THE HEIR OF MOROCCO, WITH THE Death of Gayland.  
Acted at the THEATRE ROYAL.  
By E. SETTLE.  
Rectius Iliacum Carmen deducis in Actus,  
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus.  Hor. 
LONDON, Printed for William Cademan at the Pope's Head in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1682.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY HENRIETTA WENTWORTH, BARONESS OF NETTLESTED.  
MADAM,  
I Ought to beg your Ladyships Pardon, when I lay so inconsiderable a Trifle as a Play at your Ladyship's Feet; the access to so much Divinity being that difficult awful Blessing, that nothing mean or unhallowed should dare to aspire to. Yet Greatness and Beauty, whatever Awe they may strike into all other Adorers, are not defended from the bolder Devotions of Poetry: For such is the Poet's Presumption, that they have so long conversed with Princes in Effigy, till they have borrowed their Ambitition from the Heroes they write, and their Confidence from the Stage that represents them.  
'Tis true, we live in an Age so Critical and so severe, that the Muses melancholy Groves grow every day more desolate, and even their softest Airs to the late untunable Ears sound harsh and unpleasant; poor Poetry being so maliciously persecuted, that nothing but the Patronage of a Great Name can give it a Pass, to go peaceably and unmolested: And in these Circumstances, Self-preservation and Security make our Boldness a little more excusable.  
The poorest ragged Traveller that seeks a Shelter in a Storm, though under the Battlements of an Imperial Palace is not much to be blamed. This 'tis that makes Poetry always come into the World under the Umbrage of Quality, whilst Poets, like their blind Original, never venture abroad without a Guide. Nor can even the weakest Brother of the Muses fail, when Greatness and Beauty are at once its powerful Supporters. The Lady Henrietta's Name will prove a Charm against the sharpest Critics. What Malice dares strike where so much Beauty shields? And indeed Wit can hope for no Success but when favoured by the Fair; and 'tis by their Influence alone, the Poets, if ever, can be made immortal; who in return can but faintly pay their Tribute to a Power so favourable, since your Ladyship has a far greater Title to be Eternal in the Records of Fame, from the vast Merits of your Illustrious Ancestors, than all the Poetry since the World began can make you.  
The Famous Earl of Cleveland, and the no less Famous Lord Wentworth, both Generals under our late Sacred Majesty, are those never-to-be-forgotten Heroes, that whilst the World shall have an Ear, and Wonder a Tongue, shall never want a Name: Worthies of that generous Zeal, and indefatigable Allegiance, till they drained their Estates so low, that the fought even to the Nakedness of a Gladiator. Their Loyalty, and the Service of their King, being not only their Study, but their Religion; insomuch, that like him that resigns his Share in the World for an Interest in Heaven, they were so little dejected even at Ruin itself, when in a Cause so Glorious, that they bore the very Poverty of Philosophers with the Pride of Triumphers and the Pleasure of Martyrs: And to attain the highest Character of Perfection that Humanity ever reached, with the Bravery and Courage of an Alexander, they had the Peace and Content of a Diogenes.  
But their Honourable Losses your Ladyships kinder Stars have amply repaid: And all those Debts of Providence those Loyal Sufferers did not live long enough to receive; their Arrears of Glory, are in your Ladyships completer Happiness entailed on their Posterity. The Lady Henrietta has a Person and a Mind so richly endowed, and to these that Prodigious Mass of Worldly Blessings, as if Providence had studied to add new Ornaments to Her, whose Birth, Charms and Virtues in themselves alone, rendered her a Beauty inaccessible. So just it is, that such Infinite Perfections should be no little Care of Heaven, that are so great a part of it. But in the strange and prosperous Recovery of your Ladyships exhausted Patrimonies, the unexampled Industry of the Lady Philadelphia, your Ladyships pious Mother, to her immortal praise, will never be forgotten. When Fate, by a too early Stroak, had robbed her of her dear Lord, she stepped into a Seat so strangely demolished, beheld those Ruins of an Estate where the Thunder of the War had made the Desolation so low, and the Breaches so wide, that the frightful Prospect would have daunted a more than Female Spirit: where all hopes of Re-building would appear an Attempt altogether impossible. Yet that Attempt the bolder Lady Philadelphia resolved and finished; stemmed all the adverse Tides of Fortune, to gather up her Family's Shipwrecks; and with that incredible Pains, and no less wonderful Success, that she has rather created than repaired an Estate; has miraculously heaped together an infinite Treasure with no less Toil than if she had laboured in the Mine, and digged the very Oar that formed it. Never was a losing Hand so ingeniously played, nor a last Stake so artfully managed. Her Happiness, her Love and Life were so lodged in her only Hopes, her fair young Darling Henrietta, that for her dear sake, to advance her growing promising Glory, she acted with a Zeal so vigorous, as if she had taken a Resolution even to outdo the Pelican.  
And as your Ladyships Loyal Ancestors, those two memorable English Champions, are that shining Original, that Fame, when she paints any thing that's Heroic might for ever Copy from. So they are no less blessed in an Heiress, whose Majestic Beauty to theirs, and her own Eternal Monument, might sit for a Britannia. Your Royal Godfather might very frankly and largely promise Wonders in the Lady Henrietta's Name: For 'twas impossible there should be any common Branch from a Stock so perfectly Illustrious. How then am I, beyond all measure, happy, thus Gloriously protected? methinks I look with Scorn upon the censorious World, and can defy my Enemies with as great Assurance as if I had the Souls and Swords of those prodigious Heroes. And 'tis no small Pride to me, when I consider I am the first of those many Writers to come that have attained the glorious Preferment of thus publicly writing myself,  
Madam, Your LADYSHIP'S most dutiful, and most humbly devoted Servant, E. Settle.   

ACTORS NAMES.  

Albuzeiden, King of Algiers, 
Mr. Oriffin.  Altomar, his Admiral, 
Mr. Goodman.  Gayland, 
Mr. Clerk.  Meroin, 
Mr. Perin.  Artemira, the King's Daughter, 
Mrs. Cox.  Rosalin, her Confident, 
Mrs.—  Ishmael, a Friend of Meroin's, 
Mr. Disney.  Mirvan, an Eunuch, 
Mr. Saunders.  Morat, 
Mr. Powel.    
Messengers, Envoy, Torturers, Executioners, Guards and Attendants,   

The PROLOGUE.  

HOw finely would the Sparks he catched to Day,  
Should a Whig-Poet write a Tory-Play?  
And you, possessed with Rage before should send  
Your random Shot abroad, and maul a Friend:  
For you, we find, too often hiss or clap,  
Just as you live, speak, think, and fight, by hap.  
And Poets, we all know, can change like you,  
And are alone to their own Interest true:  
Can write against all Sense, nay even their own;  
The Vehicle, called Pension makes it down.  
No fear of Cudgels where there's hope of Bread:  
A well-filled Panch forgets a broken Head.  
But our dull Fop on every side is damned:  
He has his Play with Love and Honour crammed.  
Rot your Old fashioned Hero in Romance,  
Who in a Lady's Quarrel breaks a Lance.  
Give us the modish Feat of Honour done,  
With Eighteen well-chewed Ballets in one Gun.  
Charged but with Eighteen Bullets did I say?  
Damn it, if that won't do, we'll bring one day  
Queen Besse's Packet Pistol into Play.  
Give us Heroic Worthies of Renown,  
With a revenging Rival's Mortal Frown,  
Not by dividing Oceans kept a sunder,  
Whilst angry Spark comes on, like Jove, with Thunder,  
Gives out in Harlem Gazette, Blood and Wounds  
In Foreign Fray, to sculk on English Ground,  
And scorning Duels, a poor Prize at Sharps,  
He only fights for Fame in Counterscarps.  
Do not you follow his Revenge and Fury,  
Be you those tenderhearted things, his Jury.  
Give us Old-Baily mercy for our Play:  
Ah no! no Prayers nor Bribes your Hearts can sway,  
Your cruel Talents lie the other way. Critics  
Are Polish Bullies, fire and lightning all,  
The Blunderbuss goes off, and where you hit you maul.    


ACT I.  

SCENE I.  A Seraglio. Artemira and Rosolin. Art. 
OH Rosolin, thou art a subtle Charmer,  
To treat thy Princess with the sacred Glories  
Of her Victorious Altomar. His Praise  
Is so sublime a Theme, that sure 'twas such a Subject  
That once inspired the ancient Theban Lyre,  
When even th' inanimate Woods and Rocks  
Felt the enchanting Sounds, and borrowed Ears  
T' attend the powerful Song.  Amir. 
Madam, Alas!  
To sing his Praise is but that humble Tribute  
Which the united World should pay; and when  
His mighty Triumphs speak so loud, as crack  
The very Voice of Fame: can I do less  
Than make a part in th' Universal Choir?  Art. 
Ah Rosolin, thou paint'st but half his Conquests.  
'Tis not enough that in his floating Walls  
He rides triumphant Lord, o'th' Wat'ry Main;  
But after all this gallant Godlike Man  
Returns a Conqueror, returns to these  
Kind Arms, his dearest Artemira's Arms.  
Where am I going? I shall talk my Sense away;  
Love wraps me up so high, my soaring Soul  
Grows giddy with the Airy Maze it treads.  Enter Mirvan. Miru. 
Madam, Lord Meroin desires admittance.  Art. 
What brings him here?— Go tell him I am private.  
That hated Sight's enough to damp my Joys.  
What is his Business?  Miru. 
Madam, the Success  
Of your Illustrious Father's Conquering Arms,  
Has brought him big with Wonder to repeat  
The pleasing Miracle.  Art. 
Admit him.  [Exit Mirvan. 
I know the Villain hates my Altomar  
And me; but my dear Altomar's Applause  
Has Music in the Sound, tho' set by Hell,  
And sung by Envy.  Enter Meroin. Mer. 
Madam, when the Gods  
Designed such Beauty for a Kingdom's Heir,  
In Justice to your infinite Deserts,  
They strew your way with Trophies to a Crown:  
Your Royal Father to enlarge his Throne,  
Fit for so bright a Form to fill, has Heaven  
His Friend, and Fate his Vassal; builds his Glory  
High as the Stars, and makes the binding Cement  
Of this vast Pile his vanquished Enemies Blood.  Art. 
Indeed Sir, our late wonderful Success  
Over our proud Venetian Enemies,  
Shows us no little Favourites of Heaven.  Meru. 
Our wonderful Success! where lies the Wonder?  
Could your great Father's Arms be less victorious,  
When led by Altomar, the Valiant Altomar?  
Now Flattery, and and all the artful Powers  
Of slighted Love assist me: If she loves him,  
I have an Art to tract her hidden Fires.  
I'll tune her Favorite's Praise so high, till I Aside.  
Have raised such Pleasures in her wanton Eyes,  
As shall betray the burning Lake within 'em.  Art. 
My Lord, you have begun a noble Subject,  
And in the Generous Altomar's just Praise  
You but express a Kingdom's Obligation.  Meru. 
His Praises just; just! yes from all Mankind.  
Such Courage, and such Conduct is a Theme,  
As would make Malice court, and Envy flatter.  
He managed Ruin with so proud a Port,  
His very dying Foes in their last Groans  
Could do no less than praise their fatal Conqueror.  
By all the Gods a nobler braver Chief  
Ne'er graced an Army's Head since that great day,  
When th'angry Angels met, and their bright Generals  
Led out th'embattled Seraphim to fight,  
Whilst the vast Storm of War shook down the Stars.  Art. 
Oh that a Villain should describe a Hero!  
What Style has Love, if Hate has so much Rhetoric? [Aside.  Mer. 
Imagine here the bold Venetians,  
Their gaudy Fleet, with all their glittering Flags,  
Whilst th' humbler Galleys round their taller Galleasses,  
Crouching like Porpoises beneath the Whale,  
Cut the salt Foam to meet the enraged Altomar.  
Suppose on th' other side, the fierce  
The Fiery Altomar, our Algiers Glory,  
The Godlike Genius of your Father's Arms,  
With his proud Navy, all his moving Castles  
Meets the vast Foe.  Art. 
Oh that a hand so loathed should draw so sweet a Picture, [Aside.  Mer. 
Imagine now the Warlike Fleets engaged,  
Ruin and Death with all their Pomp and Noise,  
Alarm the Globe, and frighted Nature shakes:  
Whilst Victory, that Eagle Bird of Prey,  
Hovers above the floating Massacre.  
The trembling Shore around, the reeking Sea  
Below, and all the smoking Air above,  
Together join, join with his rattling Fires.  
