding-sheets, my Robe of Glory,  
Sweet Death's kind call with bending Knees I'll stay,  
The Trump to my great Coronation-Day. Exit.  Scene Changes. Enter Celestina and Rosalin. Ros. 
What can this mean! Not Lunacy more wild!  
Her wandered Reason, and distracted Senses  
Stung with that strange Tarantula—  Cel. 
Hush, Mirvan! Not a word.— Should Boys tell Tales—  
Not for a thousand Worlds. I'll have the Secret  
Shut in a Marble Chest, locked up in Graves,  
Deep as the Centre of the groaning World,  
That not one angry murmuring God shall hear it—  
But ha! we are betrayed, betrayed dear Mirvan!  
See there that grinning Tarquin in the Hangings,  
Looks with a listening Face— and yonder Parrot,  
Oh 'tis a prating Bird— The Air will breathe it,  
Winds whistle it, Ravens croak it—  Ros. 
Dear Madam—  Cel. 
Rosalin! Ha, art thou here!  Ros. 
Yes, Madam, a poor Mourner.—  Cel. 
Oh fie, in Tears, and on my Wedding day!  
This is unkind: Ay, Girl, I am to be Married,  
Dost thou not see the Courting kneeling King!  
Oh 'tis the fondest fool to make a Husband.  
That kind believing thing. See he presents me  
A Bracelet strung with bleeding Lovers Hearts,  
And every Pearl a Tear of dying Innocence—  
Poor Herminia,  
Dost not thou hang a blushing Ruby there.  Ros. 
Gracious Heaven!  Cel. 
Who talks of Heaven? Oh 'tis a Golden Palace,  
Where my kind Mirvan, Jove's dear Darling Ganymede,  
Fills the proud Thunderers Imperial Bowl,  
To quaff the World's Confusion.  Ros. 
Oh my Fears!  
There's something talks in these wild Dreams!  Cel. 
Fear Rosalin!  
What canst thou fear, my Wedding Robe won't please me!  
Ah no! 'tis died in that deep Royal Crimson  
Not all the Waters of the Sea can whiten.  Enter King, Attendants, and Guards. King. 
What's this I see! Why this disordered frame!  
Is this a Dress? Is this a Brow, when Diadems  
Wait your receiving Hand. The cankered Sweets  
Of Lawless Joys no more,  
Prepare to mount the bright Crowned Queen of Persia.  Cel. 
The Queen of Persia! Queen of Hell, dull Fool—  
Look, Rosalin, look—  Ros. 
Look, Madam!  Cel. 
Dost not see  
Yond wrinkled withered Witch, the sooty Proserpina!  
She with that dowdy Face, Great Pluto's Queen,  
Enthroned the Glorious Partner of Damnation;  
And Celestina but a puny Devil!  
No, by yond spiteful Stars, I cannot bear it.  
I'll dash the tumbling Hag from her proud Seat,  
Snatch from her flaming Brow her blazing Diadem,  
And mount her burning Throne.  King. 
All raving Frenzy.  
But tell me honest Rosalin, how long  
Have these strange Phantoms all these waking Dreams  
Shook her soft peace?  Ros. 
Since fair Herminia's Death.  Cel. 
Who names Herminia's Death: I will not hear it.  
There's Treason in the sound.— But see! Oh see!  
She comes, she comes, she comes! The Ghosts of Herminia and Tygranes descend in Glory.  
— Oh my sick Eyeballs!  
How have I sinned to, wake these hideous Forms!  
Have I done more than all my Sex beside?  
Alas, the poorest Lowborn Peasant Girl,  
That never heard of Crowns above a Garland,  
Yet but to Reign the Sovereign of the Plains,  
And have the bending Knees of Swains and Boars,  
Would cut through Hearts and Lives to be a Queen:  
And I have done no more.  King. 
What says my Fairest?  Cel. 
Say King! I say thou smell'st too rank of Blood,  
Blood, easy cheated Fool!  King. 
Death and Confusion!  
There's something in this dark mysterious Horror  
That strikes my aching Soul.— Pray Heaven the poor  
Tygranes and Herminia—  Cel. 
Are a blessed pair of ever Royal Martyrs.  
Innocence, Innocence, Innocence! Betrayed by me,  
And by thee Murdered!  King. 
Murdered! Oh—  Cel. 
But look all Heavenly Fair, clothed and enrobed  
With the rich Beams of pure immortal Day.  
Myriad of Angels, and Eternal Quires  
All waiting for their Coronation Glory.  
Yes, mount fair Stars, ye radiant Twins of Light,  
Whilst I must set in Everlasting Night. Dies.  King. 
Dead! Thou fair Curse and Painted Sin farewell.  
Oh that my shame and Guilt were with thee Dead.  
Ah no! a thousand Racking Tortures live  
To tear my sinking Soul. Oh Blood Blood! Blood!  
Herminia! Poor wronged sweetness, could the price  
Of Crowns or Worlds restore thee to my Arms—  
No, Lovely Truth, too late we find thy Charms.  Exeunt omnes.  
FINIS.   

EPILOGUE,  Spoken by Mrs. Rogers. 
WELL, Gentlemen, our Author bids me say,  
He Treats you with an Out-of-fashion Play.  
His fair Court Miss, perkt in her Reigning Glory,  
In the late Age had been a modish Story.  
But now the old dull Tale will never do.—  
And yet I'll Swear the Play has something new.—  
New, did I say? Yes, if it has no more,  
Here's Two new Legs, you never saw before.  
Nay, and what's more, they come to Court you too:  
Ay, Sirs, You see what Wonders you can do;  
Bring a young Suppliant to those Sweet Faces,  
To beg to our poor Play your kind good Graces.  
Faith Sirs, for once lay by your Critic Thunder,  
Not for the Senseless Poet, Hang him Blunder,  
But for Our sakes Your angry Vengeance stay:  
Consider, Sirs, this is the womens' Play.  
And when we woo your Favour, sure you are  
Not so hard-hearted to deny our Prayer.  
Besides, let me entreat, balk not a poor  
Petitioner, that never begged before.  
Grant me but this First Suit, a Boon so easy,  
And in Return, I'll one day hope to please ye.  
Encouraged by your Smiles a Beam so fair  
Here's Two Good Works at once, for I Declare  
You will both save a Play, and make a Player.