FATAL LOVE: OR, THE Forc`d Inconstancy, A TRAGEDY. Acted at the THEATRE ROYAL.  
Written by Elkanah Settle, Servant to His MAJESTY.  
Maxima pars vatum—  
Decipimur specie Recti.—  Hor. 
LONDON, Printed for William Cademan, at the Sign of the Pope's-Head, in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange, in the Strand, 1680.   

To his Honoured Friend, Sir Robert Owen.  
CErtainly, of all Mankind, nothing is so vain as the Scribblers of this Age; for no sooner are they blessed with any extraordinary Favour, but they must tell the whole World of it. The Honour of that Friendship You have been Generously pleased to give me, and the Delight of a Conversation so Completely Ingenious, affords me no little Occasion for the same Natural Vanity. This is that makes us Publish our Plays, as formerly the Romans Built the Porticoes to their Houses; they always fixed their Lares o'er their Threshold.— But at the same time that I boast of the Honour I have received, I ought to blush at the Present I make You, when I treat you with a Play so worthless, and so Unfortunate. Nay, to sum up all its Misfortunes, it does not only owe so little to the Composers Hand; but breathed too in a Season, when Poetry even with its softest and most Curious Airs, to the Ears of this untunable Age, sounds but harsh and unpleasant: nay, and what's yet worst of all, performed by the feeble Fragment of a Company.— 'Tis true, the Theatre Royal was once all Harmony; where the Heroic Muses sung so sweetly, and with Voices so perfectly Musical, as few or no Ears could escape Enchantment. But when this hapless Play came forth, its sweetest Pipes were stopped; and like a shattered Organ, it had only left what could do little more than squeak and jar. But, Oh, that their Oracle should be quite silent! Ah, that their Golden Head would speak again, and bring once more the scattered Choir around him! Then Tragedy might reassume its Majesty, and Passion plead with such aa Emphasis, till the charmed Spectator should almost wish to be that Real suffering Hero he admires, and share his very Fate, to move but half his Pity. For my part, were I a Poet, nay, a Fletcher, or a Shakespeare, I would quit my whole Title to Immortality, so that one Actor might never Die. This I may modestly say of him, (nor is it my own particular Opinion, but the Sense of all Mankind) that the best Tragedies on the English Stage have received that Lustre from Mr. Heart's Performance, that he has lfft such an Impression behind him, that no less than the Interval of an Age can make them appear again with half their Majesty, from any second Hand. And when he leaves the Stage, the Reign of Tragedy Expires; for than it must dwindle from a Monarchy to a Commonwealth. And were it in my Nature to be Envious or Malicious against any Man that writes, it should be against their Good Fortune, who writ in the Indian Emperors first Days: And having named that admirable Play, methinks it has made its Appearance since, so far short of its Primitive Excellence, that I fancy it has been sometimes almost as unmercifully used, as their tortured Montezuma by the Barbarous Spaniards. But, Alas, the very best of Plays now find but a cold Reception, in comparison of the kinder Entertainment they met, at the King's first Return. For Players and Plays came then upon the Stage like Columbus into America, they brought New Faces, and almost a New Language into our World; and what betwixt Novelty and Surprise they won Spectators Hearts so easily (whilst a little Wit in Plays went so far) that like Him they could Traffic even with Beads and Baubles: But Time & Conversation has made the Critical Audiences like the Wiser Indians; and he that would please 'em now, must purchase their Applause with Solid and Elaborate Sense, and bring more than Glass to barter for their Gold.— But this Discourse looks so like extenuating my Faults, that 'tis high time to give it o'er: Yet if by any Arguments I can purchase your charitable Opinion I have gained a Judge to my side; and indeed I have no mean Credertials to confirm me in that Assurance: For, besides the Charm of our ordinary Conversation, you have more particularly favoured me with the Perusal of a Poem of your own; without Flattery, not outdone by a Cooper's Hill: And what adds to the Merit of it, you writ it so Young, that a Judgement so Ripe, at an Age so early, is not a little Miraculous. But, Sir, you have all the Reason in the World to be both Poetical and Ingenious, having both Nature and Fortune your Friends; and certainly, there's nothing goes so far towards the completing a Man of Wit, as Prosperity and Patrimonies. For to say truth, Wit is never truly well situate, but where a good Estate lies round it. This made the Ancient Poet's fancy that their very Muses could never be Happy, nor cheerfully Harmonious, till they gave 'em a Parnassus for their Inheritance, whilst their Mounts & Fountains, Groves & Grottoes were all their own. With these Advantages your Fancy soars; nay, it has one Happiness above all this, it needs not look abroad for a Subject: For whilst you derive your Descent in a long unbroken Line, from the Old Active British Princes, within the Circuit of your Ancestries Fame, like him that hunts and hawks in his own Ground, you have an ample Field for Poetry even within yourself; and borrow-from your Birth a Theme, of which your own Native untaught Bards, could but rudely sing.  
But your Hereditary Glory has no occasion to look so far back into the Records of Time: Even the last Age is so full of your Fathers, and your whole Families Active, and no less suffering Loyalty; Loyalty that e'en embalms their Dust, and makes their Memories fragrant: That if ever an English Monarch should have a Cause to dispute, a Prerogative to maintain, or an Injury to revenge, (but Heaven forbid, that the Glorious Son of the Unhappy Charles, should ever have his Father's Necessity to use 'em) I could wish him no bolder, nor no Faithfuller Champions, than the Heir of your Family's Honour, Courage, and Allegiance. But, Sir, my Business is not to be your Herald nor Historian; but to tell you how much I am;  
SIR, Your most Obedient and most Humble Servant, Elkanah Settle.   

PROLOGUE Written by a Friend.  

AThens and Rome, from whence this Trade was brought,  
Who best knew how to Value what they Taught,  
With that true Zeal their Poets did Adore,  
That scarce their Conquerors themselves had more.  
And the same Wreath, that did in Peace adorn  
The Poet's Brow,  
Was by the Victor in his Triumphs worn.  
Wit then was Sacred, and less Awe was paid  
To Caesar Living, than to Virgil Dead.  
But the Degenerate World has changed the Scene:  
Wit ne'er must see those Golden Days again.  
The Reverend Stage has lost its Native Use,  
And is become a Bridewell to a Muse:  
For here She must from testy Critic bear  
More Lashes, than poor Punk from Beadle there.  
Censure's your Game, and when you've roused a Play,  
How loud the numerous Pack of Coxcombs Bay.  
The grateful Music echoes through the Town;  
And, open-mouthed, you run the Poet down.  
So snarlingly to your Delights you move,  
That you see Plays e'en just as Cats make Love.  
Here Three dull Hours i' th' Afternoon you pass,  
With those cramped Looks, and with that Damned Grimace,  
In so much Pain, so much against your Will,  
As if your Morning- Bolus grumbled still.  
The Ladies too, who should Relieve the Stage,  
Will Damn an Author, as they chide a Page.  
Severe to Man in all Respects they prove:  
Are neither satisfied with Wit, nor Love.  
But think their Drudges in both Labours dull,  
Unless, like Miser's Coffer's, always full.  
But be ill-natured all; Hiss, Rail, Exclaim;  
Nay, let each Fop against his Conscience Damn:  
Alas! This will not do. Your Noise and Rage,  
Does rather Cherish, than Destroy the Stage.  
Scribblers, in Spite, will still Write on: For know,  
Poets, like Mushrooms, by your Thunder grow.    

EPILOGUE Spoken by Lysandra, in the Habit of a Nun.  

GAllants, I come to take my last Adieu;  
Bidding Farewell both to the World, and You—  
A Nunnery!— Oh, 'tis a Popish Place!  
Never poor Virgin, sure, had my sad Case.  
Has not our Author used me very ill?  
He makes me die a Maid against my Will.  
And yet the Godly Fool should be forgiven:  
Alas! He meant it for the Way to Heaven.  
Yet from your Presence, and your Love debarred,  
Gallants, indeed, it is a little hard.  
When first on Cloister-Ground my Feet I set,  
Never poor Girl was put in such a Sweat.  
All on a sudden, from his Cell there ran  
A Hideous, Terrible, Rough-Bearded Man:  
Cried, my Dear Daughter; and then clasped me fast,  
Like Hangman, with a Halter round his Waste.  
But walking farther on this Sacred Ground,  
The Shifted Scene more Pleasant grew; I found  
An Aged, Reverend Matron compassed round,  
With a fair Train of Nymphs: To her, they all  
Paid Homage, and their Mother-Abbess call.  
Their Mother! Blessing on your Heart, said I;  
I never saw so fair a Progeny.  
But, Are these pretty Ladies all your own?  
To which she answered, in an Angry Tone;  
Let me no more these Idle Bug-words hear:  
Fie, foolish Girl, we are all Virgins here!  
Virgins! Oh, Heaven! what will become of me?  
Must I then Live, that dismal Day to see?  
Be such another stale, old Maid, as she?  
Well! Had the Virgins of Both theatres,  
Begun their early Penance at my Years;  
What numerous Intrigues had then been Crossed?  
Lord, what a World of keeping Fops we'd lost?    

Actor's Names.  

ARtaban, A Prince, first Husband to Olizia; supposed Drowned.  
Pyrgus, Steward to Artaban.  
Philander, A Gentleman; by Birth, a Sicilian; formerly Contracted to Panthea.  
Gobrias, Friend and Confident to Artaban.  
Olizia, A Princess, formerly Wife to Artaban; but now Newly and Privately Married to Philander.  
Lysandra, Her true Name Panthea; bought from Pirates, as a Captive, by Pyrgus.  
Corinna, Confident to Olizia.  
Seconds, Villains, Messengers, and Attendants, etc.   
The SCENE,  
A Nobleman's Palace in the Isle of Cyprus.   

ERRATA.  
PAg. 1. line 20. for Sealed, read Seated. p. 3. l. 32. f. lost, r. left. p. 13. l. 17. r. Leprous Arms. p. 17. l. 33. del. that. p. 21. l. 29. r. Secundi. p. 30. l. last, r. bring. p. 39 l. 34. f. Fortunes r. Tortures. p. 40. l. 33. ●. growing Storm.   

Fatal Love: OR, The Forc`d Inconstancy.  
ACT THE FIRST.  Pyrgus and Lysandra. Lys. 

OH! Stop the Rage of your unjust Desires;  
And think, what Sparks of Hell attend your Lawless Fires!   Pyr. 

Are you so Coy? Then I must change the Scene,  
And call my Favours to your lost Remembrance.  
For, where Good Deeds are ill Rewarded, there  
'Tis Justice, not Vainglory, to Recite 'em.  
Did I for this, stretch out my Bounteous Hand,  
To free you from the Slavery of Pirates?  
Nay, bought you underhand too; when, perhaps,  
They meant, you should have stalked the Marketplace,  
In State and Pomp, with your Price writ on your Forehead?  
Did I (I say) free you from all this Infamy;  
Here sealed, and protected you?   Lys. 

'Tis true;  
You poured your larger Sums, to free me from  
One Slavery, but to impose a Greater.  
For, if your Words interpret your Black Thoughts,  
I am your Captive still:  
And feel the Weight and Misery of Bonds,  
In that which you style Liberty.   Pyr. 

Then, chaste Diana, take your own Desire,  
And to your Native dear Disgrace return.  
Your Fortunes, without me, are at their Ebbing;  
And you may Beg with Virtue: 'Tis within  
My Power, to make you Rich. The Prince, my Master,  
Left his Dear Princess on her Nuptial-Day;  
And, in a Freak of Jealousy, went to Sea:  
Where, (rest his Soul!) as my Two Years Intelligence  
Informs me, he has made the Fish a Banquet.  
His sprightly Lady, for the Disappointment  
Of a lost Bridegroom, on her Nuptial-Night,  
Like a sad Pensive Turtle, stole away  
One Evening; and was never heard of since:  
No doubt, she has met her Husband's Destiny.  
I dare almost, with Confidence, pronounce  
Myself the Lord of thus Magnificent Palace;  
And all this Mass of dazzling Wealth, my own:  
A fairer Pile, all Cyprus does not yield.  
Be thou than mine: Here thou shalt Reign a Goddess;  
A Goddess, brighter than our Cyprian-Deity.  
Why all these unkind Looks? Fie! smile, Lysandra.  
Nothing but Love should on this Shore be found,  
Since Love's fair Goddess blessed the Hallow'd-Ground.   Lys. 

heavens'! What a Villain's this? Cease this bold Language;  
For, I am Unalterable: Nay, my Guilt's  
Impardonable even to hold Discourse  
With such Impiety.   Pyr. 

Then know, vain Girl,  
The Good from which you fly, I'll force you to.  
Are you full-gorged, and wanton?  
I'll lure you, with a Vengeance! Come, be pliant;  
Or else, behold your Fate.   Draws a Dagger. Lys. 
I would I were so Happy! Kill me, do  Enter a Servant, Running. Pyr. 
Curse on this Interruption! What's your Business?  Seru. 
The Princess is returned.  Pyr. 
Hell and Confusion! How that Name distracts me?  Lys. 
This News brings me some Glimpse of Happiness.  Enter Corinna. Pyr. 

