distressed Innocence: OR, THE Princess of Persia, A Tragedy.  
As it is Acted at the Theatre Royal by Their Majesties Servants.  
Written by E. SETTLE.  

Ut ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adsunt  
Humani vultus: Si vis me fear dolendum est  
Primum ipsi Tibi, tunc tua me infortunia laedent  
Telephe vel Peleu.—   Horat. de Arte Poeticâ. 
LONDON, Printed by E. J. for Abel Roper at the Mitre near Temple-Bar in Fleet-Street. 1691.   

To the Right Honourable John Lord cuts, Baron of Gowran.  
My LORD,  
heroic Virtue is of that Universal Attraction, that in the crowd of her Admirers, the Muses in duteous Homage must make a part of her Train. For under the Umbrage of the Valiant and the Brave, they cannot seek a Nobler Patronage then where they find their Noblest Theme: Noblest indeed, when the Memorials of true hardy Worth tune their Loftiest airs, and fill their largest Volumes: And in that Class, possibly, no Merit stands higher than Your Lordships. For War has been your Early Study; nor has the Age known a more Forward Proficient in the School of Arms than Your Lordship. From your First Honourable Wounds before the Walls of Buda, to your Last before those of Limerick; the no less Favourite of the Great lorraine, than of the Greater Nassau, You have been wholly trained up under that Sacred Gamaliel, HONOUR. Nor has Your Cause been less Glorious than Your Courage; The Common Foes of Christendom have been the mark of your Sword; You brought it flushed from against the more declining Turkish, to Engage it against the more prevailing gallic Tyrant; From combating the Less, to draw it against the Greater Infidel. The fervour of this Last warm Zeal brought You from the Imperial Leopold's to the Royal William's standard. And to sum up Your just due in that truest Glory of an Englishman: Not Hannibal was a more Sworn Foe against the Old, than Your Lordship against the New Rome.  
But all these Excellent Qualifications, these united marshal Virtues, are not the only influencing Powers that have set you so fair a Mark to the Ambition of the Addressing Muses. They have seen you wear the Impress of the Great Pallas on your Shield, under her double Character, not only as the Goddess of Arms, but of Wit too: And therefore they pled some kind of Justification in presuming to take Shelter, where they have formerly received Honour. 'tis with these Considerations that This Play, much his Best, and( as Written by so Unfriended an Author) not unfortunate, begs your Protection. I confess from a more Favourite Pen it might have made a fairer Figure, and consequently have been a more acceptable Present: For Poetry in this Age holds its value not from the Sterling but the Stamp. A Celebrated Minion Writer shall be able to pass even Irish coin Currant, when a Hated scribbler, under Pique and Prejudice, shall hardly bring Bullion and Plate into Play. And in my hard Circumstances, even beyond Expectation, I am bound to thank my kindest Stars that I could come within Fifty per Cent success of my happier Brothers of the Quill.  
However I must still own myself indebted on all Hands, not only to the kind Audience, but likewise to the kind Company, who amongst other Favours, were pleased to be at the Charge of dressing my Play to so much Advantage. But above all I must make my public acknowledgements to Mr. Betterton for his several extraordinary Hints to the heightening of my best Characters, nor am I a little indebted to Mr. Montfort, for the Last Scene of my Play which he was so kind to writ for me. And now if it meet so favourable a Reception in Print, as to move some part of that Compassion in the Reading, as it did in the Acting I have gained my point: and for some Recommendation to the Reader, whatever Fiction I have elsewhere interwoven, the Distresses of Hormidas and Cleomira are true History.  
But after all this Encouragement, with what shane must I look back on my long Ten Years silence. Alas, I was grown weary of my little Talent in Innocent Dramaticks, and forsooth must be rambling into politics: And much I have got by't, for, I thank 'em, they have undone me. And truly when impertinent Busy Fools in my little post, in the name of Frenzy must aspire to State-Champions, though their Pens are drawn even on the Right side, they deserve no better Fate. We red of the Unfortunate Zeal of the Officious Uzzah. Let Government like the Ark of Old, be upheld by its proper Supporters in God's Name; and all intermeddling uncommission'd Hands, as a just judgement upon 'em, meet my Reward.  —— Ne suitor ultra Crepidam▪ 
And now, after all my repented Follies, if an Unhappy Stray into Forbidden Grounds,( like Trinculo from his Dukedom where he was almost starved in't) may be permitted to return to his Native Province, I am resolved to quit all pretensions to State-craft, and honestly antimonarchical into a Corner of the Stage, and there die contented.  
Nor is it with any little Pride that I return to that Post, when it gives me the Occasion of writing myself,  
My Lord, Your Lordships most Humble and most Devoted Servant, E. SETTLE.   

THE EPILOGUE Spoken by Mrs. KNIGHT.  Written by Mr. MONTFORT. 

WHat! Alamort at our dull whining Play!  
Can no Love please you in an honest way?  
Consider, 'tis but only here we Act it,  
When we are ourselves, we don't so much affect it.  
Women admire Inconstancy like you,  
Both in their Love, and their Religion too.  
Variety is acceptable to all,  
Dying for one, hang't, 'tis unnatural.  
They value neither Principle nor Beauty.  
He that pays most and best performs his Duty;  
Ne're fear, so long your Ladies will be true to ye.  
But this is nothing, Gallants, to our Poet,  
He knows you've Malice, and he fears you'l show it.  
In vain the hopes of pleasing you we cherish,  
You hate the Author, and the Play must perish.  
If so, my Masters, 'tis a little hard,  
Has he so sinned, that he's all Mercy barred?  
He has changed Sides, 'tis true, but Sirs, I pray,  
Is he the only Scribbler went Astray?  
No sure, he has some changeable chameleon Brother,  
He's not the only pye-bald Son of English Mother.  
howe'er the Boxes smiles, we hope to find:  
Those fair unangry Stars will be more kind.  
And sure in Justice this Chast Piece will spare,  
For their own Sacred Image copied there.    

Actors Names.  Mr. Bowman. Mr. Montfort. Mr. powel. Mr. Hodgson. Mr. Bright.   Mr. Kynaston. Mr. Sandford. 

Mr. Freeman.  
Mr. Baker.  
Mr. Verkruggan.     Persians. 

Artaban,  
Gobrias,  
Briomar,  
Ortagan,   Mrs. Barry. Mrs. Bracegirdle. Mrs. Corey. Women to Cleomira.   
Scene Babylon.   

ACT. I.  The Princess Orundana, attended by Women. Orund. 
ist not enough that I am born t' a Crown,  
Heiress of Persia, Heiress to so large  
A share of the divided Globe, those vast  
Extended Bounds of Empire, that our God  
The Sun, with his winged Coursers of the Skies,  
Makes▪ almost half his Mornings Race to travail?  
And to all these I have a King and Father  
That reigns the Terror of the World, whose Sword  
Cuts with so keen an Edge that registering famed  
Has blunted her tired Pen but to Record  
The Kingdoms he has won: And yet not all  
Those strong Foundations of Imperial Glory,  
Not all these rooted Pillars can support me.  
A bold Supplanter of my Blood and Birth-right  
Stands ready with the very lighted Brand  
To set my Royal Pyramid a blazing.  Enter Otrantes. Otrant. 
Health to the fair Divinity of Persia,  
Health to your Hopes, your famed, your Peace, your Glory.  
Now your just Title's heard; your ponderous Cause  
Has turned the balance of Almighty Justice,  
And all the Smiles of ever-favouring Providence  
Declare for Orundana! This blessed day  
Brings home the haughty Rival of your Birth,  
And yields him to your power.  Orund. 
Yes, kind Otrantes,  
I have at last unsealed the deafen'd Ears  
Of the Incredulous King; so haunted him  
With the long Gorgon of his Daughters Wrongs,  
That now, his Eyes enlightened by my dangers,  
He sees this towering Eagle mount too high,  
And is resolved to clip his soaring Wings.  Otrant. 
Clip' em! Yes, that great work th' impending Weight  
Of your avenging Influence has begun  
Already.  Orund. 
True, Otrantes: Was't not worthy  
My great Revenge to have the ●●ughty Insolent  
called home i'th' height of all his brightest Victories?  
No less than the proud Empire of the West  
Just truckling to his Sword; the lost Arcadius,  
A Successor of the Immortal Constantine,  
Half tottered from his Throne! Was it not brave  
To work my jealous Father to recall him  
Just in that glorious Hour?  Otrant. 
Yes, Madam, to recall him in the head of  
Two Hundred Thousand conquering Persians, almost  
entering the very Gates of Constantinople;  
To rain his proud Triumphant Chariot back,  
Just driving to so vast a Grove of Laurels,  
Was such a check to his Ambitious Pride—  
But he deserves it all.  Orund. 
Deserves it? traitor!  
'tis true he's Nephew to the Crown; his Veins  
Run Royal Blood, and next my nearer self  
He's Heir of Persia; but t' ascend her Throne,  
Whilst my Imperial interposing Birth-right  
Confronts his impious Plea, is that loud Treason—  Otrant. 
Alas! His Treason is not half so monstrous  
As th' Hypocritical Mask that covers it.  
Methinks I hear him still( for I shall never  
Forget the Artful Accents) when his Arm  
clasped round my Neck, and with a heaving Sigh,  
As deep as if a Pang of Conscience breathed it,  
He cried— 'tis hard my Friend, 'tis very hard  
T' exclude her from a Throne. But do not think  
A lawless wish of wild Ambition turns  
This mighty Hinge: Far, far be that vile Taint  
even from my Souls least Thought. No, my Otrantes,  
Necessity, invincible Necessity,  
The Exigence of State, an Empires Safety,  
And the Worlds Peace Command it.  Orund. 
Exquisite Fiend!  Otrant. 
'tis true, she's Heiress of the Crown of Persia▪  
And the great Blood of Royal Isdigerdes  
Fills her rich Veins with an Immortal Treasure;  
And t' heap the Mass Divine, she has so much Beauty,  
A second Alexander might be proud to kneel to,  
To raise a Race of Monarchs for the Universe.  
But still she's but a Woman: and the sceptre,  
The Persian sceptre wielded by a Woman!  Orund. 
A Woman! Death, a Woman! Can the Villain  
Forget that the great Foundress of our Empire  
Semiramis her self was but a Woman!  
Semiramis, That raised the wondrous Walls  
Of our proud Babylon; Semiramis  
That reigned, so reigned; and tho' no more than Woman,  
Stands that recorded all Divine Original  
That Pettyer Kings, her poorer Successors,  
Shine but like waning borrowing Moons beneath her;  
Their boasted Manhoods all but fainter Copies  
Of one unimitable Female Glory.  
And what does the false Slave red in my Eyes,  
But that the glorious Orundana wears  
A Soul, can buoy up Empire to a height,  
Sublime, as e're the proud Semiramis raised it?  Otrant. 