All the contending Elements conspire,  
To grace their Lord, the Conquering Altomar.  Art. 
My Lord, I know not from what Mystic Source  
All this kind Language flows; but if there's Riddles  
In your Applause, there shall be none in mine.  
You draw this gallant Prince's shining Picture  
Below the bright Original. The highest  
Description you can make is but your Duty:  
And know, his Virtue, Courage, Loyalty,  
And all the Graces that can write man great,  
Make his name worthy to be welcome here.  Mer. 
By all the Sulphur in her burning Veins,  
My Fears are true; she loves, and has the Pride  
To own it, is her own vain boasting Trumpet. [Aside.  Enter Mirvan. Miru. 
Madam, Prince Altomar—  Mer. 
Returned already? [Aside.  Art. 
Hast, and conduct him in. [Exit Mirvan.  Mer. 
Cursed be the Name,  
And doubly cursed the hour I saw that Face. [Aside.  Art. 
My Lord,  
The Illustrious Prince's Praise is a large Theme;  
And if you have more to say, some other time  
You will oblige me with the pleasing Subject.  Mer. 
Death, with what Scorn and Pride she drives me hence,  
To make more room for my accursed Rival! [Aside.  
Perdition be his Guide, and Plagues his Ushers,  
And burning Irons pave the way that leads him. [Exit  Art. 
He comes, he comes, now breaks my rising day.  
In the new Sun shine the kind Cupid's play,  
Olive and Myrtle show his fragrant way.  Enter Altomar. Alt. 
Health of my Soul, and Mirror of my Eyes,  
Light of my World, and Goddess of my Prayers.  
Do I once more embrace thy Sacred Knees?  
My Joys too dazzling for my Soul to bear.  
I would gaze on, but thou'rt too killing fair.  Art. 
Oh rise my Lord, and hear your Artemira:  
For she has such Words, such happy Sounds to speak,  
As would give Balm to wounds as deep as Graves,  
And Life even beyond Death.  Alt. 
Speak then sweet Oracle.  
And whilst thy Love breathes raptures in my Ears,  
I will look Blessings from thy Eyes.  Art. 
What a long year have our contracted Souls  
Past o'er with smothered sighs, stolen looks, and silent hopes?  
Awed with a harsh, severe, imperious Father,  
Whilst the big Name of Heiress to a Crown,  
Has kept thy just Ambition from my Arms?  
But now our sullen Fears are all blown o'er,  
The Mountain's levelled, and the Prospect's clear.  Alt. 
Be quick dear Heaven, explain this dazzling Vision.  Art. 
Know then last night, when astonished Fame,  
Had brought your Conquests to my Father's Ear,  
Charmed with the News, he came to visit me:  
Then with such Emphasis, such feeling Pride,  
Your Glories, he described and played so well  
Your kind just Herald, that my ravished Sense  
Could scarce contain my Joys: But to complete  
My Ecstasy, at last these words broke out:  
Daughter, says he, so much this gallant Soldier  
Deserves from Heaven and me, that tho' I ne'er  
Intended less than a Crowned Head for you,  
Yet my Ambition now shall yield to Justice.  
Daughter, I am resolved I will reward  
My Kingdom's Champion with my Kingdom's Heir:  
At his Return prepare to make him yours—  Alt. 
What new-created Light surrounds my Soul?—  
With such Celestial Harmony  
Spoke that commanding Voice that formed the World.  
Bid the dark Scene of Night and Chaos vanish,  
To show the shining Universal Theatre.  Art. 
We who so long have kept our Loves so secret,  
And with that cautious Fear suppressed our Sighs,  
Jealous o'th' very Air in which we breathed 'em,  
Now at one Chance have all our Wishes Crowned:  
One happy Minute ends an Age's Pain.  Alt. 
One happy Minute! Yes, the happiest  
That time e'er numbered since the restless Orbs  
Began th' Eternal Round. Henceforward Time  
Throw by thy common Sand, and let thy Glass  
Run Gold, pure sparkling Oar: And ye high Powers,  
When you'd record some newmade Saint, Star, Angel,  
Or some blessed Martyr's Coronation Day,  
Date your immortal Annals from that hour.  Art. 
All happiness attends my dearest Lord  
Thou art heavens' nearest Care, and their best Angels Charge.  Alt. 
Where is this more than King, this Godlike Father?  
My swelling Veins, like Mines of Incense burn,  
And my transported Soul already kneels  
Low as my Grave t' adore his sacred Feet.  Art. 
We shall obtain that Blessing instantly,  
Each minute I expect him here, and your  
Dear Presence I am sure will give him Wings.  
And if there's any thing that can detain him,  
It is the Ceremony that he pays  
To an Imperial Stranger. The Usurper Gayland,  
That great Subverter of the Africa Empire  
Is now my Father's Guest. In his return  
From the reducing some revolted Towns  
To their Obedience;  
Taking this Kingdom in his March, has made  
A visit here.  Ros. 
Madam, the King approaches.  Enter Albuzeiden and Lords. Altomar kneels. Alb. 
Rise noble Youth, thou Darling of the Stars,  
Whilst I have thy Heroic Arm to cut  
My way to Fame, and my triumphant Fleet  
Has such an Admiral, Neptune's my Slave.  
An Arm like thine's  
Enough to make the Tributary God,  
And all his floating Globe my Vassals.  Alt. 
You raise my little Services too high:  
My Wreaths are but the Branches of your Laurel.  Alb. 
Rise my best Friend, and grow within my Arms:  
Thy Modesty commends thee and prefers thee;  
But my dear Altomar, 'tis not enough  
Thy Conquering Arm has made me great abroad,  
But Triumphs wait me nearer home; new Trophies  
Lie at my Feet, whilst pressing Glories crowd  
Under my Battlements.— The mighty Gayland,  
The long-famed Terror of our Africa World,  
Is Artemira's Slave, has seen, and loves her.  Alt. 
What words are these? [Aside.  Art. 
Oh my blasted Ears!  Alb. 
And in his name full of a Father's Joy,  
I come to offer as his Advocate,  
The Tribute of a Crown; and call her Empress.  
Now my best Friend, since thy Success in Battle,  
And the Alliance of his Royal Blood,  
Have blessed my Peace and Wars, making my Throne  
As bright as my Pavilion: as I praise  
Thy Victories, do thou congratulate mine.  Art. 
What killing Sounds are these!  Alt. 
Oh cruel Sir,  
What have you done?  Alb. 
How, Altomar!  Alt. 
Ah Royal Sir, take heed how you resolve  
What Heaven and Justice must forbid. Dread Sir,  
Forgive me when thus low I fall to tell you,  
Fair Artemira's mine.  Alb. 
What do I hear?  Alt. 
Only th' unalterable work of Fate,  
The tender Story of two meeting Hearts,  
Whose Loves your Royal Smiles can only Crown.  Art. 
Yes, Sacred Sir, your Artemira's Love  
Her chaste true Love, her Joys, her only Joys,  
Her generous Father's Smiles can only Crown;  
And sure you will not, cannot frown on me.  Alb. 
Fond easy Fool, is thy unprincely Soul  
Filled with such flashy Fires? are thy high Blood,  
Birth, Beauty, Sex and Pride such empty Names?  Art. 
Is this your Promise dear inhuman Father?  
Did you for this with so much cruel Eloquence  
Repeat the Charming Story of his Conquests,  
Drawing his Picture so Divine, so Lovely?  
And bid me when this gallant Prince returned  
A Conqueror, prepare to make him mine?  Alb. 
How's this? Thou easy, cheap, ignoble Fool.  
By all that's good, she courted Him; because  
Once in a humour I had an humble Thought,  
And wrapped up with the News of this Success,  
Let slip an idle word; She eager Fondling  
Swelled with the wanton Joy, ran int' his arms;  
Told him her Father had prepared a Husband,  
And came to offer him his humble Bride.  
Shame of thy Blood!—  Alt. 
Oh hold Sir,  
She run into my Arms! what Blasphemy is this?  
Easie and cheap: Now by my Life you wrong her:  
I won her nobly, by yon bright Eternals,  
I took her Heart by Storm: Her guarded Breast  
Stood my long Siege, with all her Sex's Pride.  
By all the Stars, and her own brighter Eyes,  
To conquer that inestimable Prize,  
I breathed such Sighs as might have melted Rocks,  
Offered such Prayers as might have wooed a Deity.  
From my drowned Eyes made a long Deluge roll,  
And bathed her Feet before I moved her Soul:  
And if at last her generous vanquished Pity,  
Can entertain a tender wish for me;  
It is not with the least ignoble Thought  
Below herself the Daughter of a King,  
And the most Sovereign Beauty of the World.  Alb. 
Hold— Be that blasted Tongue for ever dumb.  
What do I live to hear? By all that's Sacred,  
This is an old Intrigue. The wanton Traitors  
Have given and seized, bargained and bartered Hearts,  
Changed their fond Eyes, and mixed th' engendering Basilisks  
Without my Knowledge. That rebellious Siren  
Has pawned her Honour, sold my Kingdom's Heir,  
Whilst th' insignificant deluded Father  
Was not thought worthy of the dark Cabal;  
But I'm too patient  Art. 
Is this my King and Father?  
Why was I born with Eyes, if this must be their Object?  Alb. 
No Disobedient, thou wert born  
With those false Lights to find thy way to Ruin;  
But I'll put out th' infatuating Meteor.  
Prepare, fond Girl, to obey thy Father's Will,  
T' extinguish all thy vaprous wandering Fires,  
And gild thy Brows with an Imperial Diadem.  
Psepare by th' Setting of to morrow's Sun,  
To sleep in Gayland's arms, or sleep for ever,  Alt. 
Oh hold, let not the Breath of Majesty  
Pronounce those barbarous words as will Un-king you.  
Think, think what Cruelty—  Alb. 
Take him away, [Attendants seize him.  
Confine him a close Prisoner to his Chamber.  
The Charge be yours. [To Morat.  Alt. 
Confusion, to a Jail!  Alb. 
And to remove all Bars to my Ambition  
He that amongst you (mark me) dares but breath  
One Syllable of this bold traitor's Love,  
By Alla, the Villain dies. And you Morat,  
Perform your Charge: If you but let him stir,  
Or in revenge of his defeated Arrogance,  
By Letters, or by Messages attempt  
Aught that may block her way to Gayland's Arms,  
(Observe me well) thou'rt Food for Dogs and Vultures.  Art. 
Is this a Father's Voice, ye Gods, I die. [Fainting.  Alt. 
Oh raise thy drooping head, look up fair injured Sweetness,  
And hear those Sounds shall strike Dishonour dead.  
Ungrateful King, is this the black Reward,  
Which you return your Conquering Soldiers Toils?  
Have I for this, from all the Ports of Fame,  
Past all the Storms of Fate to make you glorious?  
All died your Ocean with the Christian Purple?  
And (since you make me vain) sent down such Crowds  
Of your slain Foes to the Infernal Shades—  Alb. 
Vainglorious Fool!  
What if you conquered, was it not by me?  
Was't not my Fleet, my Arms, my Thunder killed,  
And I the mighty Genius that inspired 'em.  
Take the vain Boaster hence.  Alt. 
Yet stay.  
Inspired by thee thy barbarous Genius! No.  
If I subdued 'twas Artemira conquered:  
For her I fought, for her I vanquished; filled  
With her great Love, and her immortal Charms,  
I struck my Javelin in the Gates of Death,  
And all the crowding Fates pressed out in Arms,  
To aid thy Cause. At her dread Name,  
Strength of my arm, and Goddess of my Wars,  
Destruction, Conquest, Ruin hung round my Shield.  
My Cause, Life, Courage, Glory,  
And Guardian Angels all were Artemira's.  Alb. 
Proud insolent Boy, to make her Vanity  
As great as thine. Her Cause, Life, Glory,  
Is Gayland's Heart.  
Beneath her Feet a King and Empire lie,  
And 'tis a Prize she must accept or die.  Alt. 
Oh I am lost.  Art. 
Hear me but one word:  
If you're resolved I shall be false, false to  
This gallant man, the Lord of all my Vows;  
My Loss will break his Heart, and I shall be his Murderer.  
You'll make me crueler than your Venetian Enemies;  
When in a base Return to all his Conquests  
Your Daughter's Scorn must kill your Kingdom's Champion,  
And stab that Heart your Foes could never reach.  Alt. 
Great Gods, he sees that kneeling Deity  
Unmoved with all her Prayers. Inverted Nature,  
Can man be deaf when Heaven is a Petitioner?  Art. 