Welcome, dear Traveller: Say, kind Corinna;  
Is our great Princess, the Divine Olizia,  
Safely returned? And art thou kindly come,  
To bring the Blessed News?   Cor. 
Yes, Sir, I am.  Pyr. 

This dazzling Bliss, breaks like the Morn upon me:  
And thou'rt the Star, that ushers-in the Sun.   Lys. 
I'll take this happy Hour, to fly this Monster.  Exit. Pyr. 

Her secret Flight, and her two years' Concealment,  
Made us suspect, that some malicious Planet  
Had plunged her in her Husband's Fate; and cropped  
Her blooming Virtues, with her Tyrant's Crimes.  
We, her poor frighted Slaves, believed her Dead.   Cor. 

No, Sir, she lives; and, as the just Reward  
Of Virtue, favoured with the Smiles of Heaven.   Pyr. 

This Sound has all the Music of the Spheres:  
The Groans of Mandrakes! Curse on th' Hellish Note.   Aside Cor. 

Nor is this all the Blessing that I bring ye:  
She that so long sighed for her Injured Name,  
Mourning the Cruelty of her first Lord's  
Inhuman Jealousy, has bravely changed  
Her withered Willow, for a fresher Myrtle:  
And chose a worthier Partner of her Joys.   Pyr. 
Married again!  Cor. 

Yes: And this very Night,  
Must Celebrate her Nuptials.   Pyr. 

I am all Wonder!  
But, when I seriously reflect; How comes it,  
That she, who lost her Palace, with that sense  
Of her wronged Innocence, and blasted Fame,  
Should quit her Pious Task, and give the World  
New Cause to blemish her, for this rash Marriage?   Cor. 

I'll tell you, Sir: Not to recount the Penance  
She suffered, for her Jealous Tyrant's Sins;  
Nor the too long, sad, miserable Years,  
We spent in a poor despicable Cottage.  
About Three Months ago, this Gentleman  
Landing upon our Shoar, (for near the Sea,  
She kept her Humble Court) as Fate would have him,  
Made choice of the same Melancholy Walk,  
To finish an unhappy Life. There meeting  
The near Resemblance of their Miseries,  
Touched her so sensibly, that from Conversing,  
She grew to Like him; and from that, to Love him.  
The Sadness in his Eyes, was her own Mirror.  
If Love e'er chose Equality, 'twas then.  
For, on the Sea, the Common-Scene of Fate,  
She had a Husband, He a Mistress, lost.  
And in uniting Two such drooping Hearts,  
Their gloomy Cupid matched his pointed Darts.  
In short, They married in a Cell; and come  
To Consummate their Nuptials in a Palace.  
She's here.   Enter Olizia, Attended. Pyr. 

Curse on that Face of Majesty; all my Dreams Aside.  
Of Greatness, now are shrunk into a Shadow.  
Madam, This blessed Return has brought your poor  
Despairing Vassals, no indifferent Joys.   Oliz. 

I thank thee, honest Pyrgus: But begone.  
I have brought Home a Noble Guest.  
He calls himself, Philander. Show your Duty,  
In your Respect: Go, and Attend him hither.  
You'll find him writing a Dispatch to th' Court  
Of Sicily; t'acquaint his Noble Parents,  
What Fortune brings him hither.   Pyr. 
I obey you  Exit. Oliz. 

After my Sighs and Tears, and all my Sufferings  
For my first Cruel Prince, to be thus blessed  
With a much dearer Treasure, the Affection  
Of my Philander! heavens' I thank ye! Thus;  
Thus aught blessed Venus, to be born o'th' Sea.  
Tempests, and Darkness, Billows, Shipwrecks, (Things  
By which my first ungrateful Husband perished)  
Were but as Foils, to set out my Delights;  
Placed just before my Joys, as Monsters are  
Before the Gates of Palaces.   Enter Lysandra. 

But take heed, lest my Transports speak too loud.  
What fair Intruder's this?   Lys. 

Madam, forgive  
A persecuted, wretched Maid, who throws  
Herself for Refuge, at your sacred Feet.   Oliz. 

Can any thing, with such a Form, be wretched?  
But say, sweet Innocence, What are those Ills,  
Which you can Fear, and I Redress?   Lys. 

I doubt,  
My Story will disturb your happier Thoughts.   Oliz. 

No, pretty Suppliant:  
Boldly, and freely speak; I take delight,  
To listen to the Accents of th' Afflicted.  
Say then, What unkind Stars  
Could frown on so much Sweetness?   Lys. 

Th' unkind Stars,  
That frown on Love. Since then your Princely Ear  
Vouchsafes to hear me; know, my Name's Lysandra;  
My Country, Sicily; my Parents Noble,  
And Wealthy too. I was born Free; though not  
To be so: For not yielding to their Wise,  
Grave Council, to be Sacrificed in th'Arms  
Of a Rich, Nauseous Miser, for the sake  
Of th'only dearest Lord of all my Vows;  
I left my Parents, followed him to Sea:  
And, trusting to the wavering Tide o'th'Sea  
And Fortune, (being embarked in different Vessels,  
T'avoid Suspicion and Pursuit) our more  
Unhappy Ship was made a Prize to Pirates,  
And wretched I, their Merchandise. From whom  
I was Redeemed by Pyrgus.   Oliz. 
My Steward!  Lys. 

Yes; but to a greater Bondage:  
To Prostitute myself t'his foul Desires.  
For had your blessed Return not Rescued me,  
My ravished Honour had been made his Prey:  
Nor has the Horror of it left me yet.   Oliz. 

Enough, fair Sufferer; thou'rt for ever Rescued  
From Him, and Slavery.   Lys. 

Madam, I owe you  
More than the Ransom of my Life; so much  
The Safety of my Honour is above it.   Oliz. 

Once more enjoy your Freedom: If you deem it  
Freedom to live with me, I shall desire  
No other Evidence, than your own Complaint,  
To prove him Guilty; and I'll punish him.  
In the meantime, my House shall be your Refuge.  
Retire; whilst I consult your Good in Private.   Exit Lysand. Enter Philander, Introduced by Pyrgus, and other Attendants. 

Welcome, my dearest Lord; I cannot show you  
Any new Favours: After I have given  
Myself, the small Addition of my Fortunes,  
Are but a Tribute.   Phil. 

This surprising Goodness,  
O're-pow'rs my Soul with Wonder and Delight!  
This high and splendid Pile, a Roof more fit  
For the Reception of an Eastern Monarch.  
And the kind Influence of this smiling Star,  
That lights the Gilded Battlements: Such Love,  
Wealth, Beauty, are too great for Mortal Blessings.   Oliz. 

Oh, do not wonder at this little Offering!  
Were my Wealth greater, were the World my own,  
My Heart and Treasures ought to go together.   Phil. 

This Bliss is much too mighty for my Humble Fortunes:  
And I can never merit half this Glory.   Oliz. 

Come, Sir, walk-in; the Genius of this Palace  
Waits with Impatience, to Salute its Lord.   Phil. 

I follow you, dear Madam: But implore  
Your Leave, for one short Minutes stay; to lose  
My dead Panthea's Memory. And since  
She sleeping lies in a cold Bed of Waves,  
That she may never float within my Thoughts,  
But be drowned there too, give me leave to Bury her  
In one last Tear: And when I have paid that short  
Just Funeral-Rite——   Oliz. 

Oh my unkind Philander!  
Does that usurping Shadow haunt you still?   Phil. 

My dearest Princess, thou art so Divine,  
No mean Perfections should obtain thy Smiles.  
Alas! I'd only drive the weak Remains  
Of her Faint Image from my Breast, to make it  
Worthy t'entertain thy Brighter Excellence.  
And when I have purged my Drossy Part away,  
Then I will come all Kindness; lose myself  
In all the Ecstasies of mighty Love's  
Unbounded Pleasures, uncontrolled Desires;  
And make Love's Altars shine with pure Immortal Fires.   Exit. Oliz. 
Was ever Fate like mine?  Cor. 

No, surely Madam.  
To have a Princess of your Birth and Beauty,  
Descend in Glory, like a Goddess, on him:  
And have so much Divinity repaid  
With such a cold Ingratitude, is hard.   Oliz. 

Alas, Ingratitude's all the Return  
My Kindness meets. My first ungrateful Lord,  
Out of a wild and groundless Jealousy,  
Deserted me upon my Nuptial-Day:  
And I, like a fond Woman, and true Wife,  
Mourned for his Absence, invoked the Gods  
For his Return to Love, and Me. And when,  
Abandoning my Pomp, and all my Greatness,  
My sad dejected Mind chose a poor Cell,  
To fit my Humble State: Where, when I had heard,  
An angry Tempest had revenged my Wrongs,  
And punished his Unkindness with his Fate,  
I met this dearer Idol of my Eyes.  
And my first Husband's setting-light gone out,  
Philander's clearer Brightness filled my Soul.  
But, to complete my Misery, my own  
Inviting Eyes betrayed an easy Conquest.   Cor. 

And, Madam, Could your Kindness be your Crime?  
No; for that signal Grace, he ought to think,  
His Life's too mean an Offering.   Oliz. 

But he  
Thinks the Oblation of a Smile too much  
After my little Beauty had subdued  
That Superstitious fond Idolatry,  
Which two long Years, h'had paid to a Dead Mistress;  
After the Sacred Hymeneal Bond  
Had joined our seeming mutual Loves; then straight  
Her Image made a second Resurrection:  
Struck with a sudden Horror, a pale Trembling  
Seized him all o'er To such an Ebb of Coldness,  
His Heart relapsed; that even her very Name  
Had greater Influence, than my slighted Beauty.  
Goddess of Love, compose his Troubled Mind.  
Whilst all my Kindness does neglected lie,  
Shadows, and Ghosts, have greater Charms than I.   Exeunt. Enter Philander. Phil. 

Immortal Powers, You that enjoin Mankind  
Such Strictness, teach him to observe it too.  
If Constancy best please your Deities,  
Why did you suffer me to violate  
Vows, that were scarce less Sacred, than yourselves?  
Why did you suffer me, to gaze on Fair  
Olizia? But——  
If looser Fires burn brighter in your Sight,  
Why do I then extinguish 'em? Why don't ye  
Permit me, to embrace this Lady? Dally  
In her soft Arms, and revel in her Treasures;  
And quite forget the Name of my Panthea?   Enter to him a Messenger. Mess. 

Sir, Let me beg your Pardon, if my Business  
Make me unwelcome: But t'excuse my Boldness,  
My Warrant's sealed by a Commanding Hand.   Gives Phil. a Letter. Phil. 
From whom?  Mess. 
Panthea.  Phil. 
Panthea!  Mess. 
So she calls herself.  Phil. 
'Tis▪ False.  Mess. 
Read, and be undeceived.  Phil. 

Panthea!  
It is impossible.  
Had I not been more than a half Spectator  
Of her untimely Death, thou might'st deceive me.  
But yet these Characters are sure the Traces  
Of my Panthea's Peneus Your Pardon— leave me.   Exit Mess. Philander Reads. 
JOy to your Nuptials, and your prosperity in the Princess Olizia. Now I thank the milder Tempests, since my Misfortunes have thus made way to your deserved Greatness. I only request this in Recompense for my Two Years Sufferings, that as I was Redeemed from Pirates by Olizias Steward, and now am her Captive, you would procure me free Passage into my Country; where I will Solemnize your Marriage with perpetual Virginity, and live a Stranger in my Father's Family, as I now make myself a double One, whilst I style my Name Lysandra to the World; but remain to you, and my unhappy self,  
Panthea.  

Panthea living! Is it not a Sound  
Would rouse a sleeping Lover from his Grave?  
But, Oh she lives to see Philander Perjured!  
Lives to upbraid me of the basest Treason,  
The blackest Infidel could e'er commit!  
Did I upon my Knees, at her dear Feet,  
Give up my Heart, and my vowed Soul resign?  
And call to witness that Bright Lamp of Heaven,  
T'attest my Vows:  
Vows of that Sacred Force, that aught to be  
No less Unchangeable, no less Immortal,  
Than that Bright Sun, which I invoked to hear'm:  
Vows of that Force, that Death should ne'er dissolve.  
How dare such Treachery as mine see Light?  
Shroud me, some God, in Everlasting Night.   Exit. The SCENE, a Bridal-Chamber. Olizia appears Seated within the Scenes, and Corina standing by her. Enter Philander, introduced by Pyrgus. Phil. 
Where do you lead me? Why this State for me?  Pyr. 
'Tis such as does become your Bridal-Chamber.  Exit. Phil. 