Madam, I fear I have too rudely moved  
Your Royal Genius with this hated Subject;  
When I have so often tired your sacred Patience  
With the ungrateful sounds.  Orund. 
So often! No,  
Id'e have my Wrongs alarmed in my Ears,  
Repeated oftener than my very Prayers;  
It whets my Vengeance keen, the Edge would rust else.  
She who would sing Revenge must play the watchful Philomel;  
Hold the sharp pointed Thorn against her Breast  
To keep her airs awake.  Otrant. 
To my best Wishes!  Aside. 
My excellent Royal Engine!  Orund. 
Yes, Otrantes,  
If Vengeance be the God's, and as they say,  
There's music in their spheres; 'tis sure, Revenge,  
That fills th' Immortal Harmony: I am certain  
Were I a God, and sate to tune the Stars,  
seraphic Raptures, Beatifick Visions,  
angelic Bliss, and Everlasting Quires,  
All, all together joined, Divine Revenge  
Would sound a Note below thee.  Enter Persian Magi. 1 Mag. 
Royal Madam!  
We come the Harbingers to Fortune's Minion,  
The proud Hormidas, who returns Triumphant,  
Like a tall Vessel, bounding as he moves  
With his gay Flags, and all his glittering Streamers.  Orund. 
Yes, Gaudy Thing! his glittering Streamers fly;  
But when I raise the Mountain Waves beneath him:  
When Fate is in the Wind, and the rough Billows  
Beat ruin round his Head; then tell me  
What glittering thing you find him.  2 Mag. 
True, bright Heroine!  
Wake, wake our Altar's Champion, and your own;  
Consider how th' effeminate Indulgence  
Of our tame Monarch has supinely suffered  
An upstart Christian Sect of worshippers  
To spread a cankered Weed through his whole Empire;  
Whilst this Aspirer, their Apostate Leader  
Mounts up their Faction's Head, his whole Ambition  
Too rank a Cyon from that Root, Religion.  3 Mag. 
Thus with your Birthright, th' Empire of our God  
Is threatened too, and this gigantic Rebel  
At once dares battle Heaven and Orundana.  Orund. 
Yes; Let the Audacious Rebel battle heaven,  
And heaven as tamely bear't: But from that hour  
He durst but lift a Thought against my Head,  
I have hoarded up those Shafts, those Bolts of Vengeance;  
Shall strike him Headlong, plunging, sinking, drowning,  
Below where heaven has even the Thought of punishing.  Enter the King, and the Christian Bishop Audas. Guards and Attendants. King. 
Well, Christian, for your Prayers you have my Thanks;  
And if that Power, you kneel to, has stood up  
That Friend and Champion of my Throne; to show you  
His Favours are not wholly undeserved,  
Our kind Protection of your Christian Altars  
Has paid the Debt we owe.  Bish. 
Yes, Royal Sir;  
Your kind Protection of our Christian Altars  
Stands your Recorded Monument. In all  
Those Thousand and Ten Thousand Christian Proselytes,  
Through all your spacious flourishing Persian Empire,  
Not one Knee bends to the Eternal Throne  
Without a Prayer for Royal Isdigerdes.  1 Mag. 
That croaking poisoner hanging at his Ear!  
All is not well, my Brother, when that Night-Bat  
Hovers so close there. Aside, whispering to the other Mag.  Bish. 
Yes, Illustrious Monarch;  
By you our Christian Incense perfumes heaven;  
And heaven in its just Gratitude points down  
It s pendant Blessings on your darling Brow.  
Does your Sword vanquish, and enrolling famed  
Swell Volumes with your Conquests? Does the World  
Tremble before you? Yes, the Christians God  
Leads forth your Hosts, and combats on your side.  
Renown and Victory are sworn your Vassals,  
And 'tis the Trump of Angels sounds your Glory. Trumpets and Shouts.  Enter Rugildas. Rugild. 
Dread Sir, a choir of Universal Joy  
And echoing Triumph fill these Sacred Walls;  
The great Hormidas your Victorious General,  
Saluted with resounding jo Peans,  
welcomed with all the Breath o● famed, returns.  Bish. 
Yes Sir, this shining Leader of your Arms returns:  
And if his rolling Glory as it moves,  
Gathers the Tribute of the World before him,  
He begs Admittance as your faithful Treasurer,  
T' unload the splendid Mass, his Hoard of Honours  
At their great Masters Sacred Royal Feet.  Orund. 
Rhetorical Priest, there needs not all this Flourish:  
His Actions speak themselves without a Trumpet.  Enter Hormidas, Theodosius, and Attendants.[ Trumpets.] Horm. 
My Royal Lord, Thus kneeling, and Thus blessed,  kneels 
From all my humble Pilgrimage of Honour,  
My poorer Race of famed, and toils of War,  
Translated to this more exal●ed Glory,  
'tis here I Crown my consummated Bliss.  King. 
Rise, my Hormidas, Rise.  Horm. 
No, my Dread Lord,  
I have a second Duty yet unpaid:  
That Sovereign Fair, the Rising Star of Empire,  
Commands my bended Knee To Orundana.  Orund. 
No, rise Hormidas:  
You that command the Knees of Nations, stand  
adorned with Wreaths too proud to stoop thus low.  Horm. 
Proud, Madam! If I am proud 'tis when I kneel:  rises. 
Proud, that from conquered Kingdoms I bring home  
A Homager to the Imperial Orundana.  Orund. 
A Homager! Fawning Infidel!  aside. Horm. 
But Sir,  
E're I present you with your meaner Laurels,  
First let m tender you the proudest Trophy  
Of all your D●zling Glories, this Young Prince,  
Heir to the Western Empire.  presents him Theodosius. King 
Theodosius!  
The Great Arcadius's Son! True, kind Hormidas,  
This is indeed my proudest Trophy.  Theod. 
Oh Sir,  
Take heed how you receive me from that Hand.  
No, let me give myself; for the too Generous  
Hormidas will b●● over-prize the Present.  Horm. 
Returning in your Conquering Armies Head,  
( At your Command) with this surprising Present,  
T●is more surprising embassy was sent me.  
Go, Valiant Leader▪ and returning tell  
Your Master, that Triumphant Persian Monarch,  
His vanquished Enemy, charmed with the Glories  
Of his Illustrious Conqueror, presents him  
His S●● and Empires Heir, his Pupil and his Nursery:  
That raised and trained up in the School of Honour,  
Under so great a Master in the Art  
Of War, as the Invincible Isdigerdes,  
He may wash off a blushing Empires shane▪  
The Son Retrieve that▪ famed the Father lost.  Th●od. 
Yes Sir, from my own Native barr'ner soil  
Of Glory, his kind Hand transplants me here,  
Into your warmer Sun, your fairer Royal Garden,  
T' enrich my humbler Growth; and bids me tell you  
An Enemy begs this Royal Grace.  King. 
An Enemy!  
No, from this hour a Friend. Oh kind Arcadius!  
So generous and so vast a Trust has cancelled  
The Name of Foe, and a new Bond of Honour  
Ties my Eternal Friendship. Yes, Dear Prince,  
Come to my Arms, my Arms, thou dear Adoption;  Embracing Theodosius. 
A Father gives thee, and a Father takes thee.  Orund. 
The Western Empires Heir! Methinks there's something  
Whispers my Pride▪ and tells me that the Crowns  aside, looking on Theodosius 
Of Constantine and Cyrus joined together  
Would make a Chaplet worthy of my wearing.  King. 
But, my Hormidas, while I treat thee as  
A Conqueror, I forget to Impeach thee as  
A Criminal.  Horm. 
A Criminal!  King. 
Yes, Hormidas,  
I have a Charge against thee of so black  
A Die, as Sullies all thy Victories.  
There have been busy Whispers in my Ears,  
That thou aspirest to bar my Daughters Birthright.  Horm. 
How; my Dread Sovereign!  King. 
That the bold Hormidas  
Aspires to wrest th' Imperial Persian Diadem  
From my succeeding Daughters rightful Brow,  
And on his own plant my devolving Crown?  Horm. 
A traitor!  
Oh my bleeding famed! Is this,  
This the Reward of all my Faithful Services?  
Ah Madam! whilst this frightful Load lies on me,  
The conquering Thousands I have lead to Battle,  
To hue out Deathless Monumental Statues  
To Orundana's bright succeeding Glory,  
At the dire sound of this stupendious Forgery,  
Will blushy a deeper Scarlet than their Swords  
E're died to win you Crowns! Nor shall the World  
Start only at the sound; the bright commissioned Ministers,  
The Angel Guardians of the Life of Majesty,  
Hear not this fowl polluting Calumny,  
But tremble at the impious Execration.  King. 
If thou wert innocent, Hormidas—  Horm. 
If I were innocent!— Name me my Accuser.  
Ah Royal Sir, if the traducing Monster,  
Whose foul-mouthed Falsehood and envenomed Malice  
Durst stab the Honour of your Faithful Soldier,  
Be an incarnate Fiend that walks in Flesh;  
Oh name him, name him to my just Revenge,  
That my keen Sword may hunt him through the World,  
And prove my Truth on his false perjured Heart.  King. 
No, my young Son of War, reserve your Sword  
For Nobler Foes. Let it suffice, we have not  
Been over credulous, nor fond lent  
A listening Ear to this vile Imputation.  Horm. 
Ah Sir! perhaps this poisoner of my famed,  
This dunghill Snake, is some poor low▪ born Wretch  
Below the Vengeance of my Arm, a Nephew  
T' your own rich Veins th' Imperial Blood of Persia,  
And you're ashamed that I should stoop to punish him.  King. 
Yes, my Hormidas, he's below your Sword,  
A Slave unworthy—  Horm. 
Is that all? Unworthy!  
No, Royal Sir, let not that bar your Justice;  
Take all my Titles, all my Wreaths of Glory;  
Unplume me, rifle me, degrade me. Oh!  
Be kind, and strip me naked, that my Sword  
May right my Honour by the Traytor's Blood.  2 Mag. 
Gods! How he talks? But oh dread Sir! consider,  
The mightiest sounds come from the hollowest Hearts.  To the King. 
Ah would you but believe!—  King. 
would I believe, my saucy Conscience-Driver!  
What if I can't believe? Who made you Lords  
Over the Faith of Kings?  1 Mag. 
Foolhardy babbler!  Aside to the other Mag. 
Is this a time for talking?  King. 
Well, my soldier,  
To hold the balance even, I will not lodge  
A Thought against thy Truth. But to perform  
The Duty of a Father and a King;  
To Morrow early in our great Pyraeum,  
The sacred Temple of our God the Sun  
Lighted with burning Victims, and perfumed  
With solemn Odours, be it your charge to publish  To the Magi. 
Our Orundana, Our Imperial Daughter's  
Succession to our Throne, that and may bind  
The Homage of succeeding Generations,  
And point 'em where to kneel when we are Dust.  Horm. 