Ah Sir, if e'er my gentle Mother pleased you,  
If th' only Relics of her Royal Blood  
Can move you to Compassion, show it now.  
'Tis true, dread Sir, I know you'd make me great;  
But what's Ambition where there's Love above it?  
You'd fix me high on an Imperial Seat:  
But if you do, you kill me. No my Lord,  
My Paradise in him, him only lies,  
And Love's a Flower which once transplanted dies.  Alb. 
And this is all the Excuse thy Disobedience  
Can frame for all thy humble abject Folly?  Alt. 
Ah Sir, though you have no Remorse for Me,  
Look on that Face, that Angel-Beauty weeps:  
The precious Dew falls from those Suns above.  
O see; a Chain of Pearl hangs on those Lids,  
Enough to bribe an angry God to Mercy.  
And have her Tears no Power?  Alb. 
Yes Ravisher,  
To the disgrace of her degenerate Soul,  
I see that base born Issue of her Eyes;  
But know, fond Girl, I'll drain the muddy Stream.  Art. 
Yes when you've broke that Heart from whence it flows.  
Oh my loved lord [To Altomar.  Alb. 
Their very Looks are hatching Treasons:  
Take them away, and part the brooding Monsters.  Alt. 
Oh hold. Gods, have those dying drowning Eyes  
No Power? One Look from those fair Lights  
Is worth ten thousand Gaylands Souls.  Alb. 
Dull Slaves!  Art. 
Lord of my Life. [Exit forced out.  Alt. 
My Saint, my Heaven Farewell. [Exeunt all but Altomar, and Morat, and two more Attendants.  
What's Conquest, Fame, and all the flattering Hopes  
Of towering Love in their Meridian Light?  
Poor airy Bubbles which the Breath of Power,  
Bursts with a Blast, and they are seen no more.  
Ye bright Dispenser's of our Humane Fate,  
Bring me but back to those clear Streams of Bliss,  
Which I enjoyed but one half hour ago;  
And I'd not change my State of Happiness  
For all that Vanity your Sun looks round,  
And all those worlds your great first Mover rowls.  Mor. 
My Lord, I hope you'll pardon that harsh Office  
Which I with horror bear. Believe me Sir,  
My very Soul deplores your rigid Fate.  Alt. 
I thank thee kind Morat; but be not troubled:  
Alas I'm fallen and lost, ordained for Ruin;  
A miserable thing not worth thy Pity.  
'Tis true  
Once my blessed Hopes stood fair, the Candidates  
Of Glory; but alas those Guardian Angels  
That then smiled on me, bore me on their Wings,  
And nursed me as the Child and Heir of Fortune,  
Now see my sinking State, and like false Friends desert me.  Mor. 
Your Fate draws Tears even from a Soldier's Eyes.  Alt. 
And can Man pity me when Heaven forsakes me?  
For me, no matter if my impurer Blood  
Were set afloat, my drossy worthless Ashes,  
Trod by the Tyrant's meanest Slaves to Dirt:  
But oh that Tyrant strikes at Artemira,  
His Savage Fury breaks her tender Heart.  
Take heed, ye cruel Powers, her Fate, ye Gods, prevent,  
Or all your Heaven, too late, will the dire deed repent.  
At her black Doom I shall not sigh alone;  
Your shaking World at her last Pangs will groan.  
The waning Lamps of your pale trembling Skies,  
At her closed Lights will shut their aching Eyes.  
By heavens', not your own Godheads shall go free,  
You too shall all my Fellow-mourners be,  
And hang your sad and drooping Heads like me.  [Exeunt.   

ACT II.  

SCENE II.  The Scene, a Room of State. Meroin, andIshmael, Disney. Mer. 
THE Cause of all her Pride and Scorn is plain,  
By all the Witchcrafts of the Sex 'tis plain.  
'Tis Altomar's the Man. No wonder she has  
Been Deaf to all my Prayers: all her warm Gales  
Were th' happy Altomars; whilst nothing but  
Her Winter Stormy Northern Blasts were mine.  Ish. 
Were't my Cause my Lord,  
I would nor curse, nor fret my Spleen in vain;  
Return her Scorn with Scorn.  
beauty's a Flower, that whilst 'tis kind, is fragrant;  
But when Disdain has cankered all its Sweets,  
'Tis a rank weed.  Mer. 
A rank one 'tis indeed;  
And if that poisonous weed, the Bane of all  
My Peace must root in my cursed Rival's Arms,  
Lend him my Hand, ye Gods, to plant it there.  
Oh Ishmael, I could make the rarest Bawd:  
I'd stuff her Pillows with the Stings of Scorpions:  
Oh how 'twould make her mount into his Arms.  
Act the soft Dalliance with that Heat, that Fire—  
Then to complete the wanton Game, I'd mix  
Her amorous Potions with the Blood of Aspics:  
whilst he, like Jove, came on in Thunder, she  
Should meet him like the burning Semele.  Ish. 
Why all this Storm against the poor lost Altomar?  
Sir, you forget that all his hopes are vanished,  
And 'tis the mighty Gayland must enjoy her.  Mer. 
You talk like a raw Lover: He enjoy her?—  
And must I tamely live to see the Cause,  
The cursed Source of all my endless pains,  
Shine the Bright Empress of our Southern World,  
And rise in Glory whilst I set in Ruin?  
No, Ishmael, there's a Spark in all great Souls  
Men call Revenge, supplies the dying Fire  
Of injured Love. To gratify that last  
Dear pleasure, know this Sorceress must die.  Ish. 
My Lord, your high Resentments are but just;  
But should you perish in th' Attempt.—  Mer. 
No matter:  
For I've at once outlived my Peace and Glory,  
For twelve long years I was the Algerine  
Victorious Admiral,  
Till all my Services, my Toils and Wounds  
Forgotten, my ungrateful barbarous King  
Could cloud me in the Noon of all my Glories,  
And give my Laurels to the cursed Altomar.  
My Love destroyed,  
And Honour lost, think Ishmael, with what small  
Delight I wear this Load of Flesh and Blood.  Ish. 
You have but too much reason to complain.  Mer. 
Give me kind Stars that favourable Minute,  
When I may stab this pair of Royal Monsters,  
Punish her Scorn, and his Ingratitude,  
Though the next hour you made the Vultures Gorge  
My Sepulchre.  Ish. 
But Sir— You've served the Father, and adored the Daughter,  
And can your Wrongs engender so much Rage?  Mer. 
Yes Ishmael, yes, does not the thirsty Traveller  
Loath the dear Spring when once the Fountain's poisoned?  
Ishmael, I know thee faithful, and dare trust thee;  
Know then, I have here that working Vengeance, like  
Wit's Goddess teeming in the thunderers Brain;  
But something ominous foretells, my Life  
Is short, though it will make my Fame immortal:  
Yet e'er I die, I have a hoarded Mass  
Of Infinite Wealth, which dead, I'll make thee Lord of:  
But if I'scape with Life, I have a Vessel  
Ready i'th' Port to fly to Alexandria,  
Where thou my Friend, shalt share my Fortunes with me.  Ish. 
Sir, to reward you for this Princely Bounty,  
I have that Story for your Ears, shall wing  
Your inspired Vengeance.  Mer. 
Speak my better Genius.  Ish. 
Know then, this Altomar, your hated Rival,  
Is the true Heir to th' Empire of Morocco.  Mer. 
Ha!  Ish. 
You know the Story of that Bloody Empress,  
Whose murdered Son, and poisoned Husband, cleared  
Her Favorit's Passage to th' Imperial Seat.  Mer. 
Go on.  Ish. 
That Empress, to secure his Title,  
And leave no Branch of the Imperial Stock  
That might in time grow up t' overshade his Lustre,  
Designed to sacrifice the only Relics  
O'th' Royal Blood, the murdered Mulai Labasses  
Two Infant Sons. Myself and Lord Abdalla  
(Now Gayland's General) were then  
Two Favourites in the Morocco Court,  
And th' Empress' Confidents: And to our Care  
She trusted the dispatch of the dire deed.  
But we in pity to the Royal Infants,  
And partly for the Hopes of a Reward,  
Conveyed 'em to their Uncle Amurath,  
Cayliff of Egypt.  Mer. 
Very well, proceed.  Ish. 
But to avoid all Dangers of the Storm,  
That the revengeful Empress would have raised,  
If e'er she knew we had repealed their Doom,  
E'er we disclosed what our rich Present was,  
We swore him first by Alla, ne'er to breathe  
Their Story, Quality, or their true Names  
To aught in this lower World. That done, we left 'em;  
Where, as his own adopted Sons he bred 'em,  
In that dark Mist, even to themselves disguised;  
And in pursuit of his Religious Vow,  
Some twelve years since th' old pious Dotard died,  
And left 'em in that Cloud in which he nursed 'em.  Mer. 
Oh Ishmael, thou hast fired my very Soul;  
But art thou sure this mighty Secrets safe?  Ish. 
Fear not, 'tis only lodged in our two Breasts;  
And for my part, I hate him worse than you:  
For he has done me Wrongs unpardonable.  
For know, my Lord, at the great Siege of Candy,  
Under the Sultan's Banners, I had the Honour  
To head a Troop of Horse, and by ill Fate  
I had this very Altomar my Colonel:  
Where, for I knew not what, only a certain  
Antipathy he bore me, by his Influence  
With the Grand Visier, unprovoked, uninjured,  
He both cashiered and banished me; for which  
I owe him Ruin, and would pawn my Soul to paid him.  Mer. 
Now thou art brave.  Ish. 
And for Abdalla's talking,  
His Tongue is Sealed with stronger Bonds than mine:  
For should the furious Gayland ever know  
There lives an Heir of the Imperial Line,  
And by Abdalla saved, his Head would pay for't.  Mer. 
Oh Ishmael, guard thy Tongue, lock up this Secret  
Close as thy Heart, and dearer than thy Life.  Ish. 
Your Favours would secure a greater Trust.  Mer. 
For should it reach the Ears of Abuzelden,  
No doubt 'twould soften him to that degree,  
That I should see the cruel Artemira  
Lodged in my hated prosperous Rival's Arms:  
A Sight would blast me.  
I must make haste, my Vengeance is too tardy;  
The Saturnine dull Planet moves too slow,  
But into Deeds I'll put my faint Desire,  
Drive and spur on my sluggish Orb of Fire.  Enter King and Artemira. Art. 
Ah Royal Sir, as you would reign immortal,  
Have Angels ever guard you, Heaven love you,  
Men fear you, and Virgins pray for you,  
Pity my Pains, and this dire Doom recall.  King. 
Kind Meroin, my Friend and Councillor,  
Instruct me how to chide this stubborn Girl;  
Now by my Life I offer her a Diadem,  
An Emperor's Heart, with all that dazzling Splendour,  
That would both Crown her Youth, and bless my Days;  
And would you think it, the mean Spirited Wretch,  
Deaf to th' Acceptance of a Courting Godhead,  
Starts from a Throne, and shrinks into a Shade.  Art. 
Consider Sir, what 'tis you would command;  
You give what 'tis impossible to take.  
Ah Sir, I love the Noble Altomar,  
And with a Faith so true.  King. 
By Hell she braves me,  
Triumphant in th' incorrigible Shame.  Mer. 
Ah Madam, were I worthy to advise,  
Your Royal Father pleads with so much Reason—  Art. 
Peace saucy Monster, am I fallen so low?  
Because my angry Father is my Torturer?  
Darest thou presume to talk, thou black Incendiary?  
But to confute all thou darest say or think,  
Know the least Thought of Altomar I value  
'Bove Gayland's Crown, and all his afric World.  
Nay his least Look is worth whole Millions  
Of such base Lives as this bold Slave's that hates him.  Mer. 
Now all the Poison of a bloated Toad  
Blister that Face, and purple Plagues new paint it. [Aside.  Art. 
Ah Sir, what is't you'd have me do? If I  
Love Altomaer, can I love Gayland too?  
Love is the very Soul of the Creation,  
And Constancy the Soul of Love: And then  
Can I love twice? She whose divided Heart  
Admits more Loves than one, does but like her  
That breaks a precious Diamond into Sparks,  
And makes that worthless, was before inestimable.  King. 
Alas, I do not court thee to be false:  
'Tis then thou'rt false when thou lovest Altomar;  
False to thy Blood, thy Honour, and to me,  
To love below the Daughter of a King;  
But fix thy Eyes on an Imperial Head,  
And then thou'rt truly Just. Thou canst not guests  
The Charms of Love within a Monarch's Arms:  
Thy Beauty on a Throne shall not shine only  
For thy long Youth, but be even in thy Age triumphant,  
Whilst to pursue the Trophies thou hast won,  
Thy young Heroic Sons shall conquer Kingdoms,  
And their fair Sister's Kings.  Art. 