My Bridal-Chamber!  
Is this a Place for me?  
Can I perform the Rites of a young Bridegroom,  
Melt in the Embraces of a yielding Beauty,  
Whilst the Remembrance of my Broken Vows,  
And the cold Thought of my despised Panthea  
Turns all my freezing Blood to Veins of Ice?  
And yet, How can I make a base Return  
T' Olizias Love, her kind and generous Love?  
She, who t'a Stranger, both my Birth and Fortunes  
Unknown, gave me her Heart, herself, and makes me Lord  
Of Treasures, that would tempt a Gynick from his Cell.  
And, Shall I pay Ingratitude for Love?  
And when she meets me with her dazzling Brightness,  
To yield the Pleasures of a Nuptial-Bed;  
Shall I disdainfully tell her, She invites me  
To a poor Treat, that is not worth Acceptance?  
An Insolence can do no less than Damn me.  
Did I for this betray her to a Marriage?  
Guide me, ye Gods, in this unhappy Labryrinth.   Oliz. 

Dearest Philander! Rising up; & Advancing to him.  
—— Ha! How does my Lord?  
Methinks, you are not well; your Looks are altered;  
A sullen Paleness hangs upon your Cheek,  
As if your kind Olizia did not please you.   Phil. 

Fairest Olizia! true, I am not well.  
The Thought of my lost Love.——   Oliz. 

Unkind Philander!  
Is this the Music of our Bridal-Night?   Phil. 

Oh, that I durst but tell her, that she Lives!  
But that would be a too Tyrannic Cruelty.   Aside. Oliz. 

Are these your Vows? Is this the Love you promised?  
But my Philander, I can still forgive you:  
And you'll deserve your Pardon; will you not?  
What cannot be recalled, should be forgotten.  
Can Sighs or Tears, or all your Cruelty  
To me, restore her Life?   Phil. 

Indeed, I do not merit half this Sweetness:  
But I will study to repay your Kindness.  
Panthea, now I do remember Thee,  
And curse the Fate, that could have Power to part us:  
But must thy Resurrection make me Cruel,  
Ungrateful to such Glorious Excellence? Aside.  
Must I, like an Apostate, break my Faith,  
Rend up the Nuptial-Seals of my sworn Heart,  
And make my Soul all one perfidious Blot.   Oliz. to Corin. 

Observe that gloomy Brow; I fear in all  
That clouded Heaven, there's no kind Star for me.   Phil. 

Had some propitious God, with the least Beam of Heaven,  
In a kind Dream, but visited my Soul  
Before this Marriage-Knot was tied, and told me,  
Panthea lived, I would have left the Altar,  
With-drawn my guilty Hand, and with disdain Aside.  
Shrunk from th'embrace of the World, greatest Empress,  
To have been just to thee: But now my Heart  
Is sealed and gone, and thou revivest too late.  
Nor is my Crime my Treason, but my Fate.  
Madam, forgive a fearful trembling Lover,  
Whose awful Feet approach his Heaven so slowly.  
True Piety fears where it does adore.  
In these kind Arms, and on this rising Breast, Kissing— and Embracing.  
The Touch of this dear Hand, and this soft Bosom,  
Would tempt an Angel; and can Flesh and Blood  
Resist th'impetuous Joy? My dearest Life,  
Light of my World, and Treasure of my Soul,  
Am I the cruel, false, unkind Philander?   Oliz. 

No, my best Life, thou art not; now thou'rt kind.  
The Raptures of this one dear happy Minute,  
Would sweeten a whole Life. Farewell my Pains:  
Nothing but Joy can come within this Circle.  
Corinna, bid Lysandra bring the Banquet  
She has prepared.   Phil. 
Lysandra!  Aside. Oliz. 

The mighty Cleopatra,  
In all her Riots, all her haughty Love,  
Could never Treat her Lord, with half my Pride,  
Nor half my Kindness.   Phil. 

Stay, Corinna, stay.  
Must my Panthea then be a Spectator,  
And introduce me to her Rivals Arms? Aside.  
Can I outlive that Thought?   Oliz. 
What means my Lord?  Phil. 

Must she stand by, and with accusing Eyes,  
See my false Hand the Bridal-Nectar hold,  
See my false Lips salute the Lifted-Gold?  
Whilst my warm Cheeks with flushing Pleasures glow,  
And warmer Veins with pampered Fierceness flow Aside.  
Then see her Traitor in his Nuptial-Bed,  
On Perfumed Down, and spreading Odours laid,  
Whilst her sad Heart, with her brim-swelling Eyes,  
Cries, False Philander!— and then breaks, and dies.   Oliz. 

Will you relapse again, and are you going  
To be the cruel and unkind Philander?  
Did you but fhew me Heaven, to take it from me?   Phil. 

Defend me, ye Bright Guards of Heaven: Methinks,  
I see Panthea all in Tears, and pale  
As Death, opening her perjured Murderers Curtains.  
So Chastely Caesar looked, so Brutus trembled.   Oliz. 

Why this Despair, dear Sir? Those Sufferings  
Will die, when you are kind: Indeed, they will.  
My gentle Looks shall soften all your Fury.  
I'll love you into Peace, as the kind Sun  
Dispels the Clouds, till the rough Tempest dies.   Phil. 

No, Angel-form, thou art too Bright for me:  
Thou art all Innocence, a pure Idea,  
Too Good to mix with foul and drossy Mortals:  
I am all Monster, Savage, all that's ill.  
My Heart's all cankered, my corrupted Veins  
Are only filled with circulating Poisons.  
In my Blaek Soul, Ten thousand Furies dwell,  
Whole Mines of Sulphur, and whole Lakes of Hell.   Oliz. 

Oh drive these Visionary Horrors hence!  
Dear Sir, do not indulge this unkind Frenzy.   Phil. 

No, Madam; from these precious Sweets I'll fly;  
Take hence this Fiend, take hence these Leprous Stems;  
My blasting Eyes, and my envenomed Breath.  
Thou art too Excellent, too Divinely Fair,  
To live within my Pestilential Air.   Exit. Oliz. 

Were ever Nuptials, angry Powers, like mine?  
The rest  
Of my more prosperous Sex, compared with me,  
Are Goddesses, in glittering Chariots ride,  
And make their Lovers Vassals to their Pride:  
But I (poor I) Court mine, and am denied.   Exeunt. 
Finis Actus Primi.   

ACT THE SECOND.  Enter Artaban Disguised, Attended by his Confident Gobrias. Art. 

OH; Gobrias! How I loathe those hated Walls?  
Under that Roof, that splendid Pile, is lodged  
The greatest Fiend, that ever was ordained:  
heavens' Instrument of Vengeance, that e'er took  
Commission from the Gods, and Pay from Hell.  
Olizia! Damned Impostor!   Gobr. 

'Tis very strange, my Lord, that two years' Travail.  
With all the Pleasures of the ransacked World,  
Cannot remove that Woman from your Mind.   Art. 

Ah, Gobrias! when I first beheld that Beauty  
By the false Optics of my wounded Eyes,  
I saw such infinite, united Wonders,  
I thought the Magazine of the Blind God,  
His Darts, his Quivers, all his Arms were there.  
At last, I married her; and thought myself  
Possessor of a Jewel, much more worth  
Than all the Treasures of the East. But Oh!  
My Diamond proved but Glass, false brittle Glass.  
Oh, she had lost her Honour! She that looked  
All Health without, within was all Contagion.   Gob. 

My Lord, might I advise you, you should scorn her:  
Leave her, and her detested Crimes to Fate.  
Search Nature's store, and find some worthier Choice,  
T'adorn your Nuptial-Bed. Get a Divorce,  
And marry once again: Some brighter Beauty  
Would soon dispel her faint and sullied Image.   Art. 

No, Gobrias; for her sake, I loathe the Sex.  
They are all treacherous Joys. Even when they melt  
In our Embraces, we but bathe in Poisons.   Gob. 

Alas, Sir! those are but the monstrous Forms,  
Which the false Light of your wild Thoughts presents you.  
Come, Sir, let some more charming Face convert you.  
You cannot guests, the Charms attend on Marriage:  
Where Love and Virtue make the Bridal-Musick.   Art. 

Could I embrace thy Council, I were happy.  
But know, I loved; and died for that fair Devil;  
And my wronged Love is turned t'invetrate Hate;  
Whilst from that Soursces, Eternal Vengeance flows.   Gob. 

If then you are resolved to be your own,  
And her Tormentor, Why in this Disguise?   Art. 

O yes!  
The Mine is not yet strong enough, to blow up.  
This Trayt'ress, by returning thus unknown,  
And in Disguise, perhaps I may surprise her,  
Dallying i'th' Arms of a strong-sinewed Favourite;  
Or revelling amongst a Herd of Satyrs;  
Whilst some fair Cupid, with his wanton Airs,  
Stretches her slack'ning Veins, and tunes her Blood  
Up to a Pitch so high, fit for th'Embrace  
Of his own Mother's fierce, hot, Warlike God.  
Oh, had I Rage enough, to tear her Heart out,  
And make the Blood of this false Scorpion cure me.   Enter, walking at Distance, Corinna. Cor. 

Oh, thou unhappy Princess, that such Love,  
And so much Beauty, should deserve no more.  
This dull Philander, blind to his own Glory,  
Flies from those very Arms——   Art. 

Corinna here! Her Cousin, and her Confident!  
Madam——   Cor. 
A Stranger here at this dark Hour!  Offers to go. Art. 
Corinna stay; 'tis Artaban that calls thee.  Cor. 

Prince Artaban! Ye Gods, is he alive!  
Poor Princess, now thou art completely wretched. Aside.  
What Ruins does this rising-Planet threaten?  
Are all the Stories of your Watry-Grave  
False as the Ocean's Smiles, in which Fame told us—   Art. 
Yes, they are all false, false as the Oaths of Women.  Cor. 
How Sir?  Art. 

False as that Trayt'ress, that I left behind me.  
Dangers I met, and Shipwreck I have suffered;  
And after two years' Travail, am returned,  
To tell you that I Live But, Cousin, say:  
How fares our lusty Widow?   Cor. 
Cruel Prince!  Art. 
I mean our young brisk Wife, the Fair Olizia.  Cor. 
Undone by her, unkind ungrateful Lord!  Art. 
Poor Lady!  Cor. 

How could you be so barbarously Jealous?  
Did she deserve it from you?   Art. 

No, not she.  
'Tis true, I had the Satisfaction on  
My Nuptial Day, to know the great Lord Lysias  
Had tasted her dear easy Sweets before me.  
But why should I be Jealous? Alas! kind Man,  
He had only eased me of my first Nights Trouble,  
And laid a good Foundation for a Bridegroom.   Cor. 
Fie, Sir!— But what black Monster told you this.  Art. 
Only the dearest Friend I have on Earth?  Cor. 
His Name?  Art. 

Araxes; that brave Gallant Man:  
He that would run thro' all the angry Elements,  
And meet even Death in any shape, to serve me.  
This kind Araxes, being returned from Travail,  
And hearing that the King designed to give me  
Olizia, flew with all the Wings of Friendship,  
To quench the threatning Fire; but came too late:  
The fatal Knot was tied. Then in my Ears,  
He breathed a Story of that dreadful Accent:  
Told me, I had took that Viper to my Bosom.—   Cor. 

Hold your Career— Pray, how came this Araxes  
So wise, so knowing? Whence had he this wondrous  
Intelligence of all her private Sins?   Art. 

From her own Bawd, Lord Lysias Confident.  
He could have told me all their stolen Amours,  
And Assignations for three Years together,  
Had he suspected when he left this Kingdom,  
Her Witchcrafts would have led my Soul astray.   Cor. 

And all this you believed. Now hear your Folly:  
Suppose that Treacherous Lord designed t'abuse you,  
What fitter Instrument than this Araxes?  
Who makes so sure a Traitor, as a Friend?   Art. 
The brave Araxes scorned it.  Cor. 

Why? His Fortunes  
Were not so large, but that the great Lord Lysias  
Had Treasures, Favours, Honours to bestow,  
Such as might dazzle a much surer Friend.  
Were you not sensible, that Lord had Courted her  
For many Years; and when he saw her Beauty  
Designed your Prize, no doubt his slighted Passion  
Converted to Revenge, and to strike home,  
And blast your whole Life's Peace, he chose your Confident,  
Your own best Friend, t'administer the Poison.   Art. 

I thank you for your galless, soft Morality:  
But I have, at present, no such Gentle Thoughts  
About me, to be preached into a Convert.   Cor. 

Had I been you, I would have searched the World,  
T'have found that Impious Lord; and when I had fixed  
His perjured Soul low as that Hell that had  
Inspired it, I'd have brought his Cankered Heart  
And laid it at her Feet; and then received  
Her spotless Honour in my longing Bosom:  
Prized her above my Life, loved her next Heaven;  
Not left her so inhumanly as you did.   Art. 

Yes, Madam, had we lived i'th' Golden-Age,  
When Milk and Herbs were th' only Riotous food,  
Then Women were not pampered into Lust,  
Then Man's more temperate blood had less gall in't;  
And than your Morals, might be practicable.   Cor. 