Now you are God-like good.  
Yes, Sir, Proclaim your Orundana's Birth-Right,  
With all that bright inaugurating Lustre,  
Rites so sublime, and Jubilees so loud,  
As not Remoter Worlds alone shall hear,  
But th' echoing Vault of heaven repeat the sound:  
And tho' th' unfortunate Ho●midas cannot  
Be an assisting Minister at your Altars,  
I'll pay my humbler Duty at my own—  
Yes, hear me Men, and listening Angels witness,  
My very Prayers, the seconds to my Sword,  
I'll wrestle heaven, as I have battail'd Earth,  
For Blessings on that Brow.  King. 
Enough my warrior.  Enter Cleomira, Cleontes and Doranthe. 
Come my Imperial Charge—  To Theodosius. Hormid. 
My Cleomira!  running to embrace her. King. 
My Breast and Empires Guest! My Court has Honours  
To pay thee; and the bending Genius  
Of the proud Babylon waits to salute thee.  Exeunt King Theodosius, Guards, Attendants, &c. Manent only Hormidas, Cleomira, Cleontes and Doranthe. Cleom. 
And am I blessed once more!  Hormid. 
Thou softest Beauty!  
So full my Soul, so vast my Joys, beyond  
The circled of these Arms, Ambition has not  
A Wish, Delight a Rapture, Life a Blessing,  
Or Earth a Crown to give!  Cleom. 
Oh! That these melting Eyes and kind Embraces  
Could hold thee ever fast! Hold thee so fast  
That envious Glory from the Arms of Love  
Should never snatch thee more.  Hormid. 
envious Glory!  
Yes, My fair Life, in all my chase of Honour,  
Such distant and divorcing Worlds between us;  
There's not a Laurel I have won in Battle,  
But I have bought it at no less a price,  
Than thousand thousand Sighs for Cleomira.  Cleom. 
If such ●hy ●ighs, think what my Tears have been;  
Think with what waiti●g Patience I have watched  
The trickling Sand of Time's slow Glass, and counted  
The numbered Minutes o'er a whole long Year,  
So though●ful Sorrow, and so wishing Love.  Doranth. 
Amongst the greeting joys and echoing Shouts,  
For your Return, we come, Illustrious Prince,  
To tender your our Loyal Welcome too,  
When Love permits you leisure to receive it.  Cleont. 
Yes Sir, 'mongst the stout Bowls, crowned Healths and hearty Wishes for you,  
You must accept our Mite in part of payment.  Horm. 
Doranthe, and the good old kind Cleontes,  
The honoured Father to my beauteous Princess,  
( For I must call you so) thus let me pay you—  Kneels to them. Cleont. 
Rise Prince for shane, I am not half Father  
Enough to her, to deserve all this Homage:  
Were she my own Flesh and Blood I might say something to it;  
But Pox of these Foster Fathers; this rearing of  
Children by Adoption: We have all the pains in bringing 'em  
Up, without the pleasure of getting' em.  
Had I got thee myself, dear Rogue—  To Cleom. Doranth. 
Thou get her! No; she has nobler Veins than thine.  Aside. Horm. 
But, Oh my Love! I have strange news to tell thee;  
I have played a wondrous Game: whilst I have won  
Renown abroad, I have lost it here at home:  
Some whispering Slanderers,( wouldst thou believe it?)  
To blacken my fair Truth, have  told the King  
That I am an Aspirer.  Cleom. 
An Aspirer!  Horm. 
Yes, My dear Sweetness, to divert the Crown  
From Orundana's Brow.  Cleom. 
'tis very hard,  
That such unspotted Faith should be thus blemished  Horm. 
True, ist not hard? Perhaps 't has reached thy Ear.  
What hast thou heard the censuring World talk of me?  Cleom. 
I hear, my Lord? No; In thy mournful absence  
The World and I have been such strangers, that  
My Prayers and Love have been my sole Companions.  
Alas! I have only talked to heaven and thee.  Enter Otrantes. Horm. 
That hated Slave here!  Aside. Otrant. 
Sir, Perhaps you'll wonder  
In your congratulated Victories,  
To see me one amongst the bending crowd.  
I must confess, I have born hardships from you  
would shake a Saint; but that I can forget 'em,  
Th' attesting Gods, and th' Honour I still pay you  
Stand my Record.  Horm. 
Substantial Testimony;  
If I durst take the Credit of the vourcher.  Otrant. 
'tis true, I have had sufferings and severe ones:  
For after more than twenty years a soldier,  
And a Commander too, to be cashiered,  
Disgracefully cashiered like me, i'th' Head of  
Two hundred thousand Witnesses, was hard;  
But this I can forget.  Horm. 
No, Sir, Remember it  
To my Recorded Justice, you deserved,  
And had what you deserved.  Otrant. 
deserved!  Horm. 
deserved.  
And 'twas my Mercy that that public shane  
Compounded for your Life, your forfeit Life.  
Did you not wrong the Souldiers of their pay?  
A Robbery more infamous than that  
That hangs the midnight Cut throat on a Gibbet.  Otrant. 
Alas Sir! What if once, once in a Life,  
Some pressing Chance or personal Misfortune  
Forced that unwilling Trip: The kind Hormidas  
M●ght sure have winked at greater Faults in me;  
Some more than common grains of Mercy sure  
Might have been shown me for that Beauty's sake.  Horm. 
For hers?  Otrant. 
For the fair Cleomira's sake.  
Who raised that beauteous Envy of all Eyes,  
And Darling of your own, but kind Otrantes?  
Who crowned your Love in those dear Arms? Otrantes,  
Who but Otrantes the Original Founder  
Of all your boundless Joys? Was not the Mother  
Of this then unborn Cleomira,  
Now almost twenty Years, took by my Sword  
A Captive in the Alexandrian Wars?  Horm. 
Perhaps she was.  Otrant. 
And the young Cleomira,  
The Offspring of an unknown Father, then  
The burden of her Captive Mother's Womb,  
When born, in pity by my Hand committed  
To the indulgent care of that kind Sister,  pointing to Doranthe. 
Now the Honourable Wife of this most Noble Lord?  Horm. 
'tis true, all this I own.  Otrant. 
And if  
The growing Love of this kind, more than Father  
Adopted her his own, bread her in all  
The splendour of the most exalted Blood,  
adorned her gay in all the shining Beams  
Of a Court-star, till she subdued  
The great Hormidas's Heart▪ was't not by me?  
And for my sake this generous Lord—  Cleont. 
Your sake!  
Fair and softly, good Brother-in-law; a little for your sake  
I confess, but a great deal more for her own.  
For let me tell you, my Lord,  to Hormidas. 
She grew the sweetest, well-favour'd, and the most virtuous  
Little Rogue—  
So fair, my Lord, so lovely and so witty,  
No Cherubim was ever half so pretty.  Otrant. 
could not this Merit pled a little for me?  
And soften your unkindness to Otrantes!  Horm. 
'tis true, thou hast done all this for Cleomira;  
And yet,( I know not why) I cannot love thee;  
A strange aversion rooted in my Soul  
Sets thee the eternal Object of my loathing;  
As if some darting Blast, some secret poison  
Shot from thy Eyes, and swelled me at the sight.  Cleom. 
Alas my Lord! nor can I see that Face,  
But something rises in my Blood against him,  
More than against even my most mortal Enemy;  
For Enemies my Religion bids me love.  
But at his sight, methinks my disturbed Fancy  
Walks Ghastly like a restless Ghost, about  
Some hidden Treasure locked from mortal knowledge.  Doranth. 
Yes, sweet wronged Innocence, thy true Princely Veins  aside. 
That, that's the hidden Treasure that must lye  
locked and sealed up for ever.  Cleom. 
Sure, Otrantes,  
Thou hast strangely wronged me, or th' immortal Goodness,  
The Guardian of my Soul would never suffer  
These aching Thoughts against thee.  Horm. 
If he has wronged thee  
Be't to his own black Conscience— But because  
Thou seemst to come suppliant for my favour  to Otrant. 
The Grace thou seekst thou shalt obtain; and that  
The greatest I can give, which is, to shun  
That hated Face, and never see thee more.  Exeunt Hormidas, Cleomira. Manet Otrantes solus. Otrant. 
Nor thy more hated Face will I e're see,  
Unless to cover it with greater shane  
Than e'er thou heapst on me. I owe thee ruin;  
Yes, Prince, I ow't, nor will I die thy Debtor.  Enter Rugildas. Otrant. 
My honest well-wisher, the kind Rugildas!  Rug. 
Yes Sir, your sweeting Cyclops at the Anvil.  Otrant. 
But, oh my Friend, this unbelieving King;  
I am afraid, his cooling jealousy  
Stands strong against us, and our great Design  
Has Crags and Rocks to work through.  Rug. 
Why this Fear?  Otrant. 
Alas, all's hushed; the Princess's Succession  
I'th' Temple of our Sun proclaimed to morrow.  Rug. 
proclaimed to Morrow! No, that fatal Morrow  
Our Sun shall never see. Oh, my Otrantes,  
I have a Plot would rouse thy drooping Vengeance  
Even from a Grave. What sayst thou if that Temple  
Its blazing Roof in one bright Conflagration,  
Before to Morrows Sun shall lye in Ashes.  Otrant. 
Oh this rich Thought!  Rugild. 
I tell thee, Friend, to night  
The Temple of our Sun shall burn by me,  
And the whole Christian Race bleed for't to morrow.  Otrant. 
This is a Master-stroke!  Rug. 
Yes, my Otrantes.  Otrant. 
I am all Rapture!  Rug. 
T' increase your Transport,  
Of all the whole Artillery of Fate;  
See here the keenest Shaft. The very Temple  
doomed to one burning Pile, and great Hormidas  
Himself the leading Firebrand.  giving Otrantes a Paper. Otrant. reads. 
My Orders are, That in the silence and dead of Night you set their Temple on fire; in which be silent as you prise my favour. Burn but their Temple, and the Kingdom is our own. Forwhich deserving Service expect a suitable Reward from Hormidas.  
Excellent Forgery!  Rug. 
Forgery! No, his own,  
His own Hand-writing.  Otrant. 
Gods! his own Hand-writing!  
Oh how! when? where? speak, I am lost in wonder.  Rug. 
No more that Question now: Leave your kind O Edipus,  
T' expound that Riddle at a leisure hour.  
Let it suffice he writ it; and the King  
By my own Spectacles shall red it.— This  
Dear Paper by some dextrous Conveyance,  
lodged in the Pocket of their leading Sanctity,  
Their bearded Holiness, the Christian Bishop,  
And by wise Conduct seized and found about him,  
Like a sly Snake from a kind Furies Head,  
Oh think but how 'twill hiss and how 'twill sting!  Otrant. 