Oh misery!  King. 
Nor is this all; t' embrace the Crown I offer,  
Consider, thou wilt make thy Father great:  
All my Ambition bounds in this Alliance.  
In this blessed Marriage from my Blood will spring  
That Race shall fill the Africa Throne for ever.  Art. 
Oh Ruin!  Mer. 
Your Gracious Father—  Art. 
Dares that Villain speak?  
Remove that hated Monster from my Sight.  Mer. 
And that proud Devil from the World. [Aside.  Art. 
Alas, what is that gay vain thing called Empire,  
You'd have me lose my Peace and Heaven to purchase?  
When from this Heart, my Altomar's dear Throne,  
Its Lord I banish, 'tis a pain so great,  
Horror and Hell will fill the empty Seat.  King. 
A Daughter! Death! why was she born to plague me?  
Ye Gods, what ways ye find to make Man wretched!  
Our very Heirs, the Branches of ourselves  
Are not our own: The Gallant and the Great  
Mix active Fires to mould their Likenesses,  
Whilst some malignant Planet sheds his Venom,  
Clubs in his Dross, to bastardise their Souls,  
And grafts a Fool upon a Royal Stock.  Enter Messenger. Mess. 
My Lord, the Emperor—  King. 
Now Rebel Daughter,  
I must be short: prepare to entertain  
This mighty man with all your kindest Looks;  
Breath one harsh Note, to show your Soul's untuned;  
Ruffle that Face but with one angry Blast,  
And the next hour your Darling breathes his last.  
Obey me, or expect the traitor's Head.  Enter Gayland attended. Art. 
Nursed in a Palace, and a King my Parent,  
And yet thus wretched! would I had met my Altomar  
In some more hospitable Desert born:  
What tho' we lived with Brutes and Savages,  
They would be kinder than inhuman Fathers.  King. 
Great Sir, I leave you to your Fate, Success  
And Victory, your long-known Slaves attend you. [Exit.  gale. 
Majestic Excellence, I come to lay  
A Monarch at thy Feet.  
So love's soft Goddess War's fierce God disarms,  
Melts down his Native Fury in her Arms;  
Softens the Influence of his angry Fires,  
And blunts the Edge of Fate.  Art. 
Excellent Vanity!  gale. 
Madam, I ne'er was truly great till now.  
What are the Courts of Kings if Love's not there?  
What's the unpolisht slaughtering Warrior, but  
A nobler Savage, till by Love refined?  
War, Victory and Crowns,  
But the rude Oar, and the rough Minerals bring,  
Whilst 'tis Love melts, and Beauty stamps the King.  Art. 
In what big Tone this gilded Organ speaks! [Aside.  
But now to answer him, Oh Love assist me!  
Great Sir—  gale. 
Speak, fair Divinity—  Art. 
Methinks  
You magnify Love's little God too much,  
And add too glittering Plumes to the blind Boy.  
Alas, his unfledged Wings soar not so high.  
Does not th' exploding World at best call Beauty,  
A short-lived Bloom, Love Man's Effeminacy,  
And Woman only Nature's fair Defect?  gale. 
Hold beauteous Brightness, Artemira's Eyes  
Shall make a Convert of that senseless World:  
Ascend my dazzling Thronė, and then see what  
The Tributary World shall pay to Beauty?  
Thus Crowned, thou shalt not only be adored  
By prostrate Nations, but those Nation's Lord.  
Thus the Imperial Monarch of the Skies,  
Melts his Eternal Day in Juno's Eyes.  
So shalt thou reign like her, but blessed above  
Her humbler Joys in a more faithful Jove.  Art. 
Insufferable Vanity; Oh Love, how vast  
A difference is betwixt the Godlike Altomar, Aside.  
And this poor Image of a King?  gale. 
By Heavens,  
So glorious shall my Artemira shine,  
That Humane Eyes shan't dare look up so high;  
But blinded stand with thy overflowing Light.  Art. 
Great Sir, your Bounty promises such Wonders,  
That to experience your prodigious Favours,  
I have a Boon to beg.  gale. 
Speak and command it.  Art. 
It will offend you.  gale. 
By my Crown it shall not.  Art. 
Have I your Promise?  gale. 
Upon the word of Majesty—  Art. 
I'm satisfied, and now dare freely speak.  
Great Sir, no common Pride ought to embrace  
Those Glories you intent for me; but Sir,  
Suppose I loved before, and love an Object  
Below your Royal Greatness: For alas,  
All Beauties are not born to conquer Kings;  
Yet may be happy far below a Crown;  
And tho' the mighty Gayland only ought  
To storm and conquer; yet I hope you'll promise me  
You'll win me bravely, and not seek to force  
My Heart till you have nobly conquered it.  Enter Altomar disguised, and Morat. gale. 
By these white Charms I swear [Kissing her Hand.  
By Alla, and my own Imperial Honour,  
I'll never wear this Jewel till I've won it.  Mor. 
Keep your Disguise, or we are lost for ever. [To Altomar.  Alt. 
Her yielding Hand snatched to his greedy Lips,  
Seized and devoured by that invading Tyrant. [Aside.  Art. 
Then I've my Wish, now my loved Altomar,  
I've cut off all his Hopes t' invade thy Right;  
He'll never wear thy Jewel till he has won it; [Aside.  
And that is never: For this Heart's invincible;  
And if there's Strength in Vows, or Oaths, or Honour,  
I'll make him know he's perjured but t'attempt it.  Alt. 
What riotous pleasures revel in her Eyes?  
By Hell he has talked her to an Ecstasy. [Aside.  gale. 
A favoured Rival! the only thing I wanted.  
By heavens' she's now a Conquest fit for me.  
Who e'er thou art, poor Wretch love on, court on,  
Guard all the Forts of her encompassed Heart,  
That when I storm I may have the Charm to try  
How at my Sun such poor thin Shadows fly.  Art. 
Now Royal Sir, your Gallantry—  Alt. 
Oh horror! [Aside.  Art. 
Your matchless Gallantry has so much Honour,  
And so much Charm, that it has given me all  
My utmost wish could ask.  Alt. 
She's gone! She's gone! [Aside.  gale. 
Oh my fair Saint, what infinite Mass of Glory  
Do my vast Hopes embrace!  
Come bright illustrious fair, let Fools and Cowards  
Invoke the help of the kind Powers above,  
Call on each Star to aid their dastard Love.  
On my own Strength my Tug of Fate shall lie,  
And let the gazing Gods stand Neuter by. [Exeunt.  Manent Altomar and Morat. Alt. 
Oh I am lost! not the dark Womb of Earth,  
That teems with tortured Ghosts in the black Realms  
Of Vengeance, has a Soul so lost as mine.  Mor. 
Suppress your Rage, perhaps you are mistaken;  
What tho' she gazed upon that painted Plume,  
And her kind Tongue caressed the vain proud Fool,  
How do you know but this fond Apparition  
May be Design and Artifice, not Love?  Alt. 
Design! Ah no, Her Heart, her Soul's a going.  
I saw her, heard her false, beheld those Eyes,  
Those once unerring Lights, enchanted with  
That shining Comet Power: Saw those bright Suns  
Leave their long Tracks of Truth, Faith, Honour, Love,  
Whilst a new Phaeton usurped the Throne,  
To set that World of Excellence on Fire.  Mor. 
How has your Curiosity undone you?  
Why did you woo me from your milder Gaol,  
And beg this short Enlargement on your Knees,  
To meet this Sight, and be your own Tormenter?  Alt. 
What tho' I'd known I should have found her false?  
Not see her! Ah, who could forbear to see her?  
Those dear fair Eyes have Charms even when they kill.  
So in a Plague, when th' angry Gods send out  
Some bright Commissioned Angel to destroy;  
Could we but see the Divine Arm that strikes,  
We should behold unutterable Glory.  
'Tis not the Vengeance that it pours, can lessen  
The Majesty of a destroying Deity.  Mor. 
I have not gone thus far, ventured my Head  
T' unloose your Chains, brought you thus far to ruin,  
And leave you thus. No, I'll go on, through Fate  
And Death; but I will give your Torments Ease.  Alt. 
Dear generous, kind Morat.  Mor. 
By heavens' I'll carry  
This Faithless Woman all your Sighs, your Wrongs,  
Your just Resentments of her Infidelity:  
If she has Honour, Sense or Shame—  Alt. 
Alas,  
Though thou couldst lay my dying Groans before her,  
What would that move, if she's resolved to kill?  Mor. 
My Lord, I pity you.  Alt. 
Indeed I want it.  Mor. 
Now upon second thoughts, you your own self  
Shall tell her your Resentments.  Alt. 
How?  Mor. 
Prepare  
This Night to visit her.  Alt. 
My Tutelar Angel!  Morat. 
Thus then— By th'help of Night,  
I will convey you safe to the Seraglio.  Alt. 
Go on.  Morat. 
Kind Rosolin your faithful Confident,  
I'm certain will admit you:  
And to secure you from all dangerous Eyes,  
Remove the Princess's watchful Slaves: And tho'  
The cruel Artemira would deny you,  
It would be then too late: Her very dread o'th' Outrage,  
To which her harsh Denials may transport you,  
Will make your way: For since she's sensible,  
That to discover you would give you Death,  
For your past Loves  
She will not be your Murderer. Now try  
Your Fortune, and unriddle all your Fears.  Alt. 
Now art thou kinder than my Prayers could ask.  Mor. 
Alas, my Lord,  
I cannot see your Soul thus Tempest-shaken,  
But I must either calm the Storm, or drown in't.  Alt. 
Thou best of Friends!  Mor. 
But, Sir, I must conjure you,  
Whatever Aspect or Disdain you meet,  
Let not your Wrongs rise high, nor yet talk loud,  
Lest your wild Rage should be your own destroyer.  Alt. 
No, dear Morat, Suppose the worst: Imagine  
She meets me with a Look all cold, and bleak  
As Winter Stars: Nay, to complete my misery,  
Suppose her fallen to that Apostasy,  
That she dares boldly tell me, that she loves him:  
Suppose all this, and words ten times more cruel,  
Which 'tis even Blasphemy to think; yet still  
I have loved so well, I shall not with the least  
Outrageous word upbraid her with my Fate;  
But falling prostrate at her Feet, and kneeling  
To th' adored Heaven, from whence that Thunder came,  
My breaking Heart shall just keep Life enough,  
To bear me back into my Gaol, and die.  Mor. 
Look up, and hope a better Fate.  Alt. 
Good Heaven,  
If possible, dissolve this dreadful Vision;  
But if I'm doomed to see her broken Vows,  
Not Comets with their bearded Majesty,  
Those blazing Deputies of th' angry Gods,  
Hang o'er the World with half that mortal Influence,  
As threats this miserable Head. Comets!  
Why do I name those Infant Rods of Fate?  
If Artemira's Cruelty ordeins,  
Her wretched Slave in black despair shall die,  
Within the Sphere of that destroying Eye  
Hang all the bloody Banners of the Sky.  [Exewt.   

ACT III.  The King discovered in his Night Gown, sitting, Meroin by him. A Song and Music. The Scene a Bedchamber. King 
STop your insipid croaking Throats, and practise  
Your little Arts on little Objects: Lull  
Some peevish Girl, or froward Boy asleep;  
And do not hope to calm a restless King.  
I'm stung with a Tarantula too strong  
For such mean Airs to cure. What has my vast  
Ambition formed to make a Daughter great,  
And Father blessed? But the resisting Fool  
Destroys the Sacred Work. Heavens! I was raising her  
A Pile of Majesty, so high, so losty,  
On whose Imperial Towers she might shake hands  
With Gods: But angry Love, that envious Deity,  
Confounds the Languages of Power and Glory,  
And stops the rising Fabric.  Mer. 
Stop it? Death!  
What should oppose your Will? She knows your Pleasure,  
And dares she disobey?  King. 
True Meroin.  
I can command her Eye, her Hand, her Tongue;  
But they're all Hypocrites, all base Dissemblers:  
Her hidden Thoughts, her Heart's all Altomar's.  
King's are not Gods: Our Power extends o'er all but Souls.  
They like unbridled unsubjected Devils,  
Soar in that Air of which themselves are Princes.  Mer. 