Was ever such a Cruel Temper heard!  
But, she has rewarded that your Barbarity,  
And fixed that Myrtle Wreath, which your unkindness  
Had forfeited, on a deserving Brow.   Art. 
How, Cousin?  Cor. 

She has taken the advantage  
Of that false Fame, that told us you were dead.   Art. 
Married again!  Cor. 

Indeed, 'twas much unlucky;  
But 'tis no more than you deserved.   Art. 

How, Married!  
Confusion on her hot, rank, burning Blood!  
Death! Married! Now did I not tell thee, Gobrias?  
What precious Saints are Women? Cursed Women!  
Married again! Damn her!   Cor. 

What have I done! Aside.  
Consider, 'twas your Fault: Do not blame her.  
You left her basely, left her all in Tears:  
And as a just Reward for your Unkindness,  
We had been long confirmed, that you were lost,  
And Dead.   Art. 

And she like a sad Widow, drank  
My Funeral-Wine on her new Wedding night.  
Confound the Siren!   Cor. 

Oh, forbear this Fury!  
Consider, 'twas a Sin of Ignorance.  
Nor is her Error any lawless Love:  
Her Love, at worst, has only Married; and  
You know, that Marriages are writ in Heaven.   Art. 

Yes, they're writ there; & so are Wars, Plagues, Famines;  
So all the Engines of the Sky, th'Events  
Of Thunders, Comets, Earthquakes, Deluges,  
Designed from the Foundation of the World,  
To ruin Mankind, are all writ in Heaven.   Cor. 
Oh my rash foolish Tongue!  Art. 

Married! Accursed Woman! By this Hand,  
The Sex is all Perdition, wild as Storms,  
And Ravenous as the Grave; Their Breath is Wildfire,  
Their Eyes are Meteors, and their Arms are Quicksands:  
And whilst those lead the wandering Fool astray,  
'Tis these devour him. Is there a Destroyer,  
Like Impudent, Inconstant, Perjured, Infamous,  
Infernal Woman. Woman damned the World,  
Her Treason drowned it, and her Lust will burn it!  
When Nature shall all blaze, and the Poles crack,  
Hell gape, and all its Sulphurous Mines burst out,  
'tis only Woman that must light the Firebrands.   Cor. 

Oh horror! what a Tempest have I raised?  
Dear Sir, no more; cease this mad Rage.   Art. 

I've done——  
Oh thou hot-Blooded, and insatiate Witch!  
By heavens', I question if a Woman's Lust  
e'er dies; but only when her putrid Carcase,  
As rotten as her Soul, is housed in Earth,  
The Brutal-Monster makes a Resurrection,  
And turns a Succubus, to play her Game out.   Cor. 
Barbarian! Why this Storm against poor Women?  Art. 

I'll tell you the Design of their Creation:  
When the Apostate-Angels ward with Heaven,  
And all their Pride and Impudence was grown  
Too fierce for Chains to bind, or Hell to tame;  
Heaven in mere Policy,  
Invented Womankind to match the Devil.  
Married again! Perdition seize her Soul!  
How she distracts me!   Cor. 
Why this Furious Raving!  Art. 

I Rave! You wrong me; by this Light, not I  
A Phlegmatic Philosopher in's Tub,  
Would preach as much as this is.— But, dear Cousin,  
For once I will be calm, and reason with you.  
After I went away, How long was she  
In choosing this New Mate, to fill my Place?   Cor. 

When you had deserted her, she offered all  
Her Prayers for your Return; courted the Sea,  
To bring you back again: was that true Mourner—   Art. 
Was that true Witch, that raised the wind that sunk me?  Cor. 
Inhuman!—  Offers to go. Art. 
I have done: Go on, dear Cozen.  Cor. 

And for that impious Lord, that had abused her,  
A hundred times upon her Knees, I've heard her  
Call Heaven, t'attest her Innocence.   Art. 

No doubt on't.  
That's th'only use that Women make of Heaven,  
To be Fore-sworn by't.   Cor. 

Barbarous Man, farewell!  
This Blasphemy's too horrid.   Offers to go. Art. 

Stay, Corrinna:  
I'll be all Gentleness; not speak one word,  
That shall offend you.   Cor. 

Learn then t'have a sense  
Of her wronged Virtue, and your groundless Rage.  
When you'd forsaken her, her Greatness seemed  
(Without her dearest Lord to share it with her)  
A Burden, not an Ornament of Life:  
Then leaving all her Treasures, all her State  
Abjured, like a poor Pilgrim, she deserted  
Her hated Palace: And in that Retirement,  
When she had long heard your Death, and truly paid you  
For two long Years, a pious Widows Sighs.  
At last, this Gentleman——   Art. 

Revived her Spirits.  
And, Did she hold Two Years, full two whole Years,  
Before she Married him? In that long time,  
How many Grooms and Pages had she tired?   Cor. 

Go, brutish Infidel, thou deservest thy Fate.  
But what have I pulled down? Methinks, I see  
In his wild Looks Revenge, like Trains of Ruin,  
Against the poor Olizias Life prepared:  
Let me who caused her Danger, be her Guard.   Exit. Art. 

Oh, Gobrias! What has my Frenzy done?  
This subtle Devil will outwit me: Alarm  
Th'adulterers, and put 'em on their Guard.  
But fly, take the Advantage of the Night:  
O'ertake her, Seize her, Bind her, Gag her; any thing,  
So you but keep that noisy Engine silent.   Exit Gobrias, running after Corinna. Enter Pyrgus. 
Who have we here? some kind Nightwalking Pander? Pyrgus!  Pyr. 
Prince Artaban!  Art. 

Thou art surprised,  
To see thy Lord alive.   Pyr. 

I'm all Amazement!  
My wondering Senses——   Art. 

Come, suppress thy Wonder!  
Thou hast stranger Prodigies t'admire at Home.  
Pyrgus, I left thee Honest, Brave, and Faithful.   Pyr. 

And, Sir, I'm no ill Steward of that Honesty  
You left with me; I have improved, not lessened it.   Art. 

I thank thee, Pyrgus. I have a Business for thee,  
Which if thou darest perform—   Pyr. 

Which if I dare not,  
Curse both my Cowardice, and my Ingratitude:  
Speak your Commands, and use my Life to serve you:  
I owed you, as the Author of my Fortunes.   Art. 

Kind Pyrgus: Know then, I've deceived the World,  
And by the help of a Disguise, returned  
Safe, and unknown to any but thyself,  
My faithful Gobrias, and the false Corinna:  
But I have spoiled her Rhetoric, for some  
Few Minutes. Having stopped her Ravens-Croak,  
I must obtain thy Art and Interest,  
To introduce me safe, and privately,  
Into your Lady's Bedchamber.   Pyr. 
I'll do't.  Art. 

Do, and I'll make thee happy; do, and make me  
Thy Vassal. To behold 'em Kissing, Courting,  
Embracing; Oh, How that dear Scene transports me?  
Now Sorceress, I'll countermine your Charms;  
And whilst she fries in her warm Satyrs Arms,  
I'll make her Veins with a new Poison swell,  
And put her in a Sweat more hot than Hell.   Exeunt. 
Finis Actus Secundus.   

ACT THE THIRD.  Philander and Olizia in a Bedchamber. Oliz. 

HAve I not yet deserved your Heart, unkind Philander?  
I have a mighty Sum to reckon with you.   Phil. 

And 'tis a Debt I am too poor to pay.  
Let me but count it up; then blush, and die.  
The Trojan Youth, whose dazzled Eyes surveyed  
Three tempting Courting Goddesses at once,  
Did not behold thy Worth. The fair Olizia,  
Has in her all their Deities: Their Charms,  
Beauty, Wit, Glory, are united here.   Oliz. 

Oh Sir, lay by this airy, flattering Style!  
Yet you speak kindly, and there is some Bliss  
In a kind word, to her that has no more.   Phil. 

Mirror of Goodness! Thou art all Divine:  
And he that should embrace such infinite Charms,  
Ought to be Lord of all th'united Graces,  
That Lover e'er possessed. Greatness should wait  
Upon his Birth, and Honour on his Sword:  
And to Crown all, his undivided Soul  
Should be entirely thine: whilst no less Lights  
Should shine before thy Sun. But I, poor I,  
Unworthy, far unworthy, want all these.  
And for thy Wrongs, and my Ingratitude,  
When my just Grief has bowed me to the Dust,  
And the kind Grave has purged my Dross away;  
Thy Love I only can in Heaven repay.   Oliz. 

Can't you be Just, unless you die? Nor must  
You love me, till we meet among the Stars?  
'Tis very hard: Yet 'tis some Joy to think,  
I shall find Love in Heaven; For I've but little here.   Phil. 

Oh, matchless Sweetness!— And thou cruel Heart,  
Since my Panthea's Power has hardened thee  
To that Inflexible and stubborn Marble, Aside.  
Too stiff to kneel to this Celestial Creature;  
Own, own the Cause of thy Impiety:  
Cheat her no more; but say, Panthea Lives.  
Dear Madam, I've a sad Truth to tell you.   Oliz. 

And is it sad, dear Sir? Out with it then.  
For since th'unkind Philander will not love me,  
All that is Sad, all that is Miserable,  
Should centre here.   Phil. 

More weight to my Confusion!  
Yet I must speak.——   Oliz. 
What would you say?  Phil. 

Dear Madam,—  
Suppose that—   Oliz. 

What? That you have got some other  
Dear Ghost, besides Panthea's?— Alas,  
You need no more; her Power alone's too Great.  
And whilst  
For her cold Shade, you from my Arms retire,  
Her Ashes have more Lustre, than my Fire.   Phil. 

Now you present my Guilt in all its Horrors.  
But Madam, whilst I gaze on this bright Glory,  
And stand like a Damned Soul, that's placed within  
The Sight of Paradise, and must not enter,  
Impute it to a strange commanding Cause:  
Imagine, that the lost Panthea lives.   Oliz. 

Panthea lives! Then Gods shut in your Day;  
Light, and the World, and all your Joys farewell.  
There wanted but this Stroke: This dreadful Word  
Has all the wounds Despair and Death can give. Swoons away.   Phil. 

What have I done! The killing Sound has closed  
Her fainting Eyes: her Rosy Sweets shut up,  
Like a be-nighted Flower. She's gone! She's gone!  
My dearest, sweetest, kindest Life return:  
Return, and keep thy mourning Slave alive.  
Revive, look up, open those orient Lights,  
And take my Sighs, my Soul into thy Eyes.   Oliz. 

Why do you wake me? Now Panthea lives,  
You should be kind, and give me Leave to die.  
Let my Heart break; do, let it break: Since she  
Fills all your Soul, there is no Room for me.   Swoons again. Phil. 

She's gone again! Return, dear Saint, return.  
Look up, and live: It is not I alone,  
That call thee back; the Gods themselves invite thee.   Oliz. 

Why do you raise me from Death's gentle Sleep,  
And force a poor lost wretched thing to live?  
You ne'er were truly Cruel, till this Hour.  
Oh, let me die! I die to make you Happy.  
Then your Panthea may possess you all.  
Go to her Sir, and tell her when I'm Dead,  
And laid aside forgotten in the Dust,  
She needs not fear a Rival.  
Then she may safely please her Loved Philander,  
Meet your kind Looks, and fill those dear, dear Arms:  
And like a Star all Glorious, all Divine,  
Rise in that Heaven, where I must never shine.   Phil. 

Talk not of Death; Live to enrich the Universe:  
Live to bless me. Alas! I only said  
She Lived, to try your Courage.   Oliz. 
Was that all?  Phil. 

Ah that my Pity should make me a Traitor!  
But, Is it Treason to preserve a Life  
So Precious? No, she cannot, must not die,  
If Love can save her.   Oliz. 

But Sir, Are you sure  
Panthea does not Live?   Phil. 

Name her no more.  
All that is Excellent, all that's Divine,  
Lives in thy Arms: Fixed in that glorious Sphere,  
Let me look down on poor and abject Mortals.   Oliz. 

My kind dear Lord; What a bright Change is here!  
Did you then only fright my Soul away,  
To call it back again with such blessed Music?   Phil. 

Dear Divinity!  
Shall I like an unsatisfyed dull Fool,  
Be wilful blind to such Triumphant Bliss?  
Or like young Alexander's mad Ambition,  
Idly and wildly rave for other World's,  
When I have all, all Nature's Wealth in Thee?  
No my best Life.   Embracing her. Enter Artaban and Pyrgus. Pyr. 
Stand there: Your Slaves are ready.  Exit. Art. 

Patience, ye Gods! Hold, hold my boiling Blood.  
Oh! 'twere a rare and excellent Revenge,  
To join their Hearts on my Swords Point, as close  
As their Engendering Lips.   Oliz. 
What Man art thou?  Art. 

One that comes hither to behold a Sight,  
Would damn a Saint, and blast a Basilisk:  
To see two brooding Vipers mix their Poisons,  
And a lascivious, lewd, Adult'ress burn  
With Lust far more tempestuous, Flames far hotter,  
Than that great Day, when the Young Charioteer  
Misled the Sun, and set the World on Fire.  
Look here, Have you forgot this Face?   Undisguises Oliz. 