Let me embrace thee for this pregnant Mischief:  
The great Minerva from the brain of Jove  
Was not a Birth like this.  Rugild. 
Yes proud Hormidas,  
This for my Brothers Blood I owe thee, murdered  
By thy Tyrannick Justice, merciless Judge;  
His Gibbet and my shane, owe thee this payment.  Otrant. 
Now dear Revenge, the glittering Ore behold,  
For through this Mine we dig to Veins of Gold.  
Finis Actus Primi.   

ACT. II.  Enter Otrantes and Rugildas. Otrant. 
'tis done, 'tis done! see that dear heap of ruins.  
Oh Divine Vengeance! To ignobler Deities  
Let humbler Zealots common Victims burn,  
Temples themselves are thy more shining Sacrifice.  Rug. 
Nay, for the glorious Consummation of  
Our prosperous Design, the very Christians,  
By an officious Zeal to quench the Fire,  
Thrust their own Necks into the fatal toil;  
Even their own Innocence, by our managed Clamours,  
transformed into the very Guilt that damns' em.  
But see the King.  Enter King, Orundana, two of the Magi, Guards, &c. Otrant. 
Yes, my Rugildas,  
He comes, and with that Lightning in his Eyes,  
So hot the raging Fever of his Blood,  
As if the very Brand that burnt his Temple  
Had made a Transmigration, and his Soul  
Was animated by that only Fire.  Enter King, &c. King. 
Sulphur and Hell! My Royal Temple burnt,  
And the accursed Christian Brood the Firebrands!  1 Mag. 
Yes, Sacred Sir, our Waking God of Day  
Reins his hot Steeds, and mounts his morning Chariot,  
To see that Sacrilegious Mass of villainy,  
The dire Remains of that black Night of Treason,  
That his long Race from the created World  
Ne're driven a Round more frightful.  2 Mag. 
Oh Dread Sir,  
If ever Treason wore a Gorgons Face,  
Whose very sight would kill, turn, turn your Eyes  
●rom yond Amazing Heap.  Otrant. 
Sound on, sound on,  aside to the Magi. 
My kind Church Trumpeters, rouse him to Blood.  
Mischief strikes sure, where bellowing Zeal's the Alarum-Bell.  King. 
Oh kind Otrantes, couldst thou have believed  
That the warm Snakes nursed in my very Bosom  
Should sting like these ungrateful Christian Infidels!  Otrant. 
Alas! th' amazing Story sounds so dismal,  
As even my frighted Reason trembles at it.  
Such a Return for all your Royal Favours!  King. 
My Royal Favours! Yes, they have requited them  
Oh, I have raised a Race of such Barbarians▪  
Not Egypt's smiling Sun on Nilus fertile Slime  
Er'e hatched so black and so deformed a Brood.  Enter third Magus with the Christian Bishop seized. 3 Mag. 
To all this horrid Scene of Christian Outrage,  
See here their leading engine of Perdition!  
And Sir, to tract the poisonous Fountain Head,  
red that dire, scroll seized in his Pocket,  
To find the very Dam, the brooding Cockatrice  
To the whole nest of Monsters; red that Paper.  Gives a Paper. King. Reads. 
Burn the Temple and the Kingdom is our own; for which deserving Service expect a suitable Reward from Hormidas.  Orund. 
Hormidas!  King. 
Yes, My Orundana: Hell  
Here opes its Cabinet; and wild Ambition,  
Drawn to th' full life, stands blazoned in its whole  
Infernal Colours.  Bishop. 
Oh, sacred Sir! if e're your Royal Justice  
Would lend a pitying Ear to wounded Innocence—  King. 
Innocence! No doubt! See here a hopeful sample on't.  Bishop. 
No Sir, that lying Paper's all lewd Fiction,  
Cheat, rank Imposture; and my righteous Soul  
More filled with wonder than your own with Horror,  
Knows nought of that false scroll. How writ, how seized,  
How lodged about me, all a Mystery  
As dark—  King. 
Yes, Reverend Impudence, as dark  
As the black Soul oth' traitor that received it,  
And blacker Devil that sent it.  Rug. 
Now it works.  Bishop. 
Oh, hear me, Sir—  Orund. 
Do; Hear the croaking Raven  
Stretch his false Throat, and strain his treacherous Lungs  
To tune his warbling Notes to Truth and Innocence.  1 Mag. 
I Sir, such Innocence,  
Such Truth, as starting Fiends would blushy at; one  
Of his commissioned Imps i'th' very Fact  
I seized, and threatening him with Wracks and Tortures,  
The trembling Wretch turned pale, and in the Fright  
confessed the Guilt:  told me his Prince and Bishop  
Ordered this burning Pile.  Bishop. 
I ordered it!  1 Mag. 
Yes, Thou: So said the Slave; and what he acted,  
Was but Obedience to divine Command.  King. 
Divine Commands! Ye Oracles of Darkness!  1 Mag. 
And Sir, as I was bringing him before you  
I' extort the whole Conspiracy, the Villain  
touched with a sense of his uncovered shane,  
His babbling fear that had so prodigally  
unlocked the hideous Plot, drew forth a Dagger  
Unmatcht, and struck it to his own false Heart.  Bishop. 
What dares not falsehood breath!  Orund. 
Now, where's the Christian Innocence?  King. 
Where? Daughter!  
Where it shall groan in Blood, My Orundana.  
Oh thou shalt see me knot those Whips of Vengeance!  Rug. 
But, Father, Was there really that Christian  
confessed the burning of the Temple? Gods!  Aside to the Mag. 
Can there be Truth—  1 Mag. 
Truth Fool! Is't not enough  
The Reputation of my holy rob  
Delivers it for Truth?  Rug. 
Thou art i'th' right o'nt,  
This Reverend Rogue outshoots my boult of villainy.  Aside. Bishop. 
Oh Royal Sir! Take heed to what strange Precipice  
This wicked Spirit of Delusion, these  
Misleading Meteors guide your wandring Faith;  
That I am true, the whole bright Host of Heaven,  
Immortal Truth itself can witness for me.  
But oh! What dare not the seer'd Consciences  
Of hardened falsehood speak, when their great Prompter,  
The Father of all Lies, has steeled their Foreheads!  King. 
No; Thou fair painted Saint! What is't the bold  
Black Hands of Rampant Zeal dare not commit,  
When an Enthusiastick Altar-Coal  
Lights the Infernal Brand? But I am too patient.  
But hast, take hence the Missioner of Hell  
And hang him on a Gibbet.  Orund. 
Godlike Monarch!  King. 
Yet stay; one word of Comfort e're thou diest;  
With thy descending Soul this pleasure bear;  
Thou shalt not walk the burning Plains alone,  
A wandring unattended Ghost; I'll sand thee  
A thousand and a thousand bleeding Followers.  
I tell thee, Priest, in all the Christian Blood  
That the renowned immortal Nero  shed,  
His poorer Roman Sacrifices shall be  
But Scars to the more gaping Persian Wounds.  Bishop. 
And let me tell thee King, in all these Wounds,  
Thou shalt not hear a Groan. Oh thou shalt view  
The beauteous Face of Martyrdom so lovely,  
With all those Bridal Smiles upon her Cheek,  
lead to a Stake like Virgins to a Temple:  
And in thy hottest persecuting Fires,  
When thou shalt see our Earthly Dross fall from us,  
Our Rags of Flesh unstript for Robes of Glory,  
Oh thou shalt hear our cheerful dying Notes  
tuned to angelic Quires, Celestial Harmony,  
Whilst each rich Drop from our exhausted Veins  
Shall shine that Ruby in our Starry Coronets,  
As distant Eyes so dazzled shall behold,  
Till every Christian Grave, shall Nurse those Roots  
Whose Branches shall or'e-spread the Convert World.  King. 
I'll hear no more, To Death with the vain Babbler.  Exeunt Bishop and a Party of the Guards attending. Orund. 
In this bright Justice, Sir, you look so aweful;  
My Duty will grow up into Religion,  
Mistake the Father and adore the God.  Enter Hormidas. Horm. 
Oh this black Night! What angry Providence  
Has loosed the raging Demons, to uncalm  
The Royal Brow with this mad Scene of Mischief?  King. 
And does Hormidas come a kind Condoler  
Of his afflicted King?  Horm: 
Yes, Royal Sir;  
I know this nights sad accident disturbs  
Your Sacred Rest; and my each Loyal Heartstring  
touched with a feeling pang has brought me hither  
A duteous Mourner.  King. 
Does Hormidas mourn?  Horm. 
Mourn! My most honoured Lord, when the rough Blast  
Can tempest-toss the Mighty Sovereign Vessel,  
The humbler Barks must drown: The Storm that shakes  
Your Peace must shipwreck mine.  King. 
Yes, Mourning crocodile,  
I see a trickling Brine from those false Eyes  
To weep where thou hast betrayed. Seize, seize the traitor.  Horm. 
A traitor is a Name——  King. 
Too humble for you.  
And in so narrow, and so poor a Title  
Perhaps, gigantic Fiend, I have under dignified  
Your more exalted villainy.  Horm. 
Oh Horror!  
What founds are these?  King. 
Strange ones, no doubt, such as  
Your simplo Christian Innocence knows nothing of,  
But for your Comfort, one of your rank Saints  
Already I have rewarded; your Church-Tool,  
Your bearded Fire-ball, that Religious Compound  
Of Sanctity and Sulphur, Zeal and Firebrand;  
I thank my watchful Stars, I have dispatched that Monster.  Horm. 
Oh what has your mistaken Fury done?  King. 
Done, Miscreant! Only hanged him on a Gibbet  
To preach to Crows and Ravens.  Horm. 
Oh Barbarity!  
That Reverend Piety, that unblemished Virtue,  
clothed with such hideous Infamy!  King. 
How, Insolence!  
Weepest thou his Fate, and shakest not at thy own!  Hormid. 
Shake! Let the trembling Criminal Conscience shake!  
I know no Guilt, and therefore feel no Fear.  
But in that Venerable Holy Man  
You have murdered that poor martyred Innocence—  King. 
murdered! Bold Slave; yes, you are both such Innocents:  
But to tear off the Scales from your false Eyelids,  
T' unblind your wilful Ignorance; red there  giving him the Paper. 
My obstinate Infidel. And now,  
If through that thick impenetrable Front  
'tis possible to blushy—  Horm. 
blushy Sir!  King. 
blushy traitor?  
Yes blushy, if all you guilty flaming Pile  
Can warm your glowing Cheeks.  Horm. 
And is this Paper  
produced against me for the burning of  
That Temple?  King. 
Does that Forehead ask that Question!  Horm. 
Oh Sir! To what a Labyrinth of Confusion  
Has some accursed plotting villainy  
Misled your abused Ear! That very Paper  
I writ four years ago, your General  
In the Chaldean Wars, when for your sake  
By a marshal Stratagem I burnt their Temple  
Of Jupiter, and won their Kingdom by't.  Orund. 