Hold Royal Sir, let not your Majesty  
So much mistake, thus cheated with a Bubble.  
What is that noisy thing we call a Soul?  
What's all its Faculties and Passions, but  
Th' Impression of our Sense, our Flesh and Blood?  
Or the Effects of Chance or Education?  
Pampered we're wanton, Great we're proud, Dist ressed  
We're Pious, and in Love we're mad; and Sir,  
Is Madness a Disease incurable?  
No; were she mine, 'tis not a hundred Altomars  
Should keep her from a Throne and Gayland's Arms;  
And to perform the mighty Operation,  
I'd keep her waking with the Name of Gayland,  
Prevent her Morning Prayers with Gayland, Gayland.  
She should scarce hear one word but Kings, Crowns, Empires.  
Then would I make her Servants, nay, her very Priests  
My Instruments: They should preach her into Love:  
Tell her, her way to heavens' through Gayland's Arms.  
Ah Sir, Religion does the rarest Feats  
in Love; makes a coy Girl so kind, so pliant.  
Then would I keep her caged, watched like a Bird,  
Till she'd forgot her own wild barbarous Notes,  
And learned my nobler Airs.  King. 
Thou hast inspired me,  
And I'll pursue the Sacred Path thou'st laid me.  
I'll instantly t'her Chamber, and begin  
The mighty Work: I'll show her Greatness Empire.  
So bright, as shall uncloud her wandering Senses:  
High as a Beacon fix the blazing Light,  
To guide her through the Labyrinths of Night. [Exit.  Mer. 
As I could wish. Gone to the Princess Chamber,  
Unarmed, unguarded! Now for my Revenge:  
Oh 'tis the best, the rarest luckiest hour,  
That Night, the Bawd to murder  
Could e'er have picked me out. And thou proud scornful Siren,  
Now to my Vengeance thy false Heart stands fair,  
There is no surer Bloodhound than Despair. [Exit.  Scene the Second. The Princess discovered in her BedChamber. Enter Altomar introduced by Rosolin. Art. 
Kind Heaven he comes  Rosol. 
Know, 'tis with wondrous danger;  
But greater Kindness that my Royal Mistress  
Admits you at this Hour.  Alt. 
My generous Guide,  
May Heaven and Love requite thee for this Favour;  
Those Powers which are my Enemies reward thee. [Exit Rosolin.  Art. 
Approach my Altomar: This awful Distance  
Befits a Courting, not a Conquering Lover;  
But say my Altomar, what pitying Angel  
Has broke thy Chains to bless thy Artemira?  Alt. 
Still the same Sweetness! If the Flower's so fragrant,  
Can the dear Root be poisoned? [Aside.  Art. 
Why, are you silent Sir, now by my Life  
Your crowding Joys to see your kind dear Princess,  
Have locked your Tongue, pent up the narrow Vent  
For words, and made your swelling Raptures dumb:  
Nay then I will increase your Ecstasy.  
Know, I've been stormed by your proud haughty Rival,  
The vainest thing that ever Fortune raised,  
For Fools t' obey, or Beauty to despise:  
But by my kind Compliance with his Pride,  
I have so pleased his Vanity, so wrought  
The Royal Pageant up, till he has sworn  
By Alla, and his own Imperial Honour,  
he'll never marry me, till he has conquered me.  
Now when I meet the shining Meteor next,  
I'll own our Loves, and tell him I'm invincible.  Alt. 
Is this the Virtue, Gods, I have profaned!  
And this that Truth my frantic Fears could doubt? [Aside.  Art. 
Then if he has the least Spark of Majesty,  
And still dares tire me with his nauseous Love,  
I'll Thunder in his Ears his Royal Promise,  
His blasted Honour, and his broken Vows,  
Till I have shamed him from his hopeless Suit,  
Made him take all his gaudy Streamers in,  
And shrink like blushing Cowards from a Siege.  Alt. 
Oh was there ever Constancy like thine;  
Or jealous impious Infidel like me? [Aside.  Art. 
And does your Artemira's Kindness please you?  Alt. 
Please me?  
Not a blessed Soul at the last Trumpets Sound  
Can hear his Call to Everlasting Glory  
With greater Ecstasy—  Enter Rosalin running. Ros. 
Madam, the King your Father—  Art. 
Ha! what sayest thou?  Ros. 
Is coming hither, just now entering,  
And I've outrun the Danger to alarm you.  Alt. 
Confusion!  Art. 
Fly fly my Altomar— But hold, to move  
That way, would be to meet him in the Face,  
And to stay here is Death.  Alt. 
What shall I do?  Art. 
Retire into my Closet.  Alt. 
Oh unhappy Chance! [Exit into the Closet.  Art. 
Hushed as your Grave your silent Station keep:  
For if you stir my Altomar must die.  Enter King. King. 
You seem disturbed; is it the Father's Presence,  
Or Daughter's Guilt that makes this Ague Fit?  Art. 
Dread Sir, a Visit at this hour of Night,  
Even from a Father cannot but surprise me.  King. 
Suppress your Fear, draw nigh, I come to talk with you.  Art. 
Speak with the voice of Mercy, Royal Sir,  
And whilst the Breath of Majesty delivers  
The charming Oracles, thus low I'll fall [Kneels.  
T' embrace the Feet of the inspired God that utters 'em.  King. 
Well, I will speak with Mercy.  Art. 
Yes Royal Sir, if you but knew what Love meant,  
Then you would speak with Mercy, than you'd pity  
My bleeding Heart, not bid me poorly sell  
My solid Peace for th' empty name of Empress.  
Alas, I would obey you if I could;  
But the Commands impossible.  
I have loved once, and ne'er can love again.  
True Love's  
A Bird of Paradise, when once on Wing,  
It keeps the Airy Region, where it flies,  
And never lights before it falls and dies.  Enter Meroin, locking the Door after him. King. 
Tortures and Furies, how she frets my Soul!  
Turns all my Blood to Gall.  Mer. 
And mine to Poison.  King. 
How Meroin?  Mer. 
I come to tell thee King,  
That I have chased a hunted Tyrant, and  
This fair false Crocodile into the Toil,  
And on this Spot they die. [Draws.  King. 
How Saucy Traitor!  
What means this unexampled Insolence?  Mer. 
Why Sir, I'll tell you, call to your Remembrance  
The many Wounds I have received for you:  
Have I not been your Conquering Admiral  
For almost twice seven Years; my Loyalty  
Untainted, and my Courage undisputed?  
But thy Ingratitude, Barbarian King,  
Could lay me like a rusty Armour by;  
Nor has she played the Tyrant less than thou:  
Her cruelty and her proud haughty Scorn  
To all my slighted Sighs, has light that Brand  
Which nothing but her Hearts last Blood can quench.  
But I lose time.  King. 
Hold, Impious Slave, yet hold; if thou canst think,  
Much less darest put in Action, what thou threaten'st,  
Canst thou e'er hope thy Royal Master's Murder  
Will go unpunished?  Mer. 
Yes, you would frighten me with Stakes or Gibbets,  
Wracks, or Wild Horses, or some such foolish thing;  
But know, mistaken King, I came not hither  
With such a faint Design. I and my Injuries  
Are more resolved than so. [Now for thy Heart.  Re-enter Altomar interposing. Alt. 
Hold Traitor.  Mer. 
Ha!  Alt. 
Thou Monster more than damned.  Mer. 
Curses and Plagues, what Fury brought him hither  Alt. 
Triumphant Infidel, durst thy black Soul  
But think to kill thy King!  
What Lunacy inspired thy Frantic Rage,  
With the least Hope t' effect the Savage Deed?  
Dog, didst thou see you Azure Roof all Blaze  
With unknown Fires? The groaning World beset  
With Comets, Earthquakes, Plagues and Deluges?  
These are the Prologues to a murdered King.  
But do I talk? Thy Crimes, and this just Arm  
Fall on thee, Traitor. [They fight, Meroin falls.  
Take thy just Reward. [Sticking him to the Ground.  
Go sink, and howl in everlasting Flames.  Mer. 
Thou'st killed me, and Perdition seize the Murderer. [Dies.  Alt. 
Thus low, great Sir, I bend my prostrate Soul, [Kneels, and lays his Sword at the King's Feet.  
O'er-whelmed with Glory, and o'er-charged with Bliss:  
For I have saved the Royal Albuzeiden,  
And the fair Artemira lives by me.  King. 
Rise Altomar, for I have much to say,  
And thou to hear. True, thou hast saved our Lives—  Alt. 
With greater Joy, with greater Piety  
Than e'er the Trojan Youth his aged Sire  
Over the rolling Conflagration bore,  
And stemmed a Tide of Fire. To save my King—  King. 
Hold your Carieer, and do not vainly sing  
Your ill tuned Triumph: Yes, you've saved our Lives.  
Your fatal Kindness like the circling Adder  
Kills when't embraces. Speak thou dreadful Gorgon,  
That turn'st me into Stone, how camest thou hither?  Art. 
Stop but your Rage, and let me tell you how.  
Oh Sir, look up, and see yond shining Empire,  
Where th' Universal Monarch sits, whose Angels  
Stand Sentinels around the Lives of Kings:  
Hither by that foreseeing Providence  
Was th' happy Altomar sent by Commission,  
To save my Royal Father's Life—  King. 
Peace Screech-owl.  
How artfully the fond Enchantress pleads!  
What fatal Planet led me to this place,  
To see the Ruins of my Royal Name?  
So close, alone, at this dark hour of night,  
Hid in her Closet like a lustful satire?  Alt. 
What words are these I hear?  King. 
Truth Ravisher; sounds that will sink thy Soul,  
When thy hot burning Lust shall plunge below  
In the black Lake quenched like a hissing Firebrand.  Alt. 
Oh speak once more: For tho' my shivering Nerves  
Shake like an Ague, they're such dreadful Accents,  
I scarce dare trust my Ears, nor can I think  
'Tis Artemira's Royal Father speaks.  King. 
Triumphant Villainy! he likes the Music,  
And fain would hear the pleasing Notes repeated.  
Is't not enough that thou hast broke thy Chains,  
Loosed like a Tiger for thy Midnights Prey,  
And stand'st all reeking with her tainted Blood—  Alt. 
Her tainted Blood!  King. 
Silence, that Ravens Croak.  
Is this a Place, an Hour, a Scene for Innocence?  
Gods!  
Why is the Race of Kings, the Lines of Heroes,  
With all those mighty Names,  
Descent, Nobility, Birthright and Power  
Entrusted to the Truth of that frail Sex?  
Why did you give our undeserving World  
That Image of your own great Godheads, Honour,  
And lodge it in that brittle Creature Woman?  Alt. 
How can you wander in this Mist of Hell?  
Can you believe (Perdition) can you think  
That I came hither on that black Design?  
Behold that Face, and know mistaken King,  
He that dares look upon that awful Virtue,  
Must gaze with Eyes pure as translated Saints:  
His Soul an Altar, and each thought an Offering,  
Each Groan a Martyr, and each Sigh a Prayer,  
And every burning Wish a Vestal Fire.  
Whilst swacy Flesh and Blood, gross brutal Sense,  
Those heavier base sordid Elements,  
Are beaten to their Earthy Centre down,  
And blasted with that dazzling Presence die.  King. 
Bold Slave, I'll hear no more.  
Hope not to wash  
Thy Sooty Soul, nor paint thy blackness white.  Alt. 
Yet hear me King, could my rebellious heart  
But entertain one thought to her Dishonour,  
I'd pluck th' envenomed Traitor up by th' Roots,  
Burst all the Channels, all the Veins of Life  
Torn up like Conduits in a flaming City,  
To quench my impious and internal Fire.  King. 
Oh artful Hypocrite! shall I permit  
Such Impudence to talk and live? Where are you Slaves?  Alt 
Gods, that the very best of Men and Kings  
Should cast a Stain on that Imperial Beauty,  
And meanly think that Crystal Fountain poisoned!  King. 
Slaves, Traitors!  Alt. 
Is this the Charge her Guardian Angels keep?  
Or are th' unthinking drowsy Gods asleep?  
If this Eclipse on her bright Fame can lie,  
Ye Gods, why burn the Tapers of your Sky?  
Since Nature's brightest Stamp is thus disgraced,  
Why are not all her baser Moulds defaced?  
Let all things in one joint confusion lie;  
Mourn Heaven, end World, and bleeding Nature die.  
Leave not one Star of that enammelled 〈…〉 ight,  
But shroud your Heads in everlasting Night.  
Instead of all  
Those shining Orbs which your Creation crowned,  
May nought but Death in the void space be found;  
Goblins and Spectres walk th' eternal Round.  King. 