Confusion! Oh, dreadful!  
Is Artaban Alive?   Phil. 
Ha! is he Risen from a Grave?  Oliz. 
Who waits there?  Art. 

Stir not a Foot; and stop your idle Clamours,  
Lest my winged Fury launch your bloated Soul  
Into those Lakes of Everlasting Brimstone,  
And antedate your just, your just Damnation.   Oliz. 

To see you Live, is no small wonder! But  
As you deserted me a True Barbarian,  
I have no hopes you are returned a Convert.  
It is not Winds or Seas, or Change of Air,  
Can tame a Savage, or can calm a Tiger.  
Go on then, Sir; What Death is't I must die?   Art. 

die! By this Light, a Question worth disputing  
And it would puzzle an Ingenious Artist,  
T'invent a way to kill thee; For by Fire  
Or Water, 'tis impossible to do't.  
Betwixt thy Falsehood, and thy flowing Lust,  
Thou art too Rank to Burn, too Light to Drown:  
Nay, should I bury the Incarnate Monster,  
Like the slain Giants, under Piles of Mountains,  
Thy Lust (like Aetna's Flames) would burst 'em thro'.   Phil. 

If thou art he, who in a blinded Fury  
Could leave this dear inestimable Treasure,  
And basely durst suspect her spotless Honour,  
Whose unexampled Virtue is alone,  
Enough t'atone for all her Sex's Frailty:  
Take heed how you provoke the Gods, by hurting  
This brightest, nearest Image of themselves.   Art. 

Young angry Sir, spend not your Breath in vain;  
Keep it to curse the Hour thou sawst that Face:  
I have a Scourge for thee, and this brisk Wanton,  
Fierce as the Vengeance of a God,  
And swifter than a Pestilence. Come in there  
My Imps of Fury, enter.   Enter Six Villains, who seize Philander and Olizia. Oliz. 
Cruel Monster, what are these?  Art. 
The lightning to my Thunder.  Phil. 

Cursed Fate!  
Surprised, unarmed, and made so tame a Sacrifice!   Art. 
Prepare to Execute what I commanded you.  Phil. 
Inhuman Savage, What's thy black Design?  Art. 

T'oblige Mankind, and purge th'Infected Air:  
For whilst that Monster breathes, she can't breed less than Plagues.   Phil. 

Oh bloody Tyrant, aim your Rage at me!  
Send me to Ruin, kill me, burn me, drown me:  
Do any thing, so you but save her Life!  
Think when you murder that Celestial Form,  
You wound all Mankind at the dismal Blow:  
Not only all the Mourning Globe, the Gods  
Themselves will suffer, when such Virtue bleeds.   Art. 
Oh Amorous Raptures!  Oliz. 

Do not touch one Hair  
Of that dear Gallant, Godlike Man: On mine,  
My Head alone, pour all your Impious Vengeance.  
Live, my kind dearest Lord.   Art. 

Rare Impudence!  
Exquisite Friend: Yes, I'll obey thee;  
And thy kind dearest Lord shall see thee die.  
But ere thou goest, call all thy Friends below;  
(For thou'rt too wicked, to have any yonder)  
Command your black Infernal Vassals; bid 'em  
Prepare to entertain the greatest Guest,  
That ever lodged within their burning Walls.  
Bid Lucifer resign his Throne, and say, I've sent him  
The only Head fit to be Crowned in Hell.  
Oh, that I could but make thee an Age in Dying!  
And, Oh that thine were like Prometheus' Heart,  
And I th'Immortal Vulture to torment it!   Oliz. 

How I disdain thy Rage! Do, show thy Sting.  
Kill me as Barbarously, as thou art base.  
But when I die, I'll send my last kind Looks,  
Sighs, Prayers, and Life, into Philander's Eyes.  
Nay, though you scatter all my sprinkled Ashes  
Around the World, each Atom of my Dust  
Shall find a Soul, and fly into his Bosom.   Phil. 
Oh mighty Love!  Oliz. 

If I can't live to love him,  
I'll soar above, and shine from Heaven upon him.  
And Tyrant, If thy Rage won't let me mount  
To th'Sky an entire Star, tear me to pieces,  
And rend my mangled Limbs into a Comet:  
Then know, when from my Glorious Constellation  
I shall look down into that dark Abbyss,  
Where thou makest Fuel for Eternal Fire,  
I'll scorn thee then, as I defy thee now.   Art. 
Hold Heart! Away, and house her in a Dungeon.  Phil. 
Touch her no more, than you would tread on Lightning.  Art. 
Spare her no more, than you would save a Crocodile.  Phil. 
Have you no Pity?  Art. 

Dogs! Have you no Ears?  
Away with her.   Phil. 
Hold Hellhounds!  Art. 
Go, or you're Dead!  Phil. 
Stay, or you're Damned!  Art. 
Begone.  Phil. 
Dear Angels!—  Art. 
Dear Damnation!—  Phil. 
Guard her—  Art. 
— Sink her.  Exeunt Philander and Panthea, forced out by the Villains. 

Now my young Bride, I'll drain your Amorous Veins.  
One Minnte, and the Charming Scene begins.   Enter to him Lysandra. Lys. 

Oh Sir! as you would gain Immortal Honour  
On Earth, and Everlasting Joys in Heaven;  
As you would have your Glorious Actions fill  
The Book of Fame, and like Ascending Incense,  
Perfume the Skies, and Treat the Gods, recall  
Your Banished Peace, and save their Precious Lives   Art. 

Ha! What art thou, fair Fiend? One of her Imps?  
Is she so great a Witch, so rare an Artist,  
To raise such Beauteous Devils, to defend her?   Lys. 

No, Sir, I'm one of that weak frighted Sex,  
Who could not hear your furious Threatening Outrage,  
Without a bleeding Heart, and melting Eyes.   Art. 

Where have I Lived obscurely,  
That I was never dazzled till this Minute.   Lys. 

Oh Sir! if ever Pity touched your Breast,  
Save a young Stranger, and a wretched Lady.   Art. 

heavens'! were she any thing but that Monster Woman,  
How I could Love her?   Aside. Lys. 

This black Doom recall:  
Punish yourself, not her. If she has done ill,  
She owes it all to you. Had you performed  
The Rites of a Kind Lord, I'm sure she would  
Have made a Miracle of Love and Duty.  
You should have moulded all her tender Thoughts,  
And formed her Soul in any Shape, to please you.  
You might have lived an Age in envied Bliss,  
And if you've lost all this, it is because  
In an unmanly Rage, you forfeited  
The Right of your Creation, when you left  
Her feeble Sex unguarded all alone.   Art 

Go on, gay talking Thing. I thought before,  
The only Music in the World had been  
The cracking Heartstrings, and the dying Groans  
Of my Adulterous Sorceress. But now,  
My Rage can stop in all its full Career,  
Whilst this soft tempting Siren Charms my Ear.   Lys. 

Will he then hear me? Oh, my blooming Hopes!  
Dear Sir, indulge, improve these Sparks of Pity.  
Mercy's the Glory of a Deity:  
And it is Godlike, to forgive. Subdue  
Your wild Desires; and that Heroic Deed  
Is Nobler than the Conquest of a Kingdom.  
But if you stain your Hands with Guiltless Blood,  
Think then what dismal Horrors wait on Murder:  
Wolves, Raven, Scriech-Owles, then will be your Guests.  
And her Pale Ghost will haunt your starting Sleeps,  
Press your sad Thoughts with Lead, more heavy than  
The Ponderous Marble, that entombs her Ashes.   Art. 

Begone, take those enchanting Eyes away:  
There's a bewitching Influence within  
Those sparkling Circles, that un-man's my Soul.   Lys. 

Nay, if these Eyes have Power to make you Good,  
They shall pursue you wheresoe'er you go:  
With their soft, humble, pleading, courting Tears,  
I'll weep 'em blind, to quench your raging Fires.   Art. 

Where am I going? Stay, my fleeting Glory.  
I had designed that great, that brave Revenge,  
That should have raised my vast Immortal Fame  
High as a Monumental- Pyramid,  
And hid its towering Head among the Clouds:  
But this Young Spirit would shake my great Foundations.  
Take thy Face hence.   Lys. 
Oh Sir!—  Art. 

I'll hear no more.  
Vanish false Fire, bright Meteor disappear;  
It is not safe for me to tarry here.  
My mighty Mind would keep its sacred way;  
And she strews Flowers, to lead my Soul astray.   Exit, and Lysandra following him. 
Finis Actus Tertii.   

ACT THE FORTH.  Philander and Olizia appear in a Dungeon, Attended and Guarded by the former Villains. Oliz. 
THis, this Philander, is my Funeral-Scene.  Phil. 

And these the Fiends, to act the Hellish Deed:  
They only wait for their Commanding Devil.   Oliz. 

But when you see me Die, will you be kind,  
And pity my hard Fate? When you behold  
My panting Breast laid open, and that Heart  
Where my dear Lord once reigned, all torn and mangled,  
Will you look Pale, and with a trembling Sigh,  
Let a kind Pearl fall trickling from your Eye?  
Say, Will you do all this for poor Olizia?   Phil. 

Not do all this for thee! When the dire Monster  
Dares wreak his Barbarous Vengeance in thy Veins,  
Thy sacred Veins; and the unthinking Gods  
Dare see it done; Shall not I mourn for thee?  
Doubt not that Pious Tribute of my Eyes.  
Shall not my Dew fall at thy Setting- Sun?  
Not weep to see thee Bleed! I'll make my Eyes  
Start from their Spheres, to view that killing Object.  
And when thy Sweetness  
Draws near to Heaven, my fainting bleeding Heart  
Shall just keep Life enough to break with thine.   Oliz. 

Then you'll be kind indeed. Now, Murderers welcome:  
Bringing all your Torturing Racks. Thy gentle Pity  
Will vanquish all the Pains of Execution.  
Who would not die, to be deplored by Thee?  
To have thy Sighs, thy Tears, thy Love,  
Like ministring-Angels, mount me to the Skies?   Phil. 

Since, my best Saint, it is by Fate ordained,  
That thou must die for me; and for my sake,  
Thy faithful fearless Love dares boldly set  
With so much beauteous cheerful Light about it,  
Hear my last Vow.   Kneels. 

Ye Gods, if in this little  
Short Glass of Life, I breathe one Sigh to aught  
But fair Olizia; If my flaming Heart  
Blow the least Spark to any other Breast,  
Shut your Bright Gates against me. Banish me  
From the blessed Realms of her Immortal Day;  
Expelled for ever from her Heaven, and Yours.  
Panthea now, shall haunt my Thoughts no more:  
Thee, and Thee only, I'll in Death adore.   Oliz. 

My kindest Lord, now with full Tides of Joy  
I can meet Death, since Death has made you mine.  
My Soul's all Rapture, all Delight! Grim Death,  
Whose Ghastly Visage frights the trembling World,  
And comes with hollow Eyes, and rattling Bones,  
To me's all Gay; and with a Charming Smile,  
Does with sweet Wreaths, and flowery Garlands come.  
My Bridal-Pleasures blossom on my Tomb.   Phil. 

Now you transport my ravished Sense too high.  
The worth of Ages, and thy Sex's Glory,  
Is all summed up in Thee: And, Must you die?  
Must this Celestial Light fall like a Meteor?  
And this blooming Spring fade like a withered Autumn?  
Must this fair Book of Life, writ by the Hand of Heaven,  
The Legend of a God, be all defaced?  
And must I see it done? Oh, dearest Madam!  
I never was a Coward, till this minute.   Oliz. 
How Sir?  Phil. 

I cannot, must not, dare not fee you die.  
Better th'whole Sex beside, were all extinguished;  
Their worthless Beauties shuffled in the Dust,  
And thou the only Godlike Woman, left  
T'uphold the World.— Oh Gentlemen! if Beauty  
And Innocence can ever move Compassion,  
Look on that Form; say, Shall that Bosom bleed?  
Perform a Deed worthy a Chronicle:  
Turn all your Swords against her Tyrant's Heart.  
But if Reward can only make you Good,  
Propose a Ransom that may buy her Life;  
I'll pay it at the Price of all my Fortunes,  
Treasures, and Honours; all I have on Earth:  
And if that ben't enough to pay the Sum,  
I'll be your Slave; sell me to make it up.  
Oh, save her! Nay, if you'd be Saints, Stars, Angels,  
Save her, and you'll deserve to be 'em all.   Enter Lysandra. Lys. 

That Glorious Task must be assigned to me:  
'Tis I that bring her Life and Liberty.   Phil. 

Oh guard me, guard me, some Immortal Power! Aside.  
Those Eyes could never blast me till this Hour.   Lys. 

Gentlemen, let this Signet satisfy you, Shows a Ring to the Villains.  
That I have wrought the angry Prioce to Mercy,  
And have obtained your Prisoners Lives & Pardons.  
Withdraw; they're now my Charge.   Exeunt villains. Oliz. 
Saved by Lysandra!  Lys. 