Oh nimble witted Saint!  Rugild. 
Of his own Canonizing.  King. 
Burnt! Yes, I own that the Chaldean Temple  
Of Jupiter was burnt, but not by thee.  
Do not their own still mourning Priests record it,  
Burnt by a Lightning Flash from their own angry God!  
Has not the universal Voice of famed  
confirmed it such, and the whole World rung loud on't?  
And worst thou say that thou—  Horm. 
Yes, that I burnt it,  
Burnt for your sake. My Army with diseases  
Half lost, my Foes too strong, my Fortune hazardous,  
To save your Glory, Sir, I used this Stratagem:  
Knowing that the Chaldaean Superstition  
Had founded all their Hope, their Trust, their Strength  
Upon that Temple; their whole Confidence  
lodged in their painted Shrine, and molten God,  
I choose two trusty Hands by this Commission  
To burn their Temple. They obeyed and burnt it;  
Whilst the Chaldaean Army's drooping Hearts  
Lost at that mortal Shock, I won their Kingdom.  King. 
If for my sake this burning Feat was done,  
Pray tell me( for it's wondrous worth my knowledge)  
Was there a Service of no less importance,  
Than winning me a Crown, and I not worthy  
To know the glorious Stratagem that gave it me  
But this Romantick Service must lye dormient  
For four long sleeping years.  Hormid. 
Alas! That only Truth I durst not tell you.  
For tho my own Religion would permit me  
To burn a Temple,  
To win my King a Crown: I knew the secret,  
Tho' with the purchase of a Diadem,  
To your offended Zeal would sound too impious;  
And therefore with no less than fifty Talents  
I bribed my very Instrument, to silence:  
And pushed this Popular famed around the World,  
That it was burnt by Lightning, to conceal  
A Truth too dangerous for your Royal Ear.  King. 
A Truth! No doubt a most stupendious one.  
This very Paper( mark him) to sum up  
This great miraculous Truth, writ four years since,  
A Military Order, found this Morning  
I'th' Pocket of a Priest: Yes, found this Morning,  
My Temple burning, and the guilty Christians  
Caught in the Fact.  Hormid. 
All a false treacherous snare for your delusion  
And my undoing. But kind heaven I thank thee,  
One of the very Instruments, that both  
received and executed that Commission,  
Stands here before you. Now I'll make Truth shine  
Bright as a Morning Star. Speak kind Rugildas,  
Say, was not the Chaldaean Temple burnt  
By this Commission and thy Hand?  Rug. 
By mine!  
I light th' unhallowed Brand to burn a Temple!  
Oh Execrable! I, I burn a Temple!  
Not for a Thousand Worlds.  Hormid. 
How's this! Rugildas!  
Perhaps thy jealous Fear t' offend a King  
Seals up thy silence, and thou worst not own  
Thou burnst a Temple. No, let not that fright thee.  
Alas! the King's too generous—  King. 
Yes, Rugildas.  
If thou hast ought within thy knowledge, utter it;  
Speak Truth, tho' ne'er so black; speak it, and meet  
My Favour not my Frown.  Horm. 
Oh speak! Rugildas.  Rug. 
Sir, would you have me say, I burnt that Temple?  Horm. 
I'd have thee say what thy Soul knows thou oughtst to say.  Rug. 
Alas! dear Prince, so much I honour you,  
That with my Blood, my Life, I'd freely serve you!  
But with a lie I dare not. Own I burnt  
A Shrine of the Immortal Gods. My Hand  
Commit that Impious, that outrageous sacrilege!  
Alas! I tremble at the very name on't.  Enter Theodosius. Horm. 
Oh, thou vile Wretch!  King. 
Now, where's your shining Truth, your Morning Star!  Horm. 
By Earth forsaken, and by Man betrayed!  
Yet heaven, heaven knows my Soul; there my recorded  
Innocence— Oh for some generous pitying Power,  
Some kind attesting Angel—  King. 
Attesting Angels!  
Yes Fiend, such Angels as thyself, the black  
Infernal Crew, who, for their uplift Hands  
Against their Sovereign omnipotent Head,  
Fell headlong, hurled into the smoking Lake,  
And burnt and groaned as thou shalt— such, such Angels  
May be thy pleading Advocates.  Theod. 
Oh, Sir!  
Take heed how you condemn the brave Hormidas:  
His Loyal Faith and Noble virtue——  King. 
virtue!  
Thou art too young, sweet Prince, to sound the Depths  
Of Treason.  Theod. 
I dare pawn my Birth-right for him,  
He's honest.  King. 
No, kind Prince, pledge not thy Glory  
On a Security so weak.  Theod. 
Alas! Sir,  
The very Principles of his Religion  
Forbid so dire a Thought.  King. 
In such black Treason,  
Religion's but a mask, an outside Varnish  
To the rank Brass within.  Theod. 
But Royal Sir!  King. 
I tell thee, Prince, his Doom's irrevocable,  
His too notorious Guilt has light my hottest  
Vengeance, and thou plead'st in vain.  Horm. 
If you've decreed my Death—  King. 
Death! No, I know  
That thou darest die. Death's but the pain of Cowards.  
Death for thy punishment! That puny ●o●ment!  
No; Thou shalt live; wear a long Life, proud traitor,  
To bear a lasting weightyer Load of Vengeance.  Horm. 
A lingering Life, my long, long Execution!  
Yes, angry King, heap up your wrathful Coais  
Till they outpile proud Aetna's smoking Furnace;  
And thou shalt see my suffering Truth undaunted  
Walk o'er the Mountain Ordeal.  King. 
Slaves, away with him:  
So preached th' old canting Fool before him:  Exit Hormidas guarded. 
Drive on bright Charioteer; nor shine less kind!  
For tho' in heaps thy ruined Temple lies,  
Thy Altar's lost, I'll find thee Sacrifice.  Exeunt King, Magi, Attendants, &c. Manent soli Theodosius and Orundana. Theod. 
Stay, stay, bright Excellence.  Orund. 
Young Prince!  Theod. 
Ah Madam!  
If Mercy's an Inhabitant of Earth,  
Sure with the Fair it dwells, the softest Attribute  
lodged in the sweetest tenderest Divinity.  
And if all other deaf relentless Ears  
Are bared to the unpityed poor Hormidas,  
May I not hope the gentler Orundana——  Orund. 
Plead'st thou for Mercy to Hormidas? Mercy  
To the Ambition of that proud Aspirer!  
I tell thee, Prince, the headlong Phaeton  
Fell not so low, as shall that tumbling traitor.  
His burning World pulled not that Vengeance down  
As shall my burning Temple.  Theod. 
Beauteous Cruelty!  
What do I hear! And oh what do I feel!  
Guard, guard my Heart.  Orund. 
Yes, my unkinder Stars,  
Ye durst set up that Rival of my Glory.  
But if I er'e forgive him; or in spite of you  
Push him not, Gods, to everlasting ruin;  
Load me with all the Plagues my Sex er'e bore,  
Or what's worse, all the Plagues my Sex er'e hatched▪  
'tis true, for what I stand indebted, heaven,  
You have my thanks; that I was born t' a Crown,  
Gods, is your Work, to wear it is my own.  Exit. Theod. 
Oh poor Hormidas! I came here to cour●  
Pity for thee, and want it for myself.  
Thy beauteous Murderess so frowns, so dooms  
And kills with such a Grace, that lovely Tyrant,  
That whilst I tremble at the Thunder, I  
Adore the Thunderer. But fair Destroyer!  
Oh, if the random Shot dart from thy Eye  
So sure; How must thy levelled Lightning fly!  
Finis Actus Secundi.   

ACT. III.  Enter Otrantes as General, Magi, Guards, and Attendants▪ Otrant. 
HIS Army, Titles, Fortunes, Honours, all  
His rifled Plumes my own! Beyond my Flight  
No Glory ever soared.  1 Mag. 
Yes, Princely Darling,  
Thou great Hormidas, Greater Successor,  2 Mag. 
Greatest of all, thou our wronged Altar's Champion▪ All hail!  Otrant. 
Yes, holy Fiends! in your next Embassy  
To heaven, your next kind Prayers and kinder Sacrifice,  
Tell the once wronged, now righted Powers of Persia;  
I mount upon their Christian Enemies Heads.  
Witness their opning Veins and streaming Blood,  
That now bedews the sprinkled Persian World.  Enter Rugildas. 
My dear Rugildas,  
Come to my Arms; my Gratitude's too narrow,  
And Soul wants room to hold thee.  Rug. 
Oh Otrantes!  
Now Fortune crowns the day. The great Hormidas  
Whose formidable rolling Bulk of Power  
Once filled the Deep and swelled the foaming Surge,  
How have we hunted down. Oh! We have driven him  
penned in a Creek, and stranded the Leviathan;  
Whilst thou with all thy taller weight above him  
Mount'st on his Head, and tread'st him into dust.  Otrant. 
The Western Prince— that Fool comes to preach Conscience,  
A subject not at present for my purpose.  
Let me avoid him, and retire t' embrace thee.  Exeunt. Enter Theodosius and Nearchus. Theod. 
Thou black Usurper!( Oh the lost Hormidas▪)  
Yes, thou hast it now: an angry Storm shoots down  
The Royal Eagle, and a wanton Humour  
Perches a sooty Raven in his Nest.  Nearch. 
A sooty one indeed!  Theod. 
But if a Prince must fall;  
Birth-right, Inheritance and Royal Veins,  
All glittering Titles, mighty Names; but all  
Too weak to grapple Fate: Yet, why Otrantes?  
Oh! why mistaken King! such low-born Veins  
choose the selected Minion to succeed  
The great Hormidas! dressed in all his Honours,  
And in his Post of Trust and Glory, raised  
No less than the first Pillar of the State,  
And the first Prince o'th' Empire! A strange Leap!  
What Merit cou'd'st thou find in such course Blood  
To mount Him?  Nearch. 
Merit! None.  Theod. 
What Kindness then?  
What unaccountable strange Favour smiled  
On that mean Wretch?  Nearch. 
Favour! None neither▪  Theod. 
None!  Nearch. 
Neither Desert nor Love, but spite preferred him  Theod. 
spite!  Nearch. 
Down right spite, pure natural gull,▪ mere Malice Advanced this humble Tool.  Theod. 
'tis strange!  Nearch. 
Alas!  
He knew that only Villain of the Worl  
The very Slave Hormidas hated most.  
And therefore all his disrobed Plumes torn from him;  
For the most sensible last Stab, On whom  
could the Kings artful spite bestow the Spoils  
But on this most loathed Slave, his mortall'st Enemy?  
Not given him as his Worth and virtues due,  
Nor Patrons Favour; not that kind Donation;  
But lodged like Scorpions in a Furies Hand,  
For that poor persecuted Princes Torturers.  Theod. 