Where are you Villains, tardy Slaves, where are you?  Enter Eunuch's. 
You dull unsinewed Vassals: Eunuchs, damn 'em.  
Are these th' Effeminate Guards t' a Lady's Honour?  
Those spiteful Dogs, who when we blot out Man,  
Write Bawd and Pander in revenge. Speak Monsters,  
How got that Traitor Entrance?  Mirvan. 
Altomar!  
My Lord, we know not.  King. 
No; you were removed:  
The amorous Play admitted no Spectators;  
And t' execute her honour's tragic Doom,  
The Stage was cleared for the infernal Scene.  
Go, seize that impious— [They seize him.  Alt. 
Take me Slaves,  Art. 
But one poor Heart, and all these Stabs to break it.  Alt. 
And now behold your dire Commands obeyed.  
Send me to Death, and Sir, to banish all  
Ideas of Remorse, if the least Service  
Of Altomar's whole Life rise to disturb you,  
Stifle the strangled Rebel in its Birth,  
And blot remembrance from your Soul: Now kill me,  
Rend my disjointed Bones, and make each part  
A several Martyr, every scattered Limb  
A Stranger to the Branch on which it grew.  
Do this, and all your utmost Rage can frame,  
So you'll be kind, and right her injured Fame.  King. 
Take him away.  Alt. 
Yet stay, stay cruel Judge,  
Since I am doomed to die, even condemned Murderers  
Have leave to speak before their Execution.  King. 
Well, you have leave to speak, talk to the Winds.  Alt. 
If I had been that Villain which you think me,  
And durst attempt to blast her sacred Fame,  
After that Crime what is't I durst not do?  
I might have let that Traitor cut your Throat;  
And when I'd seen you grovelling on the Floor,  
Have then stepped out and saved my Royal Mistress.  
That done,  
Her Father dead, her Crown and Heart her own,  
Without Control I might have seized my Prey;  
Have feared no Rival Emperors, but revealed  
In her soft Arms, and triumphed on her Throne.  
All this I might have done were I a Villain:  
But know, mistaken Prince, I've not commanded  
Your Navy, fought your Battles, propped your Throne  
To see my Sovereign die, that Sacred Lord,  
That awful Man that gave my Princess Life,  
Must never die whilst I've a Sword to save him.  Art. 
Oh Miracle of Virtue!  King. 
How he tires me!  Alt. 
Nay, were't to do again, I'd save your Life,  
Tho' the same hour you doomed my Death,  
And dragged my Princess to my Rival's Bed,  
I could not see you bleed: I'd meet a hundred Swords,  
And in my King's Defence stand like a Battery,  
To block their Passage to your precious Life;  
And when they'd hewed me like a shattered Rampart down,  
Each mangled Limb should kiss your Sacred Feet,  
Proud that they'd saved the cruel Albuzeiden:  
For still you're Artemira's Royal Father.  King. 
For these kind words, to take off all Aspersion  
Of my Ingratitude, I'll own you've saved  
Our Lives, and in return I give you yours.  
Mirvan, your Charge does not extend to Blood,  
Only confine him to a stronger Gaol,  
And send a Bow string to the false Morat.  Alt. 
Oh save the poor Morat: If he has sinned,  
The Crime was mine, be mine the Punishment. [Kneels.  King. 
For mine then, and my Daughter's Life, I give  
You yours and his; and now you're amply paid.  
Not one word more; for if you speak he dies.  
Now Rebel Daughter, to atone your Sins,  
Assume Obedience for your Sacrifice.  
Prepare to morrow to be Gayland's Bride.  Alt. 
Oh my hard Fate!  Art. 
Ah Sir, but think, think what dire doom you've given me.  
Could I consent, and at you dread Commands  
Give him my Hand without my Heart, and force  
My faltering Tongue to speak the binding Words,  
The very Breath that utters 'em will blast me;  
And the accusing conscious God of Marriage  
Will be so far from aiding at the Ceremony,  
That the very Tapers on the Sacred Altar  
Will strike those deadly Flashes in my Eyes,  
I shall fall blind at his Imperial Feet;  
And when I'm dragged into that dismal Scene  
The Nuptial Bed, instead of Bridal Blushes,  
He'll find a trembling Wretch beset with Horrors,  
All pale as Death, and ghastly as the Grave.  
Is this a Wife fit for a Monarch's Bosom?  
Or this the Doom of your poor Artemira?  King. 
Leave these vain Tears, fantastic weeping Fool,  
Those Glories I've designed thee, will dispel  
These Vapours, and un-seal thy blinded Eyes.  
Now if thou'rt honest, (as pray Heaven thou art)  
Lustre and Fame be thy immortal Prize.  
If not, if thou hast played the treacherous Wanton,  
And when I give thee to the Emperor's Arms,  
He finds thee false, thy Virgin Honour lost,  
Thy Hearts rank Blood appease his Wrongs and mine,  
Lie down his Bride, and rise his Sacrifice.  Art. 
Oh my too rigid Fate! the merciless Soldier  
That flies with Fire and Sword through a stormed City,  
Is gentler than a Father:  
He tender Hearted Man,  
Melted and pierced with ravished Virgins Shrieks,  
Strikes his kind Javelin through their throbbing Hearts,  
And ends their pains, their groans, and shame together:  
But this mild Doom would much too gentle be,  
More lingering Torments are reserved for me.  King. 
Away with her, dull Slaves.  Art. 
Dear Altomar farewell. [Exeunt King, Artemira, and some of the Attendants.  Alt. 
Yes angry Powers, my Destiny rides Post;  
I hear the Mandrake groan, and I am lost.  
Eternal Darkness wraps my Soul all o'er,  
And long's his Night whose Sun must rise no more. [Exeunt.   

ACT IU.  Gayland with Attendants. gale. 
OH now the Mist is cleared, degenerate Princess!  
Fantastic Beauty, can this fair Apostate  
Dote on an abject despicable Slave!  
What is't you call the Vassal?  1. Atten. 
Altomar.  gale. 
Now could I laugh at that fair Folly Woman:  
No doubt some little Wretch her Smiles have raised,  
And puffed the boulstered Pigmy up with Pride;  
And now he stalks and struts.  1. Att. 
Great Sir,  Gayl. 
Did you command his Jailor  
In our Imperial Name to come before us?  1. Att. 
Great Sir, he waits without.  Enter Mirvan. Miru. 
I come, Great Sir, to know your high Commands.  gale. 
Art thou the Keeper of this Altomar?  Miru. 
Yes, Sir, that Princely Mourner is my Charge.  gale. 
That Princely Mourner! Death, the Slave is Elegant.  
Where is that Princely Mourner?  Miru. 
Great Sir,  
That Chamber is his homely Palace, that  
Course Cabinet enshrines his drooping Glory.  gale. 
His drooping Glory! Eloquent Villain,  
Conduct me to this drooping Glory.  
By Jove, I'll face this little daring Rival,  
This animated Clod of Earth and Ashes,  
And look th' audacious proud Aspirer dead.  Ser. 
How Sir!  
Will your Imperial Majesty descend  
To make a Visit to a Slave in Chains?  gale. 
Yes, I'll be kind, and put him out of Pain. [Exit.  Reenters, the Scene changed. 
But stay— Retire, I'll talk with him alone:  
For should I come thus followed, thus attended,  
He'll say I proudly take th' Advantage  
Of Crowds and Pomp to brave him. Leave me.  Exeunt Attendants, and Enter Altomar. gale. 
When I shall tell thee what Imperial Head,  
The Terror of the World, and Lord of Kingdoms  
These humble Walls enclose. It is a Name  
Will make thy chilling Blood shrink to thy Heart.  Alt. 
Why, what art thou, my haughty noisy Blusterer?  gale. 
Bold Sir, men call me Gayland.  Alt. 
Gayland! wondrous well.  gale. 
Ha! is this all?  Alt. 
Why Gayland, if Men call you Gayland,  
What would you more?  gale. 
Thou unfledged Hero, know,  
That conquering Prince to whose triumphant Chariot  
Proud Nations, and their Lords in Chains fall prostrate,  
Comes here to ask thee with what Insolence—  Alt. 
Insolence!  gale. 
Yes, with what Insolence thou darest look up  
To that bright Saint that I vouchsafe t' adore?  Alt. 
Know then,  
Thou Conquering Prince to whose Triumphant Chariot  
Proud Nations and their Lords in Chains fall prostrate,  
To that bright Saint, that Goddess of my Soul,  
I dare look up with the same Courage  
As she looks down on Gayland.  gale. 
Arrogant Slave!  
Now by my Imperial Honour,  
I could grow angry with this crawling Insect,  
And crush the hissing feeble stingless Worm;  
But Kings are Gods, and I will calm my Thunder:  
My Lightning is too proud to blast a Shrub.  Alt. 
Then merciful good natured Thunderer,  
You use me kindly.  gale. 
Rude Slave!  Alt. 
Rude King, that darest invade my Right,  
My Artemira's Heart: But know she hates thee;  
And had those Nations thou hast vanquished been  
But half so much invincible, thy Empire  
Would not have reached so far as does thy Shadow:  
Nor had thy Sword e'er won more Ground, than just  
Thy Length in Earth, to lay thy Bones in Dust.  gale. 
Patience kind Heaven, by all the Fires that animate  
Those ever-burning Globes, I shall grow mad.  Alt. 
Mad! How it would please me  
To see the Fierce Numidian Lion foam,  
Tear up the Ground, and lash his angry Sides,  
Whilst I, like Hercules, in State stand by,  
Behold thy Lunatic full Tide swell o'er,  
Then smile to hear the Royal Savage roar.  gale. 
Now by my Life, the Soul of Empire  
Bold Traitor take— [Going to stab him.  
Where am I going? Gods,  
I thank you, I'm once more my Passions Lord;  
And Slave, I'll find a nobler way to punish thee:  
Attend and listen to thy Doom.  
To morrow I will marry Artemira.  Alt. 
Marry her! thou darest not.  gale. 
Saucy Mortal, dare not!  
Yes, and to augment thy Plagues, thou shalt in Chains  
Stand by to aid the Ceremony.  Alt. 
So Sir.  gale. 
In thy right Hand the Bridal Taper hold;  
Then to the Temple shalt my Triumphs light,  Alt. 
Most excellent!  gale. 
And when she takes her highest step  
To Glory, know thy bended Neck's her Footstool,  
Into my Throne she mounts upon thy Head.  Alt. 
My Head!  gale. 
Thy Head, proud Traitor; and to sum all,  
When in her Arms our World's great Lord shall lie,  
Live to despair, then stab thyself and die.  Alt. 
Thou marry her! by the All-seing Gods  
That know this Heart, there's something in this Breast  
So dear, so great, so far beyond thy Dross,  
Thy baser Mould, that I'm as far above thee  
In Artemira's Eyes, as Jove from Pluto.  
There's something sacred that informs my Soul  
I'm so much more a King than thou, that werenot  
My shortened Talons cut, and my Wings pinioned,  
My Eagle Rage should soar above thy Head,  
And strike thee like a croaking Raven dead.  gale. 
Down to thy Grave, profane rude Monster down.  [Going to stab him. 
Disarmed, Oh shame, and by a naked Slave! [Altomar wrists the Dagger out of his Hand.  
But thus I'll send the Dog to Cerberus. [Drawing his Sword.  Alt. 
Coward, come on.  gale. 
Death and Perdition greet thee. [They fight, Altomar defending himself with the Dagger: Whilst they are fighting, the King and Guards enter; and as they go to part them, Altomar having received a great many Wounds, he strikes in with the Emperor, and Gayland falls. Guards seize Altomar.  gale. 
My brittle Glass burst by a Vassal's Hand!  
My Life and Glories ravished by a Slave!  
Burn burn your Looms, cursed Hags, ye Hellborn Sisters,  
If you can twist the Threads of Kings no stronger. [Dies.  King. 
Oh my headlong  
Ruin! From what a Precipice am I fallen!  
Is this a Daughter's Coronation Day?  
My very Crown, my tottering Kingdom  
Shakes at this Blow! Does not th' Imperial Army  
Of fifty thousand Men lie at my Gates,  
A Force too strong for my weak Power to grapple with?  
Who in revenge of their dear murdered Emperor,  
Will raze my City, lay my Kingdom waste,  
All buried in one heap of Desolation.  Alt. 
Revenge their Tyrant Emperor!  
Yes Sir, I killed him, and so killed him, that  
Th' applauding World must justify the Blow.  