By a long Siege of Tears i've calmed his Fury,  
And crushed the Snake that twined about his Heartstrings.   Oliz 

How can the study of that Life you've given me,  
Requite my kind Protectress, generous Maid?   Lys. 

Balance your Deeds with mine, and but remember  
How you preserved my threatened Honour from  
A Ravisher, and you've done more for me.   Oliz. 

Now my dear Lord, raise your dejected Head.  
I shall not Bleed; all the rough Storm is fled.  
Why do you start, shake, and look pale? Is her  
Kind News unwelcome? Can my rescued Life  
Displease you? Sure it can't. But if it does,  
Alas, Sir! let not that your Trouble give:  
I will die still, if you'd not have me live.   Phil. 

No, Madam, Live; and Live to be Adored.  
Let the Converted Sex learn Love from thee:  
Not place their gaudy Amorous Delights,  
In loose Desires, gay Days, and wanton Nights.  
Let 'em Perform thy Hymeneal Rites,  
Stand the great Shock of Wracks, and Death unmoved,  
Walk upon burning Irons, Tread on Graves,  
And keep their Bridals on a Funeral-Pile.  
When they dare do all this for Love, they'll be  
Fit Votaries, great Saint, to Kneel to Thee.   Lys. 

And would not I, your lost despised Panthea,  
Have suffered all these Pains for you?   Oliz. 
Panthea!  

Art thou the Fatal, Fair, Beloved Panthea?  
And, Does she Live? Have you deceived me thus?  
Was all your Mighty Love, your Sighs and sears,  
The Charming Rhetoric of your Tender Eyes,  
A mere Delusion to undo the poor  
Olizia? Oh, my Fall! ay, that just now,  
Wrapped in my blessed Imagination, stood  
Upon the Highest Pinnacle of Heaven,  
Am, in one Minute, lower than the Grave.   Phil. 

I do confess, I told you, She was Dead;  
Said any thing, to raise your drooping Spirits:  
But that was all my Treason. Tho I knew  
Panthea lived, and lived to call me Perjured,  
In all the Passion I expressed for you,  
By all that's Good, my Sighs and Love was True.   Oliz. 
And, Would you Cheat me still!  Phil. 
By all the Powers——  Oliz. 

Speak not one word in your Defence.  
No, Sir, you could not, did not, cannot Love me.  
And, Does she Live?  
You've doomed a Wretched Soul to endless Torments;  
And 'tis beyond the Power of Fate, to save me.   Phil. 

Ah, Madam, if there's Faith on Earth, and Truth  
Among the Gods, I swear——   Oliz. 

Oh, Sir, no more.  
And, Cruel Rival, was it not enough,  
You'd seized his Heart, and ravished all my Right;  
But in the Pleasantest, and Sweetest Dream,  
When his dissembling Tears had made me think,  
His Love was True; and the Fair Apparition  
Presented to my Thoughts the gilded Walks,  
And painted Scenes of Paradise, making  
Me scorn the Drossy World; just when I came  
To Die, and be born upon Angels Wings,  
You most Inhumanely have saved my Life,  
And waked me from my Visionary Treasures,  
To find myself a Beggar.   Lys. 

Do not think,  
I had such base and mean Designs: No, Madam,—   Oliz. 

Canst thou Dissemble too? No, 'tis too plain.  
But do not vainly think, I'll poorly live,  
To bow my Neck to thy Triumphant Chariot.  
Let me but take one Look from those dear Eyes;  
And now false World, Farewell.   Offers to go. Phil. 
Oh stay, dear Angel, stay!  Oliz. 
No, my unkind, false Lord, Farewell for ever.  Phil. 

Stay but one Minute: Stay, mistaken Sweetness.  
Do not forsake your Loyal Prostrate Slave.  
To fly me thus, would be to leave me Damned:  
To doubt my Love, you Stab me. By my Life,  
My Oaths are True. The Gods can witness for me:  
They see, They know my Heart, my Truth, my Soul.   Oliz. 

Oh, false Philander, stop that Fatal Eloquence!  
Such were the very Sounds, that first undid me.  
Thou Love? No, cruel Man, speak it no more.  
I will not hear the Name: It is a Sound,  
That I will never, never hear again.  
Go Perjured, Revel in her dearer Arms:  
And whilst your Love does your new Pleasures take,  
My dying Groans your Bridal-Musick make.   Exit. Phil. 
Stay, Cruel Fair; Remorseless Tyrant, stay!  Lys. 

When I Preserved your Life,  
I did not come to bring you half these Torments.   Phil. 

Why then,  
Did thy untimely Kindness bring me Life?   Lys. 

Is Life a Plague then, 'cause 'tis brought by me?  
Ah, Cruel! Have these Eyes so much of Terror,  
That you had rather die, than meet their hated Sight?  
Am I so much forgotten?   Phil. 

Ah! No more.  
Shame, and Confusion overwhelms my Soul.  
Thus low, a Blushing, Perjured Criminal falls;  
And, Injured Fair, to thee for Mercy calls.  
Such Shame, such Horrors from my Guilt arise,  
I dare not look on those offended Eyes.   Lys. 
Hold Heart!  Phil. 

But False and Perjured, as I am,  
My Heart did not too basely play the Traitor:  
I was not False, before I thought thee Dead.  
But now, Fair Sweetness, thou Revivest too late.  
Love, and Olizias Charms demand me all:  
I've made those Vows, which I must ne'er Recall.   Lys. 

Is't not enough, I Live to see you Perjured;  
But you must take the Pride to own it too?  
Go, Faithless Man: But, Faithless as you are,  
Glory and Crowns lie at your Feet, whilst I  
Go seek some Melancholy Cell, and die.   Exit. Phil. 

Strike home, dear Thunder!  
End, end my Lingering Pains: Am I not Dead yet?  
What Lover ever felt my Wounds, and Lived?  
Was ever Man surrounded with my Glory?  
Th'entire Possessor of the Hearts of Two  
Majestic Beauties, so Divinely Fair?  
And yet, I'm doomed to Famish in Despair.  
So the poor Naked Slave digs in the Mine,  
And sees the glittering Ore around him shine:  
Yet does with hopeless Eyes, that Wealth behold;  
Wretched, and Starved, amidst a Mine of Gold.   Exit. SCENE Changes. Enter Artaban. Art. 

What's Nature, and the Power that Governs it!  
Man is the Puppet of the Gods, and Moves  
Backwards or Forwards, as they please to Dance him.  
Now could I Laugh, to find myself a Fool;  
And yet be Mad, to think I can't be otherwise.  
Where's all my Blust'ring, Roaring Storm, against  
Olizia?— Hushed, and Calmed; and all, because  
A Foolish Girl had Power to stroke me Gentle.  
My great Foundation's▪ laid in Sand: One Minute,  
Fierce as encount'ring Lions; and the next,  
I'm Tamer than the meekest Beast they Pray on.   Enter Lysandra. 
But here she comes.  Lys. 

After I had Redeemed  
The Lives of Innocents, I could not take  
This mighty Blessing from your Hands, and not  
Return to pay my Thanks upon my Knees.   Art. 

Oh, Rise! What other Lives have you to Save?  
What to Destroy? What New Commands to Execute?  
What towers to Scale? What Rocks to Blow up? What  
Mountains to Level? For I Love you so,  
I could do all this in a Breath, to serve you.  
Be free, dear Charming Witch, command thy Obedient Devil.   Lys. 
Love me!  Art. 

Oh, wondrously! Try me like Hercules;  
I could Act all his Labours o'er again.  
And when I had done, throw off my lion's Skin:  
Then take his Distaff, and sit down and Spin.   Lys. 
What cruel Words are these?  Art. 

If this be Cruel,  
I'll try a kinder way of Love, to please you.   Seizes her. Lys. Lys. 
Ah, Sir! What do you mean?  Art. 

To use you Lovingly;  
To Revel in the Charms of this soft Breast,  
And surfeit on Delights, on which a God might Feast.   Lys. 

Oh, Sir! If ever Virtue, Mercy, Pity  
Dwelled in your Noble Breast,—   Art. 

If ever Passion,  
And warm Desire dwelled in my Boiling Veins,  
I Love thee.   Ruffles her. Lys. 
Is this Love!  Art. 

No; though this be not,  
I'll show thee what it is, before we part.   Lys. 

Do not mistake:  
Can it be Love, to offer all that Violence,  
For which you would both Hate yourself and me?   Art. 

By heavens', 'tis like enough. I loved Olizia  
That Morning that I Married her, above  
The spangled Skies, and all the Joys within 'em:  
Yet before Night, I loathed her worse than Hell.  
Yet, now  
I think on't, I ne'er tasted of her Charms:  
But I'll be Kind and Riot in Thy Arms.  
In these soft Chains for ever bind me thine.  
They know the Treasure best, who search the Mine.   Lys. 

Oh, Sir! if you pursue these wicked Ends,  
What Triumph will a Virgin's Ruin be?  
To make a poor lost Creature shun the Light;  
And call on Rocks and Mountains, t'hide her Shame?   Art. 

Talk not of Shame; but think of Love, dear Love;  
The Business, and the Pride of your Creation.  
Yield, yield or I must force your stubborn Pride.   Lys. 

Oh hold, Sir! I had a Virtuous Father;  
Who taught me still, that where was such a word,  
As Conjured Devils up, Eclipsed the Sun,  
Made Earthquakes, Blazing-Stars, and Blue Hellfire.   Art. 

Why do you Treat me thus, like Cruel Judges,  
Who speak them Fairest, who they mean, shall Die?  
Without thy dear Embraces, I'm but Dead.   Lys. 

Ah, Sir! Consider what you ask me; which when  
You've once obtained, you'll hate, and loathe me for't;  
Call yourself Fool, for loving such a one  
As had not such a poor Degree of Virtue,  
To keep her Virgin Chastity unblemished.  
Pity yourself; destroy not in one Act,  
So many Deeds of Worth, past, and to come.  
Then pity me: Let not my guilty Soul  
Make my own Shadow fearful, fill my Dreams  
With Frights, and Start, all my Life with Horrors;  
Ashamed in Company, alone Unquiet;  
Weary of Life, and yet afraid to Die.   Art. 

No more! no more! What Sense can Virtue speak?  
Thou'st Sacrificed my wicked Thoughts; and thence  
The Spirit of Sacred Ones shall rise Extracted,  
And Cleansed from all their Dross. Divinest Maid,  
I never Loved thee half so well as now.  
Lend me thy Hand. Kisses.  
Unutterable Sweetness!  
Nectar and Heaven! Oh, my Transported Soul!  
Gods! Could my Burning Lust (that Brand of Hell!)  
Attempt to set this World of Sweets on Fire,  
And not Alarm all your Bright Starry Host,  
Her Heavenly Guard, to Strike the Monster dead?   Lys. 

Name it no more. Your Noble Penitence  
Has gained your Pardon, both from Heaven and Me.   Art. 

I thank ye Gods. Oh, Love, I am thy Convert!  
Fair injured Innocence, I'm no more  
Thy Impious Idolater: Thou'rt now  
My Goddess, and my Vows are all Divine.  
By Hymen's Holy Rites, I'll make thee Mine.   Lys. 
Oh, my hard Fate! Ah, Sir, What do you mean?  Art. 

To make Atonement for the Blackest Guilt  
The Furies e'er Inspired. Thy Beauty dwells  
Under too Low a Roof, and I must Raise it.  
That Fore head wants a Princely Coronet.  
Lustre and Honours should thy Vassals be:  
Heaven owes thee Greatness, and must paid by Me.  
Why do you shrink?   Lys. 

Ah, Sir! do not pursue  
This mean Design, too poor and low for you,  
A Deed so abject, so beneath your Greatness,  
Mankind will blush to hear, and You to own.   Art. 

Mistaken Sweetness, Don't I love thee? And,  
Can I do less for that, which I Adore?  
A Lover, were he Master of the World,  
For such Bright Eyes, could do no less than lay  
The Universal Sceptre at thy Feet.  
Nay, were I the Great Monarch of the Skies,  
Would I not place my Thunder in thy Hand?  
Make Nature, and her Laws, own thy Command?  
Mount thee aloft on my proud eagle's Wings,  
Whilst all my lesser Gods, like Captive Kings,  
And Fawning Courtiers, filled thy shining Train?  
Thou o'er thy Jove so Absolute shouldst Reign;  
To Kiss thy Feet, my heavens' should Homage pay,  
And crowding Stars make a new Milky-Way.   Lys. 

Forbear, this Language I with Horror hear.  
Alas! I've made a strict and solemn Vow,——   Art. 
To what? To whom? Oh, speak!—  Lys. 

To Death. There is  
A Noble Youth——   Art. 
Oh, Hell!  Lys. 

— (I can't Dissemble.)  
—— For whose dear sake, I've vowed to Mourn and Die.  
Make me not Perjured, take your Prodigal Kindness in:  
For Love, and I, must never meet again.   Art. 