Oh studied Tyranny!  Nearch. 
This is not half, Sir,  
Th' insatiate Gorge of Vengeance yet unglutted,  
▪ Tis not enough he's stripped, stripped barer than  
The poorest Vagrant Wretch, born to load Earth,  
And tyre out heaven; but even that wretched Misery  
Must stand the blast of universal shane;  
Placed in a Post so vile, doomed even to water  
The very Camels of the Army; once  
Their General, Lord of Lords, now Slave of Slaves,  
A Vassal to the meanest Vassal there.  Theod. 
Oh King! if this be power,  
Crowns hid your tarnisht gems, and shine no more.  Nearch. 
Oh! had you seen him, Sir, as I have done;  
Naked to th' Waste, his galling Feet all bare;  
His tender Flesh parched with the scorching Sun  
And Dog-star blast; a little humble Drudge,  
Driving a happier Brutal Herd before him,  
Wearied and tired, a thousand Eyes around him:  Enter Hormidas, in a Slavelike Habit. 
But look, seet here!  
Blast your own Eyes, see there the small Remains  
Of that prodigious Man!  Theod. 
Thou Royal ruins!  
Oh thou poor wronged Hormidas!  Horm. 
Poor! ah no:  
I'am rich, richer than Indian Mines, more rich  
Than all the Wealth of Empire. The kind King  
Has left me virtue, Patience, Innocence,  
Obedience, and fair spotless Truth, young Prince,  
Treasures above the fading gems of Crowns;  
Which not the frowning World can e're take from me.  Theod. 
No, The ungrateful World has took too much.  Horm. 
Too much! Alas, No more than I had to spare:  
The welcome Thief came to an open door,  
And took but what was given me all to lose;  
Had he but took my Life too, t' had been kind.  Theod. 
Thy Life, my dear Hormidas!  Horm. 
Yes, my Life.  
Dost thou not see the Christian Veins around me  
All flowing, and are mine too course to bleed?  Theod. 
The Christian Veins that Spectacle of Horror!  
Yes, Oh that frightful Gore!  Horm. 
That streaming Glory.  
When Truth and virtue bleed, Oh the rich Martyr,  
dressed in his noblest Royalty, Innocence,  
That pure white ermine to his Royal Purple!  Theod. 
But, oh, unhappy Prince, if thine be Royalty,  
It is a sad one!  Horm. 
No, mistaken World,  
The brightest heaven can give; these gloomy Rags,  
My Coronation rob t' a Crown of Stars.  Theod. 
But in such vast accumulated wrongs  
Thy Miseries and thy shane, hard fated Prince,  
With Sense and Reason, Thought and Man about thee,  
Oh how can thy resenting Soul support  
A Load of so much barbarous Injustice!  Horm. 
Support it Sir, Alas! My King commands it. Th'awful  
Divinity of a crowned Head frowns on me;  
And I must bear the undisputed Thunder.  Theod. 
Match me this virtue, Worlds: thou poor Creation,  
Where has such Worth a second!  Nearch. 
Oh, lost Prince!  
How canst thou live beneath a weight so cruel?  
Methinks such Sufferings, such falling Greatness  
should strike so heavy, that were thine my Pain,  
To break my Tyrant Yoke 'twould nobly wake  
My own delivering Hand.  Horm. 
A Roman Hand!  Nearch. 
Yes, my own Hand, like the old Roman Glory  
should shake my Shackles off, mount my freeed Soul,  
And lull me sleeping in the Peace of Graves.  Horm. 
True, my kind counselor, were I less a Christian  
I should be more than Roman. Nor should that  
unpunished Ravisher of all my Honours,  
Otrantes, that usurping perjured Miscreant——  
Yes, thou shouldst see me naked, as I am,  
armed with my Wrongs, break through a thousand Javelins,  
Up to that guarded Monster's upstart Throne;  
Tear through his grappled Throat his poisoned Heart;  
And the black Lake just floating with her Load  
Of dear Damnation down; then, like a Roman  
I'd give my plunging Soul a bold Leap after him,  
To hunt him beyond Death— All this thou shouldst  
Behold, did not a Manacle of Religion  
Bind up my Arm, and even this bloated Ruffian  
Must live to wrong me and I live to bear it.  Theod. 
Thou matchless Miracle! What would I give  
For power to save such Goodness!  Horm. 
Generous Prince;  
I am not worth that wish.  Theod. 
Yes, my Hormidas,  
Look up, and hope,  Horm. 
In Heaven.  Theod. 
No, Royal Mourner,  
Earth must not lose thee yet. Oh, I have formed  
Such a design to save thee.  
I'll sound the drowing Deep in which thou'rt swallowed,  
Hoist thy sunk Glories, and weigh up thy Ruins.  
I love thy beauteous Tyrant, sign and die  
For the fair Infidel Orundana.  Horm. 
Love her!  
Yes, Prince, she is all Charm, born to warm Hearts,  
Tho' like a Northern Blast she has killed mine.  Theod. 
Her pitying and her Father's Listening Ear  
Already have permitted me to Kneel.  
And when I have married that too Cruel Fair,  
Then do but think when Lodged in those soft Arms,  
By the Authority of his Royal Son,  
And her Commanding Lord, I shall have power  
To serve so dear a Friend; what for thy sake—  
Yes, t'Heaven and Friendship this just Debt I'll pay,  
From out the bloody Paws to break thy way,  
I'll wed the Tygress, and Redeem the Prey.  Exeunt Theod. and Nearchus. Enter Cleomira, in a Poor Slave-like Habit. Horm. 
My Gleomira! Art thou kindly come  
To Visit Wretchedness; thou shining Cloud,  
The Lovely sharer of my Woes?  Cleom. 
No Sir, the Partner of your Joys. For Woe's  Embracing. 
A Stranger in these Arms; my Love, my Soul  
My more than all.  Horm. 
Thou Angel of thy kind.  
For sure seraphic Sweetness breathed Life in thee,  
And thou wert born all paradise.  Cleom. 
My Dear Love,  
I do not come to visit thee alone:  
I've brought my whole Court too. Come forth Celinda;  
And thou Dear Infant pledge of our Chast Loves.  Enter Celinda leading an Infant. Horm. 
My little second Self, thou pretty Innocence,  
Come to thy Father's Arms.  Cleom. 
Of all those thousands,  
The flattering crowds that cluster'd round our Glory,  
See here the scattered small Remains of Misery;  
The poor dear All that's left.  Horm. 
O thou young Martyr,  
To what a train of Sorrows art thou born!  
Thy Father's Wrongs eclipse thy Morning Star,  
And thou beginst an early Race of Woe.—  
But oh thy bleeding Wounds, thy bitterer draft of Sorrow,  
Poor pitied fair.  to Cleom. Cleom. 
Oh do not pity me.  
For I was born a Slave; And tho advanced  
To thy Proud Royal Bed, born a poor Captive,  
Obscure my Blood. And Sir, Alas, who knows  
But I am now in these course homely Weeds  
The very Wretch my Vassal Mother bore me!  
But thou wert born a Prince, Power and Pride's Darling,  
Rich hopes, and richer Veins; and fallen so low!  
Sure Pity's only thine.  Horm. 
Ah no, thou all Divine! No false Accuser  
Has stabbed thy famed; no listening King has swallowed  
Infusing poisons 'gainst thy slandered Virtue;  
No Royal Thunder aims at thee; and my  
Infectious ruin to Involve thy Fate,  
Is very hard.  Cleom. 
Can any thing be hard when I have thy Love?  Horm. 
But oh, my Fairest  
Canst thou love rags!  Cleom. 
Oh canst thou ask that Question!  
Within this Dear Embrace, this more than Crowns:  hanging about his Neck. 
Now Lightning, Earthquakes, Death and Vengeance fall,  
In these Dear Arms I'll singly stand 'em all.  Enter King, Orundana and Attendants. 
Let Angry Kings, and frowning Worlds conspire,  
Their utmost Rage is all but Love's refining Fire.  King. 
And am I braved! Death! the Proud Slave's turned cynic,  
And does not feel my weight; proud of his rags,  
Affects a vanity from shane and Beggary,  
Whilst his Diogenes out-prides his Alexander.  
To water Camels, in that Post he courts  
The Popular Eyes, and wantons in their Pity.  
Take him away, and let him hold a Trencher;  
A ministering Vassal, and a household Drudge  
To his new Lord the great Otrantes; under  
The same proud Roof where he sucked in Ambition,  
Let him taste Slavery. Away with him.  Horm. 
Sir you are my King, and when you speak, heaven dooms:  
And I the humble work of your Creation,  
What e're you will, I am—  
Life of my Life,  to Cleomira 
And thou young Innocence, if we ne're meet again  
till bey●●d Death, for one short Glass, farewell.  Cleom. 
Dearer than Joy, and more than Love farewell.  Exit Hormidas. King. 
Am I so weak! no, thou shalt feel me Slave;  
Take that young Darling of his Love, and sand him  
A present to the saracens.  Some of the Attendants Seize on the Child. Cleom. 
How King?  King. 
Take him away, and bid those kind Barbarians  
Nurse him a Slave; I'll have no more o'th' Breed.  Cleom. 
Oh Cruel King!  Kneeling 
Stay ye black Limbs of Vengeance!  
Oh my Dread Lord—  Gatching hold of the Kings rob King. 
Away, I'll hear no more  Exeunt, King, Attendants and Infant. Cleom. 
Stay, Orundana stay, thou art a Woman,  
That tender Sex where Native Mercy dwells.  
Tho pitiless Man is Deaf, thou wilt be kind,  
And hear my Pleading Groans.  Orund. 
Yes, suffering Virtue  
Thy sullen Fortune, and the louring Cloud  
That breaks o'er that fair Brow, falls so severe,  
As I must pity thee.  Cleom. 
If the poor Mother's Wounds can move Compassion,  
Why that Dear Infant's Doom?  Orund. 
Alas young Sufferer,  
The Guilty Fathers Fate hangs o'er his Head.  Cleom. 
The Guilty Father! does that name condemn him?  
Oh were the Father that black thing you think him,  
What has the Infant sinned! And is this Justice,  
To wrong poor Innocence to punish Guilt?  
Oh Princess, they are very hungry Hunters  
That thirst for such young Prey.  Orund. 
I must confess  
This Infant Sacrifice—  Gleom. 
Is that Barbarity  
As blushing famed will break her very Trump  
To breath a sound so shameful? Distant Worlds  
And Ages yet unborn will hear, and tremble  
At this Recorded Infamy.  Orund 
Gods! how she talks!  Cleom. 
But, oh thou dear All-Goodness, sand thy kind  
Recalling Mandat for that ravished Innocence;  
Snatch the Poor Lamb from the Wild Ravenous Wolves,  
And give him to a Longing Mothers Arms.  