An Emperor! like a mean-spirited Slave  
He came, and poorly braved me in my Chains.  
Then in the basest most unmanly fury,  
He struck his Dagger at my naked Breast;  
But from his hand unarmed I snatched the Poniard,  
And in a brave Defence thus stained, thus gored,  
Tripped up the Heels of the Gigantic Coward,  
And with his weight I made his Grave shake under him.  King. 
Hold Brutish Impudence, canst thou plead excuse  
For this infernal Deed?  
Better a thousand low-born Souls like thine  
Should float in Shoals through Tides and Seas of Blood,  
Than the least Vein of Majesty should bleed,  
Or a Crowned Head but ache.  Alt. 
A Crowned Head! so at that rate a Villain  
May be an Emperor at his Coronation.  
Murder and Hell held up the Canopy,  
Whilst Blood and Treason died his Royal Purple.  
No Voice of Majesty, no Sound of Glory;  
But Massacre, Rebellion, Desolation.  King. 
Silence, this Blasphemy, What profane Breath  
Has Treason in Despair? What if his Dagger  
Aimed at thy naked Breast: So angry Gods  
Strike impious Men. Does Thunder aim at Thunder?  
Or should an injured Monarch play the Dueller?  
Thy Pride I'm sure provoked his sacred Rage,  
And 'twas but just thy forfeit Life should pay for't.  Enter Arremira and Women. King. 
But bold Assassinate, thy impious Fury  
Could lift thy Hand against the Life of Majesty.  
The best of men thou hast traitorously killed,  
And like a Traitor thou shalt die.  Alt. 
A Traitor!  Art. 
Die! Oh my startled Soul.  Alt. 
No cruel Lord,  
I killed him nobly, bravely killed him, King.  
No grappling Roman in Rome's Amphitheatre  
Took an encountering Lion by the Throat,  
And tore his Heart out with a Rage more manly.  King. 
Oh Giant Insolence!  
But I lose Breath: he dies, and instantly.  
His Execution, Achmat, be thy Charge.  
First publish him a Traitor to the State;  
Then build a Scaffold in the open Forum;  
A Wrack and Torturers prepared be ready.  
T' appease the Blood of this great murdered Monarch;  
By all my Hopes th' Assassinate shall die,  
With the same solemn Form of Death, our Law  
And Custom dooms a Traitor to our Crown.  Alt. 
Ah Sir, you ne'er was barbarous till this Hour.  
Die for an honourable piece of Justice  
Done in my own Defence; and like a Traitor!  
Proclaimed a Traitor! branded and exposed  
T' a traitorous public Shame! My Death I scorn to fear;  
But to die infamous is more than dying.  
Shame is the only Wound great Souls can feel.  Art. 
Oh hear me Sir, whilst I have Life to speak:  
Look on that Gallant Youth, that Mine of Honour,  
Faith, Truth and Love, the very Soul of Angels,  
And Model of a God.  Alt. 
Oh matchless Sweetness!  Art. 
And must that Throne, that bright Celestial Temple  
Be rased by sacrilegious impious Hands.  
Inhuman King— but Oh I can no more [Faints.  King. 
No Traitress, thou hast done too much;  
Thy Eyes, young Witch, light this dire Conflagration,  
And only blaze t'a King and Kingdom's Ruin.  Art. 
Ah my dear Lord— I'm going— unkind heart  
To break so soon, and not to stay for Altomar. [Swoons.  Alt. 
She faints, she faints, that injured Beauty dies:  
Look up my Star, shine out dear clouded Brightness.  
Now King thou'rt more than exquisitely cruel:  
For if your Tyranny must break that Heart,  
My Wrongs are Pageants to this last dire Blow.  King. 
Why Villain, let her faint and die, what then?  
Sleep on, thou Scandal of my Blood, sleep on  
For ever, whilst I never sleep again. Exit King.  Alt. 
Divine sweet Excellence, look up and live:  
'Tis thy kind Altomar that bids thee live.  Art. 
From Death's cold Sleep what voice of Pity wakes me?  
Ah my dear Lord, is't you? What a blessed Change  
Is here? Did not my cruel Father  
Fright my poor Soul away with the Ghastly Vision  
Of my dear murdered Lord?  
And do I wake in Altomar's kind Arms!  Alt. 
Yes, Royal Sweetness, thy Tyrannic Father,  
Though he has decreed thy Altomar must die—  Art. 
Nay then, why were my closing Eyes  
Torn open to behold this hated Light,  
More terrible than Death's eternal Night?  Alt. 
Let not the Torrent of thy Sorrow swell  
Too high: Thy Altomar is not so lost.  
He has Glories, Pleasures, Joys; and thy kind Father  
Has through his burning Rage some Sparks of Pity:  
He has left this Treasure in my dying Arms,  
And kindly crowns the Victim e'er it bleeds.  Art. 
And must you die? I cannot, will not bear it.  
Ye angry Gods, if this be the Reward  
Of Truth and Love, and unkind Providence  
Ordains two faithful Hearts a Fate so dismal,  
Poor Love, I fear, has but few Friends in Heaven.  Alt. 
Indeed, my sweetest Saint, 'tis very hard,  
That I must gaze on those bright Eyes no more.  
Grasp thy dear Knees, lie at thy Feet no more,  
Till we shall meet again above the Stars.  
A very sad long Journey for a Lover;  
But we shall meet again, and what, tho' 'tis  
Beyond the Grave? To win this glorious Prize  
The Race can never be too long,  
The way too craggy, nor the Goal too far:  
No, my best Life, the Stars are not so distant;  
Nor are the Battlements of Heaven too high  
To scale for so much Beauty.  Art. 
Oh my Altomar.  
How sad a Story shall we leave behind us?  
Henceforward when some melancholy Virgin  
Looks out a lonely Cell to mourn and die,  
She'll read no more the tender mournful Tales  
Of ravished Philomela, or bleeding Lucrece;  
But turning o'er our more unhappy Loves,  
Read, till she has sight her dying Taper out,  
And drowned her Eyes in Artemira's Woe.  
Oh let me sigh my Soul into thy Arms,  
And pour a flowing Deluge on thy Bosom.  Alt. 
Best of thy Sex, thou softest Virgin Sweetness,  
Who would not die thus mourned, thus loved, thus pitied,  
With thy kind tender Sighs, and melting Eyes,  
Such gentle Showers, and fragrant Gales around him?  
When the luxurious Anthony  
In dissolved Pearl drank Kingdoms at a Draught,  
He lived not with that Pleasure that I die:  
I in this Nectar taste Eternity.  Enter Achmat and Guards. Ach. 
My Lord, I come to make a harsh Divorce.  Art. 
Oh bloody Tyrant Father!  Alt. 
Hold, yet stay.  Ach. 
My Lord, our Haste—  Alt. 
Black Instrument of Hell,  
May I not stay to take my last Farewell?  
My only Life, a long and last Adieu.  
But he that goes to die, sure aught to take  
His leave upon his Knees.  
So have I seen  
The Beauteous Image of the Queen of Love  
Adorned with all her Graces, her fair Hand,  
Her blushing Cheeks, and murmuring Lips all Sweetness:  
And at the Feet of the Celestial Form,  
Her humble Cupid hanging round her Knees.  
Oh Love let me make up that pious Figure.  
Low at the Feet of my dear Goddess bow,  
And mourn and weep till I'm as blind as thou.  Ach. 
Sir, our Commission brooks no more delay.  Alt. 
Merciless Slaves—  Art. 
My dearest Altomar  
Farewell; and in thy dying Groans remember  
Thy Artemira hovers round thy Head.  
Like thy best Genius, waits thee to thy Heaven.  
My mounting Soul with thy last breath shall fly,  
If I can hold so long before I die.  [Exit forced out by Achmat. Alt. 
She's gone.  
The Lees and Outcast of the whole Creation  
Are Princes to the wretched Altomar.  
Galleys and Dungeons hold not such a Slave:  
A Slave so lost as Altomar.  
Now Gentlemen, you whose Commission 'tis  
T' attend a dying Martyr to a Stake;  
There was a time, my valiant Fellow-soldiers,  
We marched together in a Cause more glorious.  Morat. 
Yes, injured Prince there was: when our great General  
The Conquering Altomar led us to Victory.  Alt. 
Name it no more: that day is quite forgotten,  
My honour's laid in Dust as I must be:  
But now with my last Breath I must conjure you;  
Let not my ghastly Fortune fright you from  
Your dearest Loyalty. Fight on my Soldiers;  
Fight for your Royal Lord; go on till you  
Have won him Trophies numberless as Stars,  
And Glory dazzling as the Sun: And then expect  
The brave Reward of all your Noble Toils:  
For he's a King so just, a King so generous,  
A King so merciful— he can be cruel  
To nothing but to Altomar; unkind  
To nought but Altomar.  Miru. 
How bright a Mind  
Is lodged within this clouded Pile of Honour!  Alt. 
Lead on; yet stay— When you shall see me bleed,  
Tho' through a hundred Gates my Life shall sally out,  
Let not my Blood force an unmanly Tear;  
For 'tis a Soldier dies, and Death's our Game:  
And where we have no Stake but Life to lose,  
The Pain's not worth a Sigh: But when you think  
With what an ignominious Doom I fall,  
All blasted with the leprous Name of Traitor,  
That only Torture, Shame, dire killing Shame,  
Then pour your pity through your bursting Eyes.  
To think how my poor gasping Honour dies.  Morat. 
Never was Fate so sad.  Alt, 
But Oh my Princess!  
What Plagues, what Hells my black despair would find,  
Were not the charming Antemira kind?  
But now, ye Gods, in spite of Tyranny,  
Ingratitude, Death, Tortures, Infamy;  
Tho' all th' Artillery of Fate,  
And all your Thunder level at my Head.  
Fate only can my Earthy Outworks win;  
But she makes Safety, Strength and Peace within.  
Amidst the threatning Storms that round me roll;  
Love's kind white Flag hangs out to calm my Soul. [Exeunt.   

ACT V.  Enter Morat meeting Mirvan. Mor. 
Mirvan, thy Looks speak Horror; if thou'rt come  
From the Imperial Army, and dost bring  
Aught terrible give it a Tongue. No Voice  
But that of Ruin sure should speak to day.  Miru. 
Yes Sir, I come from the Imperial Camp,  
To tell you that Distraction and Confusion,  
Lie like a brooding Plague around our Walls.  
No Mutiny was ever half so loud.  
The Soldiers in a hundred different Shapes  
Of Outrage crowd about their Generals Tent.  
And where the Fury of this Storm will fall,  
Whether their Clamours be their pious Rage  
For their lost Emperor, or a kindling Fire  
In Vengeance to his Blood, Heaven only knows.  Mor. 
Alas! Those little Horrors are not half  
So dismal, as our Tragic Scene within.  
Oh Mirvan, Mirvan, that Illustrious Youth,  
The gallant conquering Altomar, at whose  
Adored dear Name our Nation's Genius bows.  
He who has propped our sinking Kingdoms Glory  
Is basely murdered, like a Traitor dies,  
And by a Death so infamous, so inhuman.  Enter Rosalin. Ros. 
Oh never, never was a Sight so horrid.  Mor. 
Ah Madam, if your Eyes have felt so much  
Fly from this Ground; For I am repeating that  
Will wound your Ears, and act new Murders there.  Ros. 
No, kind Morat, if thou canst breathe that Story  
Whose Repetition is enough to kill,  
Live thou to tell it whilst I die to hear it.  Mor. 
What Hearts of Flesh, with Eyes of Sense and Pity  
Could stand to see that Godlike Martyr stretched  
Upon a Wrack, fixed on a public Scaffold;  
And then behold from all his tortured Limbs,  
His manly Flesh torn off with burning Pincers.  
Oh more than barbarous King: the sooty Cyclops,  
Who sweating at the Anvil, points the lightning,  
And moulds the Bolts of th' angry Thunderer  
Ne'er shaped a Metal for a work so dismal.  Miru. 
Oh matchless Cruelty!  Mor. 
Nor is this all to drown his dying Groans,  
The Drums and Trumpets, all those martial Organs,  
Which once were tuned to nobler Airs, when Altomar  
Filled their shrill Throats with sounds of Victory,  
Are now employed to ring his Funeral Peal.  
Methinks I fancy how in times first Nonage,  
The frighted World beheld the darkening Moon;  
Then joined with discord dinns of rattling Brass,  
Cries, Yells, and Shouts to aid the labouring Planet.  