What murdering Sounds are these? And, Must this happy,  
Blessed— Cursed Rival, have more Power than I?   Lys. 

Oh, Pardon me, when I am bound to say,  
And die, to prove it True.  
Not all that the Sun sees, must alter me;  
Not Empires buy my Love, nor Fortune's force it.   Art. 

What Furies raised this Fiend, t'usurp my Right?  
Rival and Devils, I defy your Spite.  
She must be mine, is mine, all mine.  
My blood boil high, and I must seize my Prey. Seizes her.  
What Tempting Magic leads my Soul astray?  
Fly, fly, fair Cruelty!— Stay, dear Marble, stay!   Ex. Lysan. Enter Pyrgus. 
Oh, the high Billows of my stormy Soul!  Pyr. 
Sir, Let me calm that Tempest.  Art. 
What canst thou do?  Pyr. 

I can deplore her Fate, and pity Yours.  
Hither I come, to tell my Erring Prince,  
He has misplaced his Heart, upon an Object,  
Where he must never hope for a Return.   Art. 

Had I not Snakes and Hags enough within me,  
But thy bold Insolence dares play the Schrieth-Owle?   Pyr. 

Oh, give my Zeal a gentler Name! I'm come  
To wake you from your drowsy Lethargy.  
Alas! Her Soul is gone, past all Retrieve:  
She Loves Philander, for Philander Dies.   Art. 
Philander! say: What's that?  Pyr. 

And her sealed Heart's  
Impenetrable to all Power, but his.  
Your Greatness, Sir, has the whole World to Range in;  
And may command a more deserving Beauty.  
Court not a deaf and senseless Idol: Fix  
Your Thoughts more High. From this vain Siege retire:  
Cure your wild Love, and quench this threatning Fire.   Art. 

Philander!— Was I not damned enough before?  
But thou-must come to Preach me into Hell?   Pyr. 
Yes, would I could.  Aside. Art. 
Philander!  

The very Villain has debauched my Wife,  
Ravished my Peace, and loaded me with Shame;  
Now, after all, must steal my Mistress too:  
And yet, this very Man, i've Saved and Pardoned.  
Oh, Wither was my blinded Folly driven!  
Mercy, What art thou? Get thee back to Heaven.  
What has the Race of Man to do with Thee?  
Leave Human Minds to Nobler Passions free.  
Henceforward Death and Ruin, Reign alone;  
Make Hell your Vassal, and the World your Throne.   Exeunt.  

ACT THE FIFTH.  SCENE, A GROVE. Enter Pyrgus solus. Pyr. 

IN what a Labyrinth am I lost? The Prince,  
My Master, turned my Rival? Hell and Furies!  
And, Have I Bought & Purchased, Nursed & Cherished  
That Beauteous Slave, to see her made my Princess?  
If he subdues her, (as I'm sure, he will)  
Beauty's an easy Fort, where Greatness storms.  
And though she weeps for false Philander's Loss;  
Those Drops in mourning Virgins Eyes, are but  
That Dew, which Courting Glory soon exhales:  
If he subdues her, Then my Fate's inevitable.  
She knows, I am a Villain, have pursued her  
with all the Rage of Lust; nay, even to Ravish her.  
And when she lies within my Prince's Bosom,  
Shall all my undetected Villainies  
Forgotten, sleep and die? No, I am lost:  
Spurned from his Presence, and thrust out to Scorn,  
Beggary and Misery are my last Reward.  
What shall I do? Enter Artaban and Gobrias  
— Yonder the Tyrant comes.  
Wit and Despair, your utmost Skill perform;  
And steer me Safe through all this Threat'ning Storm.   Exit. Art. 

Cold as the North: By all that's Good, Impenetrable  
As Rocks of Adamant. Oh, How she baffles me!  
Disdains my Passion, Slights my proffered Glory!  
Unmoved by all my Sighs, Prayers, Agonies.   Gob. 
Indeed, my Lord, this Scorn is wonderful.  Art. 

Scorn! By this Light, she'd scorn the Courting thunderer,  
Stand the Temptation of a Golden Shower;  
And Jove himself, in all his Shapes, unaltered.   Gob. 

'Tis very strange, the great Prince Artaban,  
With all his Prosperous Fortunes, cannot thaw her.   Art. 

The Fatal Cause of all her Scorns too plain.  
This Fair Infatuated Fool,  
Dotes on the False Philander. 'Tis Philander,  
Whose threat'ning Power stands like a flaming Sword,  
To stop my Entrance into Paradise:  
But I will cut my Passage through his Heart.  
The Ravisher of all my Hopes shall Bleed.  
Say, Gobrias, Will he meet us?   Gob. 
Yes, my Lord.  Art. 
This Hour?  Gob. 
Immediately.  Art. 
Himself and Second?  Gob. 
Yes, Sir.  Art. 

'Tis well: The Guardian-Dragon dies,  
And then, th'Enchanted Beauty is my own.   Enter Philander and Decius. Phil. 

Hither I come, my Lord, invited to  
A Solemn Feast of Blood.   Art. 

Yes, and you're welcome.  
And, Sir, to make you like your Entertainment,  
Know 'tis a Sacred, Glorious Festival.  
Next the First Mover,  
'Tis Love and Honour Turn the Globe: 'Tis they,  
That Rule Mankind, and Guide the Strokes of Fate.  
And, Sir, those Mighty Names have both been wronged by you:  
And 'tis your Blood must make an Expiation.  
Call to your Conscious Soul, that 'tis Philander  
Blocks up my Passage to Lysandra's Heart,  
And makes it Inaccessibe.   Phil. 

My Lord,  
If it be that, that calls me to the Field,  
Why should we Fight for what I calmly Yield?  
She's yours, all yours; and to secure that Title,  
Know, Jealous Lord, I bear her kindest Love  
With no less Pain, than you her greatest Hate.   Art. 

If there's no Magic in Lysandra's Name,  
To Rouse thy sluggish Soul, call to Remembrance  
Olizia's Wrongs, her Wrongs, and my Dishonour.  
For though I've shook that Trifle from my Heart,  
As little as she moves my Soul; yet still  
Her Fame thou'st Tainted, and my Honour suffers:  
And nothing but your Death, can clear the Stain.   Phil. 

Olizia's Wrongs! And, Canst thou name that word?  
Thou, whose degenerate, base, groundless Rage,  
Could doubt her Virtues, blast her Sacred Fame?  
Ye Gods! A Saint more Pure, a Soul more Spotless,  
Did ne'er Adorn your World, or Grace your Heaven.  
But, Do I talk? That Name has roused my Vengeance.   Art. 

And fair Lysandra mine. Have at thy Heart:  
For whilst  
Thou Liv'st, I'm worse than Damned. That cruel Fair,  
Whilst thou drawest Breath, will ne'er, will ne'er be Mine.   Phil. 

Now, angry Sir, we meet on Equal Terms:  
For whilst thou Liv'st, I'm Damned as well as Thou.  
Could my Olizia love me to that Height,  
That 'tis not Rocks or Mountains, Seas or Deserts,  
Should hold her from my Arms; yet, whilst thou Liv'st,  
By Honour's Cruel Laws, she never must be Mine.  
Then let our Swords cut through our Knotty Fates:  
And to Encourage us for the Brave Deed,  
Know, 'tis a Cause as great as Alexander's.  
Beauty's our Universe; which, to subdue,  
Our Glory's summed in this one Chance alone:  
Who cuts the Gordian, makes the World his own.   They Fight, and Philander's Second falls. Art. 
Now, for the World, How think you?  Phil. 
I come not here to Think, but Act.  Gob. 
Howe'er, bold Sir, Does not this Odds look Ominous?  Phil. 

Prophetic Sir, if you would talk of Omens,  
Pray make your Swords your Oracles.   Art. 

Thou'rt Bràve: And though  
With this Advantage I shall Blush to Kill thee,  
I must not give thee Life.   Phil. 

Nor must I take it.  
Come on.   Art. 

Well, Sir, the Turning Weight is mine;  
And the next Hoyst, I mount thee up to Heav'n.   They Fight, and Artaban's Second falls. Phil. 
Hold your Scales right; for now the Weights are even.  Art. 

What Turn of Fate is here? Well, Sir, I see,  
Fortune, in taking of my Odds away,  
Designs me Honour in thy Nobler Fall.  
There's something tells my Soul, Thy Date is short.   Phil. 
Shorten your Speech, and make it so.  They Fight, and Philander Disarms Artaban. Art. 
Cursed be my Arm.  Phil. 

And doubly Cursed be mine.  
Must I then save his Life, to blast my own?  
The World's too Narrow for us both.  
Here take your Sword again; I give it freely:  
But on Condition, that you'll use't again.  
Forget that e'er 'twas mine; and Nobly aim it,  
With all your Heat, once more against this Heart.   Art. 

Hold, Sir! Thou art the Man, whose Death I'd buy,  
Even at the Price of my Eternity.  
Nay, I would give my Life and Heaven, to Kill thee.  
But forced by Honour's dread Commanding Power,  
I must not lift a Hand against his Life.   Phil. 

Now I'm undone: Now, we're both truly Wretched.  
'Tis to thy Life my tortured Soul must owe  
More Pains, more Hells than wretched Man ere boar.   Art. 

Nor must my Soul less Torments feel than thine.  
But since we ne'er can meet as Foes again,  
Farewell thou Pestilential Comet;  
Thou everlasting Bar to all my Hopes.   Phil. 

How dismally this Fatal Meeting ends?  
We were kind Enemies, but mortal Friends.   Exit. Enter Messenger. Mess. 
Great Sir, Thus low I fall, t'implore your Pardon.  Art. 

Pardon! For what? How fares your Charge, the Fair  
Lysandra? Is she Safe?   Mess. 

Oh, my dread Lord!  
Cursed be that Tongue, that tells you she is lost.  
ay, like her sleeping Jailor, thought her safe:  
But by my false Security, I'm undone.  
She through her Window, Sir, has made Escape;  
And, I suppose, 'twas by Olizia's Aid.  
For in the Princess Chariot she was hurried,  
And Lodged within a Cloister.   Art. 

Fled t'a Cloister!  
Lightning and Earthquakes! Ruin and Despair!  
Immured in those Impenetrable Walls,  
For ever Ravished from the World, and Me.   Mess. 

And this, my Lord, is all she left behind her; Gives him a Letter.  
To tell you, That the Fatal Name of Love,  
Is that harsh Sound she now shall hear no more.   Art. 

Not hear the Name! Not hear it! Yes, fair murderess,  
I'll thundered in thy Ears, till I am Dead.  
Nay, when thy Scorn has laid my Bones in Dust,  
I'll burst my Marble Load, rattle the Chains  
Of my Infernal Jail, to tell thee, Tyrant,  
That I was Damned by Thee! Yes, thou shalt hear  
My murmuring Groans, thy murdered Lover's Groans.  
Whilst all that Flowing Gold, those Beauteous Tresses,  
On thy Proud Forehead, fixed with Horror, stand,  
Erected like the strutting Porcupine:  
And the Bright Fires, in those bewitching Eyes,  
Wane, and burn Pale, at my approaching Ghost.   Mess. 

Not all the Groans and Agonies of Love,  
I fear, will move her now. Nought but the Language  
Of Death and Heaven, will now be understood.  
Those Cloistered Saints are Deaf to Flesh and Blood.   Art. 

A Cloister! Curse on that Religious Cheat!  
And, Must that shining Beauty lie Entombed,  
Buried alive, and this to make a Saint?  
Dull Priests, you Lie! To Saint that Beauteous Sex,  
Teach 'em to Love, be Kind, Embrace, and Crown  
Some happy Lover's Bed: Then live to see  
Their warm Desires blessed with a Numerous Race;  
Born to enrich the World, and to increase the Stalls.  
Do this, and this and then they will be saints indeed:  
This is the only way of heavens' Ordaining,  
To Consecrate that Angel Creature, Woman.  
This Blessing, Gods did with your World begin;  
How e'er the other Pious Curse crept in.   Exeunt. Enter Philander. Phil. 

Slaves at an Oar have greater Ease than I:  
Hardened to Labours, they their Pains defy.  
Despair in Love, 's the only true great Misery.  
We with fresh Agonies our Souls torment;  
Remember the bright Tracks, where th'adored Beauty went.  
And with fresh Pains, our endless Plagues deplore,  
To think our Setting-Sun will Rise no more.   Enter Pyrgus. Pyr. 

Oh, Sir! live such a Story, as will scorch  
Your boiling Veins into so hot a Fever,  
Shall make your Heartstrings burst, and set a float  
The burning Lake within 'em.   Phil. 

Oh, be quick!  
Expound these mystic Horrors.   Pyr. 
Ah, Sir! the Prince, my Master,—  Phil. 
What of him?  Pyr. 