Oh Royal Virgin, Love will one day make  
Thee a blessed Mother too, and then thou'lt feel  
A Tender Mother's Love.  Orund. 
Where am I going?  
Oh let me fly, fly whilst my Soul stands safe;  Aside. 
I feel a softening Mercy rise within me:  
Thro my weak Veins its spreading poisons Post,  
One dangerous Minute more, and I am lost.  Exit. Cleom. 
And does she fly me too? Oh take Dear Earth  lies down. 
The Miserablest Wretch, that the Sun sees,  
Or the Grave hides! Oh Misery like mine!  
Enter King, Otrantes, and Magi.  King. 
Thou loveliest Child of Woe, and Heir of Pity,  
The Fairest Pile of Beauteous Ruins, rise.  Cleom. 
Ha! Is't my King that speaks? and can that Voice  
Of Thunder breath the Gentle Name of Pity?  King. 
Yes, Mourning Sweetness, my Imperial balance  
Has weighed thy Miseries, thy Tears, thy ruins;  
And tho Hormidas justly suffers—  Cleom. 
Justly!  King. 
Thy Innocence, poor persecuted Fair,  
Has undeserved his Fate, and therefore summoned  
By Mercies tenderest Call I come to raise thee  
A Drooping lily from thy watery Bed,  
Thy Gloomy Shade of Death; and Plant thee blessed  
In Life and Glories warmer Smiling Sun.  Cleom. 
No King, that smiling Sun is now  
Beyond thy Power to give. Is there a Balm  
For Wounds like mine?— So the relenting Thief  
Rifles the plundered Traveller, stripped naked  
To the could Blast of a long Winter's Night,  
To starve and die; and his Dear All took from him,  
Returns him only some poor worthless rag  
To cover shane and Life; and calls it Mercy.  King. 
Dear Rifled Fair, thou art that plundered Traveller,  
And I the Kinder Thief, as will not only  
Restore thee thy Dear All, but more than all.  Cleom. 
What says the flattering Sound!  King. 
I come to call thee  
Forth from thy dark and sullen fate; root up  
Those hungry Cankers of thy Youth and Beauty,  
Lean Cares and meager Sorrows; To unloose thee  
From fallen Hormidas draging Train of Woes,  
And in the Great Otrantes kinder Arms—  Cleom. 
O my chased Ears!  King. 
Invite thee to revisit Light, prepare thee  
To mount once more a bide of paradise,  
New plumed with Glories, all that Life and Love—  Cleom. 
How King, desert the Bed of my dear Lord,  
And in his Arms—  King. 
His Arms my Royal Fair.  
Alas, Dear shrouded Excellence, put out  
Thy poorer Smoky Brand that leads to Graves,  
And light a Nobler Hymens fairer Torch.  
Wed him, and with him me; shake off those Shackles  
That Bind thee grovelling to a Bed of Dust,  
And in this Livelyer Bed of Honour—  Cleom. 
Honour!  King. 
Otrantes happier Arms—  Cleom. 
Oh King, no more.  
Is this the All, the more than all you bring me?  
thinkest thou mistaken King, I am fallen so low,  
That for the purchase of a Lifes short Vanity,  
A little popular Breath and guilded Dross,  
I'll pawn a Soul, renounce a long Eternity;  
Oh canst thou think my virtue and Religion,  
Wall in my heart so weak! No; couldst thou mount  
That wretch thou offer'st me( oh the vile thought)  
Lord of more Worlds than e're Ambition wept for,  
Or cloistered virtue scorned, thou coudst not dress him  
Half, half so rich, as my Hormida's Rags.  Otrant. 
Alas! Dear Madam—  Cleom. 
Dungeon Toad, worst thou  
Presume to croak! Thou art no King; no dread  
Divinity hems round thy sordid Clod  
Of Earth: But I dare boldly tell thee, Tyrant,  
Thou poorest, littlest, despicablest Trifie  
That trampling Pride e're trod beneath her scorn,  
Tho thy usurping villainy has raised thee  
Proud in my dear Hormidas ravished Spoils,  
Imp'd with his Plumes— Yes, there thou mayst reign Lord;  
But know vain Fool, his Cleomira's Heart's  
A Throne above thee, traitor.  Exit. King. 
Peevish obstinate!  
So deaf t' Ambition, and so fond of Rags,  
And yet a Woman! Well, thy Sexes Prodigy,  
This virtue, my coy Lucrece, shall not guard thee;  
Thy Crags of Ice, and all thy Alpine Snow,  
By Hannibal, must melt. Pursue her, Fool,  To Otrantes. 
Quit not the noble siege; pursue and storm her,  
And take the promise of a King, she's thine.  Otrant. 
That Guarranty 's enough to inspire Victory.  
And if I win her——  King. 
If thou dost not win her,  
Say I 'm a Girl, and my weak Infant Vengeance  
More worthy of a Rattle than a sceptre.  Otrant. 
Gain but this prise, ye Gods, I ask no more.  Exit. King. 
Well, my kind Sanctity, how does your Wisdoms  to the Magi. 
Your heavenly palates relish my design?  1 Mag. 
As the profoundest Reach of Royal Thought.  
Your feeble Rage till now has been no more  
Than Lambent Fire; has only blazed, not burned.  
To water Camels, hold a Trencher, be  
A Dog, a Varlet; those his tougher scorn  
Of Fate can bear. But touch him in his Love,  
That Vital of his Soul, his Cleomira—  King. 
Thou hast me right. My impotent Revenge,  
Has yet but only played;  
But if this last home Blow thro' Cleomira  
Strike him not tottering, groaning, bleeding, dying,  
Let him brave Fate; set up a Counter second  
To the famed Atlas, and his untir'd Souldiers  
Bear the whole Hell.  2 Mag. 
True, Sir, her Love's the Medicine  
To all his Pains; at the least sickening Gasp  
straight to that Herb of Life he runs for Cure:  
But cut the Balm-Root up, and he is lost.  3. Mag. 
Yes, Royal Sir, and if her stubborn virtue  
Can be but shaken—  King. 
If it can be shaken!  
A Priest, and ask that question!  
But I lose time, in short, my holy Friends,  
I want your Learned help.  1 Mag. 
Ours, my dread liege!  
Oh name the Dear Command.  King. 
You see this dull  
Religious fondling stands so fortified  
Against all Batteries from Human Reason,  
That subtler Depths, and more uncommon Mines  
Must be prepared for her Assault; and therefore  
To your profounder Reach, and deeper Studies  
I leave the whole design.  1 Mag. 
To ours!  King. 
To yours,  
My honest pioners: Work▪ my dear Earthmoles.  2. Mag. 
All our divine Assistance can perform  
Of that, Sir, rest secure. If the kind Gods  
On your great purpose smile, doubt not success.  King. 
If the kind Gods— What if the Gods stand neuter,  
Must my Machine stand still? The time has been  
When the famed Persian Magi have been Masters  
Of those bold Arts, and Charms have staggered Nature;  
Wrought Wonders as Day trembled at: Done feats  
Undreamt by Gods. And is your Strentgh grown weaker,  
Or shrinks it now t' obey my Pleasure?  1 Mag. 
Shrinks!  
No, Sir, your animating Cause would rouse  
The Souls of our great Ancestors. And all,  
All that heaven will, we can. That we dare promise you.  King. 
heaven or no heaven, my idle Trifflers, do 't,  
Do it or die. I know your power to serve me.  
And dare your Rebel Will dispute my Mandates!  1 Mag. 
heaven or no heaven then, Sir, it shall be done.  
If the Gods will be kind, they may; if not,  
If the assisting Powers above are sturdy,  
We have honest Friends below shall do't without' em.  King. 
Go on then my best Friends; succeed and claim  
My kindest smiles, win her and conquer me.  Exit. 3 Mag. 
Do it or die.  1 Mag. 
So run the Prologue, but  
Win her and conquer him made up the Chorus.  3 Mag. 
But Sir, consider th' hardy enterprise.  1 Mag. 
Consider, Younger Brother! yes, dear Novi●e,  
I have considered.  3 Mag. 
Oh the massey virtue!  
The Rock of Adamant we have to storm:  
Such mortified disdain of Worlds, such Faith,  
Such Constancy.  1 Mag. 
No Fool, such day, soft day,  
As never fear the moulding. See this Ring,  Taking out a Ring out of a Box▪ 
This homely Ring enriched with more than Gems  
The Workmanship of an Arabian Sorcerer.  
In this enchanted circled dance those Devils  
Of Love; not Pride, Scorn, virtue, Nuptial Fire  
Or Virgin Ice, nought Female stands before it.  
This Rarity of Art( to tell the Truth)  
Is a small Instrument of my own pleasures.  2 Mag. 
Just my own Tool.  1 Mag. 
And to be free, my Brothers,  
I never saw that Beauty, Wife, Maid, Widow  
Humbly or nobly born, the Spawn of Cots  
Or Palaces my hawking Eye ere fixed on,  
But with this faithful Engine I subdued her.  
Not the fond Loadstone t' its dear North so kind  
So melting kind— Pardon my Vow of Chastity,  
For Flesh and Blood in spite of our Divinity,  
Sometime creeps in, a common Venial Frailty.  2 Mag. 
Oh Brother!  
Thou hast hit my Soul, I have a philtre too  
A private Pill for crude, weak stomach'd Beauty.  
A Compound of that strange prodigious virtue,  
That more than magic Power, that yielding Woman,—  
But I talk time away; the precious Minutes  
Call us to action. Our joined Force, my Brother,  
T' attack this stubborn Girl.  1 Mag. 
Yes, my coy virtue;  
Religion and stiff Morals hold your toughest;  
And if we do not crak your feeble Gordian—  3 Mag. 
But if so fair your hopes; so sure your Arts;  
Why that slow Answer to the King?  1 Mag. 
fie▪ Fool.  
We must not cheapen Mischief. T' have been easy  
Had underpriz'd the Work, and made Art little.  
But the Projection calls, we must make hast;  
The Coals, the Fire, the Bellows, and the Minerals,  
And then the great Elixir.  Exeunt. 
The Scene Changes. Enter Cleomira pursued by Otrantes.  Cleom. 
Was ever persecuted virtue  
Worried by such a Bloodhound!  Otrant. 
In vain, in vain you fly me.  Cleom. 
Fly thee Monster!  Otrant. 
I tell thee lovely fugitive, I'll chase thee  
Disdaining, frowning, flying; and untired  
With Love hunt on, and even whole years pursue thee.  Cleom. 
Years! is that all, yes Slave, pursue me Ages,  
I'd have a long Eternity a Witness,  
How I can loathe a Villain.  Otrant. 
Fair Barbarian,  
Why is thy heat all Ice?  Cleom. 
Ice Fool, No; 'tis all crystal  
Too pure to hold thy poisons.  Otrant. 
Cruel Fair,  
couldst thou but love.  Cleom. 