So sing the Dirges of the dying Altomar,  
No Sounds too harsh for such eclipsing Glory.  Miru. 
What could provoke the best of Kings to act  
A Deed below the worst of Savages?  Mor. 
That Canker of Great Souls; those only Actors  
In all great Massacres Fear and Revenge.  
He fears the Outrage of the mutinous Soldiers,  
And thinks his threatened Kingdom lies at Stake.  
And for th' ignoble Coward's Maxim, Safety,  
In hopes to mitigate their Rage, he prosecutes  
This more than common Vengeance for their King.  Meru. 
What could the wretched Altomar e'er do,  
To harden the obdurate Gods against him?  Mor. 
Why nothing,  
Only he loved the Daughter of his King;  
And as that criminal doomed for robbing Heaven,  
In Tortures like the poor Prometheus dies,  
For stealing Fire from Artemira's Eyes.  Ros. 
Oh Sir, you leave the saddest part untold:  
'Tis not enough this injured Hero dies;  
But to make revenge astonishingly cruel,  
The mourning Princess in more exquisite Torments  
For her forbidden Love to her dear Altomar,  
By her own Slaves, her newmade Jailers haled,  
Stands by to view the Bloody Execution,  
And see her dying Lover's Heartstrings crack.  
The mourning Niobe for her slaughtered Sons,  
Congealed with Horror to a weeping Marble;  
Her griefs were calm to Artemira's Woes.  Art. 
Inhuman, bloody, Savage, Tyrant, Father,  
Oh let me die, Dogs, Slaves, infernal Torturers,  
Lend me a Javelin, Sword, Cords, Daggers, Poison.  
No Fiend below, no pitying God above;  
Nor one kind Bolt in Heaven to strike me dead?  Alt. 
Oh stop that Sacred Flood, my Royal Heaven,  
Weep not for me; for I'm above all pity.  
But some few Minutes more, and I shall mount  
On Angels Wings to that immortal Throne,  
Where dying Lovers Groans are heard no more;  
Nor their warm purple stains the reeking Floor.  Art. 
Let go your Hold, Tormentors, let me go.  
Oh see proud Slaves, your humble Princess kneels;  
And can she be denied? [Gets loose.  
— Oh my dear murdered Lord, [Kneeling.  Alt. 
Ah rise, fair royal Angel mourner, rise.  Art. 
Oh never, never, on my Knees I'll grow,  
Fix and root here, till some relenting God  
Has laid me in thy Grave.  Alt. 
My better Self,  
These Griefs are kind; but let 'em flow more mildly.  
I feel no pains, but through my Princess Heart.  Enter King and Guards. King. 
If you want pains  
I'll find 'em for you; call to your remembrance  
Your black Ingratitude to your kind King,  
For all the numerous Honours I had given you;  
That glorious Structure my vast Hopes had raised  
Thou hast at one blast blown up;  
And the only Remnant of my Royal Blood  
Thou hast made for ever wretched.  Art. 
Wretched! can my Altomar's  
Dear Love make Artemira wretched! No,  
Mistaken King, I've loved so well that know,  
To die for Altomar has more of Heaven in't,  
Than Ages on the World's Imperial Throne.  King. 
Take Hence the Siren.  
Oh Love, thou unextinguishable Brand  
Of Vengeance, take her from his Sight; be gone.  
She from this Minute ne'er shall see him more.  Art. 
Stay merciless Villains, savage Bloodhounds stay.  Alt. 
And art thou gone? [Exit forced out.  
Snatched from my panting Side?  
Remorseless King, how can you be so cruel  
To a poor dying Wretch at his last Gasp,  
To tear that Beauty from my bleeding Arms?  
Through all the Graves my gaping Wounds can show,  
You never stabbed me till this killing Blow.  King. 
What Sounds are these? [Trumpet heard.  Enter Messenger. Mess. 
An Envoy from the Army. [Enter Envoy.  Enu. 
Great Sir, I come from the Imperial Camp,  
To tell you that the mutinous Soldiers, tired  
With an Usurper's Yoke, demand a Successor  
From the true Royal Line: And by their Threats  
And Clamours to the General Abdalla,  
Have forced him to discover that Prince Altomar,  
A noble Youth residing in your Court,  
But Stranger to his own great Quality,  
Is the true Heir to th' Empire of Morocco.  
And in th' united People's Voice I come  
To call him to a Throne.  King. 
How Sir! is Altomar  
The Royal Heir to th' Empire of Morocco?  Enu. 
Yes Sir, the Blood of their last murdered Monarch  
Mulai Labas runs in his Veins; his true Name  
Muly-Mesude; but by a borrowed Title,  
Preserved an Infant in the Court of Egypt,  
T' escape the mortal Rage of the old Bloody Empress.  King. 
What Words are these?  Enu. 
But all his Injuries  
Are canceled in his Coronation day.  
From his long Night, like a gay Bridal Sun,  
He to his new wedded World sets out in Glory.  King. 
Oh never, never will that morning rise;  
See there that Glorious Sun is set for ever.  
Haste; take that Sacred Martyr from the Wrack:  
Be quick ye Slaves. [They cut him down, and set him on a Chair.  Enu. 
What have ye done?  King. 
Yes, Fates, what have I done?  
A deed for which the Furies want a Name:  
Martyred a Monarch on a Gibbet!  
Damnation shape me such a Deed in Hell.  
In Vengeance to a base Usurper's Blood,  
Like an infatuated Savage Indian,  
I've built an Altar to a worshipped Devil,  
And sacrifieed a King t' a rebel's Ghost.  Alt. 
And was I born an Empire's Heir for this?  King. 
Oh Altomar, most sacred injured Lord,  
What dismal Wrongs does Heaven ordain for thee?  
What Plagues, what Hells for me?  
The only man of all heavens' whole Creation,  
That could have made me great, my Daughter blessed,  
Her Love immortal, and my Name eternal,  
I have most barbarously massacred,  
The noblest Blood that Royal Veins e'er held,  
I have let out to drown the sinking World.  Alt. 
Ah Sir, did you not name your beauteous Daughter!  
For sure methought I felt new Life shoot through me.  King. 
Fly, bring that mourning Sweetness to his Arms;  
Tell her her Royal Altomar's hard Fate,  
And her repenting Father's kill Horrors.  Alt. 
There's something in that Breath so kind, so wondrous kind,  
Had I more Lives to lose I could forgive 'em all.  Enter Artemira. Art. 
Oh my dear dying Lord!  Alt. 
Oh name not dying:  
For thou'rt my Bride, and this our Nuptial Day.  
And now let Death and Ruin do their worst;  
One minute in my Artemira's Arms,  
Has all the Raptures of Eternity.  Art. 
Yes, my loved Lord, in spite of Fate, this day's,  
At once our Nuptial and our Coronation.  
And sure if Love can Crown us in the Stars,  
We shall shine there the brightest Pair in Heaven.  Alt. 
Oh Love, what is thy Power?  Art. 
Now cruel Father,  
Killed by my dear Lord's Wounds, I'll save you all  
Th' Expense of Steel or Poison for my Fall.  King. 
No live, you best of Lovers, live for ever.  
Oh that I could supply from my own Veins  
That Blood I've robbed from thine; from my torn Limbs,  
With my own Flesh new cloth thy naked Bones.  
Ye Gods, why are your Miracles all ceased?  
No Art in Heaven to save his precious Life?  Alt. 
Sir, your untimely Kindness comes too late:  
But to acknowledge these last Sparks of Pity,  
You Sir, that come t' invite me to a Throne, [To the Envoy.  
Bear back my dying Sighs to my kind Subjects:  
Tell 'em I have a Brother called Cialto,  
A Soldier in the Persian Sophy's Camp.  
Let him be called to fill my empty Throne.  
But let him know e'er the Imperial Diadem  
Circles his radiant Brow, that 'tis the last  
Request of his expiring Brother, that  
The Wrongs of Altomar be ne'er remembered.  
No Schriech-owl Fame dare croak my dying Wounds;  
But let him cherish this dear Sacred Prince:  
For he's the Father to my Royal Bride;  
And his kind Hand has given me Artemira.  King. 
Bright Miracle! prodigious Goodness! Gods,  
Must so much Worth, and so much Honour die?  Alt. 
Oh stop your violent Griefs. Alas, great Sir,  
I am your Son, we're both your Children now,  
And cannot bear our drooping Father's Woe.  Art. 
Oh cruel Sir, why are you kind too late?  
Why was not I my dear Lord's Bride till now?  
Why did not your poor Artemira  
In these dear Arms, these circling Glories shine?  
Could nothing but an Empire make him mine?  
Oh the ill judging World!  King. 
Poor injured Girl!  Art. 
Has he more Love, more Charms, more Hearts to give me,  
Because he's Heir t' a Crown. Ah no, he was  
To me my King, my World, my Heaven before,  
And Crowns and Empires could not make him more.  Alt. 
Oh Artemira, take me on thy Breast.  
My Royal Saint, what Heaun of Bliss  
Should we possess if I had Life to love thee.  
But Oh a Cloud o'ercasts my Rising Sun:  
Just when my Joys begin, my Life is done. [Dies.  Art. 
He's gone, he's gone, and do I stay behind?  King. 
Farewell dear martyred Saint;  
That parting Sigh that breaks thy Heart stabs mine.  Art. 
Oh Murder, Ruin, Horror and Despair,  
That ghastly Scene of Blood!— Blood did I say!  
Fie! these are Ruby Bracelets on his Arms,  
Those Scarlet Love-Knots my kind Father tied,  
To bind two dying bleeding Hearts together.  King. 
Poor injured Innocence, look up and live.  Art. 
Live cruel Father! love like me and live!  
Not to be Empress of a thousand Worlds.  
A Love like mine. Oh Father, Love's a Godhead—  
Yes a blind God, his Lights all drowned like mine.  
And is he blind indeed! how came he blind?  
Say, did he weep his Eyes out for my Altomar?  
Oh my sick Soul!  King. 
Speak to thy wretched Father.  Art. 
Ha! is't my Love that calls me? See  
His mounting Chariot hastens me away.  
I come my Altomar, my Life I come. [Stabs herself.  
Oh see the Gods our Nuptials do prepare.  
See Altomar, see Artemira there.  
The Feasting Gods with Bridal Chaplets crowned,  
Whilst to the Poles the jocund Orbs resound,  
And all the Nectar of their Heaven goes round.  
In thy chaste Arms thy glittering Bride enfold:  
Her Palace arched with Gems, and paved with Gold. [Dies.  King. 
Was ever wretched Father damned as I am?  
But I am safe, his dying Breath forgave me.  
No, generous Prince, thy Mercy soared too high:  
Thou mayest forgive thy Murder, but not I. [Stabs himself.  Mor. 
Why this rash Deed?  King. 
No, 'tis a Noble Deed.  
Should Guilt and Shame survive when Virtue bleeds?  
I'm but the meanest Wretch this Storm has wracked.  
That pair of faithful Lovers died before me.  
When Natures Wealth, all her rich Fraught sinks down,  
Surely the Lumber of the World may drown.  
Morat, as e'er thou lov'st thy dying King,  
See my Bones lodged in that wronged Prince's Grave;  
But let me humbly his blessed Relics meet;  
Lay my Head low beneath his Royal Feet. [Dies.  Mor. 
See here the dire Effects of unkind Parents;  
Our whole World bleeds for their unhappy Loves.  
How calm a Stream is Love when unopposed:  
But stopped, the impetuous Torrent does o'erturne  
Whole sinking Kingdoms, and makes Empires mourn.  [Exeunt Omnes.   

The EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mrs Coysh's Girl, as a CUPID.  

LAdies, the Poet knew no better way,  
Than to send me to prattle for his Play;  
I am your Cupid, and you cannot sure  
Drive such a small young Beggar from your Door:  
Do you be but as kind as you are fair,  
And by my Quiver, Bow and Darts, I swear,  
The little Tiny God, whose help you want,  
Shall hear your Prayers, and all your wishes grant:  
The Country Lady shall come up to Town,  
And shine in her old Coach, and her new Gown;  
The City Wife shall leave her poor Tom Farthing,  
And take a harmless Walk to Covent Garden;  
Those very Eyes shall still look young and gay,  
That Conquered on the Coronation-day;  
But you, the brighter Beauties of the Court,  
You who the World undo, but Stage support,  
You shall subdue all Hearts, while I sit still;  
I'll break my Bow, and leave your Eyes to kill;  
Nay the Court-Star, your Beauties to advance,  
Has left her Dazzling Sphere to set in France.   
FINIS.