You know, he loves Lysandra; and but now  
His Amorous Suit renewed: He begged, sight, languished;  
But all in vain. His swelling Tears, his gasping Pangs,  
And dying Groans, had all no Power to move her.  
In short, Her haughty, merciless Disdain,  
So stung his tortured Soul; till at the last,  
Courting and Threatening, and as oft Repulsed,  
Her Scorn on Scorn, raised Rage on Rage; till all  
His Reason, Sense, Religion, Conscience, Love,  
Drowned in the groaning Storm, he snatched his Dagger,  
And, at one Stroke, divorced her trembling Soul.   Phil. 
Horror and Plagues! Gods, Does your Thunder sleep?  Pyr. 

This is not all.  
No sooner was that Beauteous Martyr fallen,  
But the dire monstrous Deed, a Deed enough  
To force a Blush into an Ethiop's Face,  
Touched him so little, that grown flushed with Murder,  
His Eyes erect towards Heaven, (but his black Thoughts  
Were shaped in Hell) these dismal Sounds he uttered:  
Philander! Shalt thou have Peace, whilst I have none?  
No, Ravisher; Thou'rt Damned, as well as I.  
Then to the Fair Olizias Chamber rushed.   Phil. 
Olizia! Guard her, Gods!  Pyr. 

And in a most  
Inhuman Butchery, dragged her from her Bed.  
And the same Steel, bathed in her floating Gore,  
He left her grovelling on the reeking Floor.   Phil. 

Olizia Dead! and I Alive to hear it!  
Fly, whilst thou'rt safe; thou'st uttered such a Deed,  
Whose Repetition is enough to Damn thee. Exit Pyrgus.  
Oh, Horrid, Bloody, Savage, Beast of Prey!  
Think not to hide thy cursed, impious Head:  
No, Tiger; through all the World I'll hunt thee Dead.  
Nay, though thy Devils make thee walk Invisible,  
Through all thy Infernal Guards, I'll find thee out.  
'Tis not the Centre of the Earth shall hide  
Thee, from my Rage. Like a new Hercules,  
I'll Dive to Hell, but I will reach this Traitor.   Enter Artaban. 
Yonder he comes! Triumphant Impudence!  Art. 

Ah, Sir!  
The Fair Panthea is for ever lost.   Phil. 

Ravens and Scriech-Owls! The Insulting Monster  
Owns th'execrable Deed.   Aside. Art. 

And now, Philander,  
Beset with all the Horrors of Despair,  
Hither I come—   Phil. 
Yes, Infidel, to die!  Draws. Art. 
What do I see!  Phil. 

Now, ye Great Powers, you're Kind.  
Thou Limb of Vengeance, and thou Brand of Hell,  
Take thy Reward.   Art. 

Confusion! Hold, yet hold.  
Why all this Fury?   Phil. 

Why this staggering Guilt!  
Base Hellhound, Have thy Crimes made thee a Coward?   Art. 
Coward, and Crimes! Death! Why all this to me!  Phil. 

To Thee! To Thee! Ask thy black Soul, and let  
Thy startled Conscience tremble at this Arm   Art. 
Why all this Fury? Sir, Explain this Riddle.  Phil. 
Oh, hardened Hypocrite!  Art. 
Sir, Do but hear me.  Phil. 
Yes, thy last Groans.  Art. 
Yet hold, let me but speak.  Phil. 
When thou art Damned, Talk on.  Fights, and Kills Artaban. Art. 

As I am Dying, let me know, rash Murderer,  
Why thou hast Killed the very Man that Loved thee?   Phil. 

Loved me! Can thy black Soul, thus doubly stained  
With Fair Olizia, and Panthea's Blood,  
Breath such a Word as Love?   Art. 

Oh, strange Impiety!  
I lift a Hand against Panthea's Life!  
What Poisonous Traitor has abused your Ears?   Phil. 
What do I hear?  Art. 

As you would give  
Me Peace within the Grave, and Bliss in Heaven,  
Name me the Monster, that my Death may Blast him.   Phil. 
Has that false Devil, Pyrgus—  Art. 

Did he tell you so!  
What more than Hellish Rage, provoked him to  
This Blasphemy? By my last Hopes,  
Olizia, and the Fair Panthea lives.   Phil. 

Oh, abhorred Slave! Oh, most detested Villainy!  
Has my mistaken, cursed, infernal Fury,  
Pulled down such Ruins?——   Art. 

Ah, Forbear this Grief!  
My Life's not worth a Tear. The Cruel, Fair Panthea  
Could ne'er be Mine: And, What is Life without Her.  
Thou weep'st to see me Bleed: Dry up thy Tears,  
And let me Kiss that dear, kind Hand, that Killed me.  
Since that Bright Form does in a Cloister lie,  
What has her hopeless Slave to do, but Die?  
But, Sir,  
Tho my Hard-fated Love could ne'er be Blessed,  
Be Thine more Prosperous; in my Death, I make  
Thy Passage free to thy Olizias Arms:  
I give Her Thee. 'Tis the last Legacy  
Of thy expiring Friend.   Phil. 
Oh, wondrous setting Virtue!  Art. 

But, Could the Fair Lysandra never Love me?  
Could all my Sighs not light one Spark of Pity?  
Beauty, thou Pageant of the Frantic World,  
And Love (false Love) with all thy Cheats, Farewell.  
When I am Dead, take me (ye Gods) and place me  
Upon some Hollow Sounding Arch of Heaven:  
There lend me but a Voice as loud as Thunder,  
And I'll Convert the doting World below me.   Dies. Phil. 

What have I done? What Guilt, what Shame, what Horrors  
Surround my staggering Soul? Ye Gods, he gave me  
Olizia! This Bright Miracle of Honour,  
With his last Breath, could bless his Murderer.  
Thou most unhappy, injured Prince, farewell.  
Who would believe, this bloody, barbarous Deed,  
That Savages would blush at, was th'Effect  
Of Love? Great Love, the brightest Spark of Heaven,  
Could blow into this Thunder! O, ye Gods!  
What is your World? What's Life? What's Human Fate?  
When if your Dooms our Ruins have Decreed,  
The noblest Cause can Act the blackest Deed.   Enter Pyrgus. Pyr. 

What do I see? 'Tis as my Soul could wish.  
Dead by this Light! H'has done the Feat so sweetly.   Phil. 
Ha, Devil! Art thou here? Ye Gods, I ask no more!  Pyr. 
Why that odd Face? Prithee, rough Sir, look calmly.  Phil. 

Monster, hear me!  
For, though my aching Hand, and boiling Veins,  
Hold back my Rage from thy accursed Heart,  
With greater Pain than e'er thy Mother bore thee;  
Yet I would talk with thee, before thou'rt Damned!   Pyr. 
Well, angry Sir, and, What is't you would say?  Phil. 

Thou black Incendiary, What strange Fury  
Provoked thee to this Execrable Malice?   Pyr. 

Dull Sir, I'll tell you. Know, I loved Panthea:  
And that infatuated Lord, my Rival,  
Rose, like a Planet, to destroy my Hopes.  
I knew, at last, Time, and his Courting Glories,  
Would melt a Passage to her frozen Heart.  
And when she had Married him, my Villainies  
Would be detected; and, at least, my Ruin,  
If not my Throat, would make her an Atonement.  
But know, my Soul's too Proud, to Live with Infamy:  
To see my Slave my Princess, and to lose  
That gay, proud, haughty Thing, I had Bought, and Paid for.  
Thus, 'twixt Despair, and my defeated Lust,  
I made thy senseless, foolish Love, my Property,  
To cut my Safety through his Heart.   Phil. 

Damnation! Was there ever Dungeon, Jail,  
Or Gibbet, that could Match this hardened Infidel?  
But I do Talk, and let the Villain live!   Offers at him. Pyr. 
Hold, Sir!  Draws a Pistol. 

— Make not yourself too large a Promise.  
Stand off! I scorn the worst your Rage dares do.   Phil. 
What means this Baseness, Coward?  Pyr. 

Only, Sir,  
If you're for such a Bloody Game as Death,  
I am a Rook, and play not on the Square.   Phil. 
Slave! Dost thou think to Fright me? At thy Soul.  Pyr. 

Are you so Brisk?— Shoots, and misses him.  
Curse on my erring Hand! Draws.  
Yet hold! Hear me one word.   Phil. 

Speak then, make haste:  
Be quick, and short; for know, this Breathes your last.   Pyr. 

Tho that dull wandering Fire has missed thy Life,  
I've still the Odds: Know, this envenomed Steel,  
With the least Touch, gives Death. Retire, rash Man;  
There's Poison in this Sword.   Phil. 

And greater in thy Veins.  
Go, tell thy Cankered, Venomous Bloated Soul,  
Thee, and thy Arts of Hell, I'll thus Confound.   Kills him. Pyr. 

Thou'st Killed me, and I fain would Curse thee for't!  
But, Oh, my Breath grows Faint, my Eyes turn Giddy;  
And, in a Mist, I'm lost!   Dies. Phil. 
The Villain has drawn Blood.  His Arm bloody. Enter Olizia, and Women. Oliz. 

Oh, my Philander!  
I have those Contradictions in my Fate,  
Those Bars betwixt my Joys, that nothing but  
A Cloister, and a Grave, can Reconcile.  
But, ere I take my Everlasting Leave  
Both of the World, and Thee, I can't but come,  
To breathe my Last Farewell   Phil. 

Life of my Life!  
My Dearest, Sweetest Heaven, thou art too kind.   Oliz. 

Oh, my Philander! Could I but believe,  
Flatter my breaking Heart, Philander Loved me;  
Then I in Peace could Diego   Phil. 

Divinest Madam!  
If all my Oaths in Life could not Convince thee,  
As I am Dying, hear this one last Vow;  
By all my Hopes above, I'm only Thine.   Oliz. 
Dying! What words are these?  Phil. 

Look there, t'explain 'em.  
That Impious, Black, Infernal Traitor, Pyrgus,  
With a long Mask of Complicated Perjuries,  
Told me, His Savage Lord had Murdered Thee  
And by my violent, mistaken Rage,  
In thy Revenge, that Godlike Martyr fell.  
That generous Prince, who with his Dying Breath,  
Gave me Olizia, Perished by this Hand.   Oliz. 
Was ever such a dismal Scene of Horror?  Phil. 

And yet that dismal Scene,  
Was the Effect of Love, impetuous Love.  
What Flesh and Blood, filled with a Soul like Mine,  
Could hear thy Death, and not run Mad as I did?  
But my hard Fate, the Gods have doubly punished.  
By my just Hand, that cursed Villain died;  
And I am Murdered by his Poisoned Sword.   Oliz. 

Why was I Born, ye Gods, to see this Day?  
Is there no Help, no Art, no Succouring Angels,  
To save his Life?   Phil. 

Were't in the Power of Fate,  
The precious Balm of thy kind Tears would do't.  
But 'tis too late.   Oliz. 

Was this the dismal Weapon,  
That has undone the World? Oh, fatal steel!  
Thou hast been cruel, but I'll make thee kind.   Falls on the Sword. Phil. 
What have you done?  Oliz. 

Nothing, but only paid  
The Debts of dying Love. Tho cruel Fate  
Divorced me from thy Arms, and canceled all  
Our Marriage-Joys; yet in the Grave; in that  
Cold Bridal-Bed, I shall not be denied,  
To lie a sleeping Virgin by thy Side.   Phil. 

Can then my Kind and generous Princess,  
Leave all her Greatness, all her blooming Youth;  
Let those dear Eyes, those sparkling Twins of Love,  
And all that mighty Mass of Infinite Beauty,  
Lie undistinguished in the Common Heap  
Of mouldering Dust, ghastly as Death, and withered  
As the naked, scraggy Roots of unborn Flowers;  
And all for her unhappy, worthless Slave?   Oliz. 

Alas, Sir! What have I to do with Eyes,  
Life, Youth, and Beauty? Are they not all Yours,  
Created Yours, a Part of my dear Lord?  
And, Should they dare Survive, when he is gone?  
No, 'tis but Just, they in your Urn should lie:  
When the Tree falls, the scattered Blossoms die.   Phil. 
Now, thou'rt too kind.  Oliz. 

Could I do less, to show I loved Philander?  
The meanest of my Sex can Live and Love;  
Each common Spark inspires that Noble Heat.  
To Die for Love, is only truly Great.  
Nor is this all the Glory of my Death;  
Ye Gods, I bring my Innocence to Heaven.  
Free from Loves grosser and impurer Charms,  
I die a Virgin in a Husband's Arms!   Dies. Phil. 

She's dead! She's dead! Meet her, ye Gods! Oh, meet her!  
Throw open all the shining Gates of Heaven,  
And Sally out thick as the Beams of Day,  
To her Immortal Praise new tune your Spheres:  
At her dear Feet your brightest Diadems lay.  
Ye Gods, 'tis Beauty's Coronation-Day!  
But, Oh! in all her Heavenly Pomp she wants  
Her Loyal Slave! I come, bright Saint, I come,  
To fill the State of thy Celestial Train.  
Thus may I Kneel, and Thou for ever Reign!   Dies 
FINIS