Love thee, black Infidel!  
No; despicable Wretch, not pampered Beauty  
Bears a more mortal hate ●o wrinkled Age,  
Nor hoarding Misers to a Grave, than I  
Bear thee.  Otrant. 
If I've deserved all this disdain,  
I'll call th' attesting World my Judge, i'th' Face  
Of open day, proclaim th' inviting Glories  
That call thee to my Arms, thou Fair ungrateful.  Cleom. 
In open day— Thou canst not please me better  
Yes, in the face of heaven, that all the whole  
Eternal Host above may stand the kind  
Spectators of my Honour and thy shane.  
Nay, when thou hast tired out Light and Day to chase me,  
Haunt me( if possible) to Shades so close;  
And Walks so dark, as Hell can only peep through.  
Oh the sweet pleasure t' have thy own dear grinning Imps  
Behold me scorn their Elder Brother Devil.  Exit: Otrant. 
So tough my Pride, so fierce my battayling Tyrant?  
No my fair Foe, I am not conqurer'd yet;  
I'll rally once again and brave thy scorn.  As going after her: Enter Hormidas▪ Horm. 
Stay Earth-born Meteor, Mushroom Greatness stay.  Otrant. 
That Interrupting Face!  Horm. 
How Interrupting!  
Is there that Terror in this humble Form,  
Thy Pride's low Footstool and thy trampled Slave,  
As can check Thee? Thou whose proud Phaeton Wheels  
Have driven o'er burning Temples, butchered Innocents,  
The reeking gore of thousand bleeding Martyrs?  Otrant. 
Ha!  Horm. 
Thou who Faith, Honour, virtue, Conscience, heaven  
And all its Bolts defied, hast played the boldest Voyager,  
That ever shot Ambition's darkest gulf,  
Through Plots, Conspiracies, Treasons, Murders, Perjuries, all  
Above gigantic Size;  
Original villainy, Crimes even unminted,  
In the whole Forge of Lucifer.  Otrant. 
I tell thee,  
Thy Breath's too sultry, and this haughty Boldness—  Horm. 
This Truth, this honest Truth, your Glories panegyric,  
And sung by me, my Duty and Allegiance.  
What can your humblest flattering Slave do less,  
Than chant his Lord and Master's jo Poeans?  Otrant. 
Such Insolence from any other Tongue—  
But I forget— I mount upon thy ruins;  
And talking Misery, I can forgive thee.  Horm. 
ruin and Misery! No, mistaken Fool,  
Those are thy Portion— Dull, dull Wretch how much  
My Rags outshine thy Pride? These pitied rags  
Shall cloath my Name with never dying Honours,  
When thine shall rust and canker into poison;  
The short lived Blaze of thy detested Glories  
Hist to their Grave, and hooted from the World.  
And then( Oh) what a little tarnisht thing  
Will that now glittering piece of Vanity look,  
When all' its Gold's washed off!  Otrant. 
Poor Snarler, how  
Thou play'st the Prodigal! thy Breath is all  
That's left thee, and even that thou spend'st in vain:  
I'll hear thy babbling Dreams no more.  Horm. 
Not hear' em!  
No, thou hast dreamings of thy own to listen to,  
Thy consummating Master stroke of villainy;  
Thy Tarquin Siege of Cleomira's Heart;  
The Bloudhound chase of that fair hunted virtue.  Otrant. 
Thy Cleomira's Heart, Ha! does that shake thee!  Horm. 
Dost thou shake her 's the Question? Shake me, Brute!  
No, thou poor little stingless Animal,  
Mine and my Cleomira's equal Scorn—  
But stay, perhaps thou lovest— Who knows but a bright Beam  
From that fair heaven has light this Crawling Mud,  
And warmed it into Love?  
Love did I say? thou couldst not please me more.  
Pursue, love on, strew all thy Baits of Power  
Before her: Fix thy Mines, Trains, engines, all  
Thy planted Batteries of Hell against her;  
Of all the Trophies that my Wrongs, and even  
Her Pride can wish, she wants but such a Lover,  
And I just such a Rival.  Otrant. 
Death and Furies!  
This arrogant Contempt's beyond all sufferance.  
But that the King has tied my Arm from killing thee  
Thou soon shouldst know—  Laying his Hand on his Sword. Horm. 
That thou'rt not he can kill me.  Otrant. 
Can kill thee!  Horm. 
Yes, mighty man of Breath;  
This unarmed Hand my Feeble Thunderer tells thee,  
Though thy black Soul wears Villain enough about thee  
To wish my Death, yet thou want'st Man to act it.  Otrant. 
Oh my tired Patience! I can hold no longer:  
To make thee feel my keener Vengeance smart,  
I'll stab thee through thy Cleomira's Heart.  Exit. Horm. 
Not yet unpitying Providence! And( oh)  
Coy Death, why comes thy courted shaft so slow?  
Not one kind Dart for thy poor Suppliant Slave?  
Is it so long a Voyage to a Grave!  Enter Theodosius. Theod. 
What have my Eyes beholded? Oh my Hormidas!  
If my astonishment has left a Tongue  
To utter it, I come to tell thee Prodigies.  Horm. 
Alas dear Prince, Lust and unreign'd Ambition,  
Drive the mad World at that disordered Rate,  
That Prodigies now grown the Common Work  
Of every Day, must sure have lost their Name.  Theod. 
As on Euphrates Banks my Pensive sorrow  
For the poor bleeding Christian Wounds, and all  
My dear Hormidas Wrongs lead me this morning  
A melancholy Walk; brush from a Thicket  
I saw a Lovely Hind, her Milk-white Skin  
Not Virgin Snow more fair, till in a toil  
The beauteous Fugitive was lost. But oh!  
Just as the Savage Hunter's gripping Hand  
seized the fair Prey, I saw, to my Confusion,  
Her Ermine▪ White Transformed all of a sudden  
In darkest Sable dyed, not Jet more black.  Horm. 
This was Indeed Prodigious!  Theod. 
So Prodigious,  
The very Hunter sunk beneath the Prey,  
And dying fell a Victim to a Victim;  
Even my own sense was struck with that amazement,  
As scarce my trembling Wonder has recovered.  Horm. 
This Prodigy indeed is more than Wondrous,  
And carries in't no doubt some dire Portent.  
But what— the Event alone must only Tell.  
Alas the Bounded Eye of Human Knowledge  
Sees only backward; there through spacious Regions  
Vast open Plains, and Thousand Years behind,  
Our Guided Reason lights; but the vast All  
Before us lends not one kind Starry Spark;  
One Minute of to Morrow's all i'th Dark.  Theod. 
But hark.  Thunders. 
So loud a Storm my Young Ears never heard,  
Unless these Roarers of the Sky are only  
The jewellers of Heaven, and Tune for Pleasure;  
Some more than Common Cause leads this rough Dance▪  Horm. 
Tis a rough Storm indeed; but th'angry blast  
Of Thunder let the Prosperous Guilty dread.  
My Miseries, young Prince, are past that fear,  
Heavens keenest bolt would be a Mercy here.  Exeunt. 
Finis Actus Tertii.   

ACT. IV.  Otrantes solus. Otrant. 
OH the vast Riot of Loves reveling Feast!  
I have enjoyed a night of so much Rapture,  
The softest, sweetest Cleomira mine!  
Oh Lavish Providence, in this one Treasure  
Thou hast made me Lord, Lord of that Infinite Mass,  
Enough to Impoverish Earth and Bankrupt Heaven!  
But why do I name Heaven? had the great Jove  
In his Eternal Rambles met that face!  
Her single Charms had fixed th'almighty Wanderer;  
Shackled th'unbounded Rover of the Skies,  
And peopled from one stock the Heavens with Gods.  Enter Cleontes and Doranthe. Cleont. 
Well, you have got the beauteous Cleomira.  Otrant. 
Got her, and with her all the Joys of Life!  Dorant. 
If the gay Spoils of the once great Hormidas  
Make up the Joys of Life, those Joys are yours.  Otrant. 
His shining Treasures are not only mine;  
But I am greater yet.  Cleont. 
Yes, happy Sir,  
All that the Favourite of a King can be you are.  Otrant. 
More than the Favourite of a King I am;  
The Son too of a King.  Gleont. 
How, a Kings Son!  Otrant. 
His Son, whilst Cleomira is his Daughter.  Cleont. 
My Cleomira a Kings Daughter, say you?  Otrant. 
Your Cleomira th' only true born Daughter  
Of the great Isdigerdes.  Cleont. 
Cleomira,  
Heir of the Persian Crown! Ith' name of wonder then  
Whose Daughter is the Princess Orundana?  Otrant. 
Mine Sir.  Cleont. 
Your Doughty Race?  Otrant. 
My Race, my Daughter,  
Born of that very Alexandrian Captive,  
Supposed the Mother of your Cleomira.  Cleont. 
More Riddles yet: An Alexandrian Captive  
The Princess Mother!  Otrant. 
Yes Sir, and my Wife:  
For though indeed our Marriage we concealed,  
That Alexandrian Captive Sir I Married,  
And by her had that titled vanity,  
The now Imperial towering haughty Orundana.  Cleont. 
Pray Sir unriddle this Miraculous Tale  Otrant. 
You may remember now near Twenty Years  
The King was Husband to a Young Queen,  
The fair Mandana; and by 〈…〉 r  
The Father of an Infant P●●ncess called Orundana.  Cleont. 
Remember't! ay too well, by this sad Token,  
Th' Unhappy Queen, with her young Princess, then  
But Eight Months old, were barbarously betrayed,  
And sold to Proud Zoranes King of Arabia;  
And Persia's Mortal Foe. One Fatal Evening  
Taking the Air upon Euphrates Streams,  
The vile Bagoas her Perfidious Eunuch,  
That Barbarous Wretch bought by th' Arabians Gold,  
Hurried her down the Stream too far and much  
Too fast for all her helpless Guards to reach her.  Otrant. 
Th'afflicted Queen thus lost, in nine long Months Captivity,  
sickening and almost drooping to a Grave;  
To save the Branch, though the Fair three were lost,  
T●ough watched too narrow for her own Escape,  
contrived a Plot to have her Royal Infant  
Rescued from all her unsuspecting Goalours,  
And sent a Present to her Mourning Lord.  Cleont. 
Rescued!  Otrant. 
Yes Sir, to have a borrowed Infant  
By my assisting hand, conveyed to fill  
The Royal Cradle, and supply the Princess.  Cleont. 
So Sir.  Otrant. 
I being then her Envoy from the King,  
owned my whole Marriage to her Alexandrian:  
( She with my Sister the young Princess Nurses,  
Then the only Persian Train her Ravisher left her.)  
offering an Infant Daughter of my own.  Cleont. 
Most kindly done!  Otrant. 
In short, all things prepared,  
I made the exchange unmark'd and unsuspected.  Cleont. 
Your Daughter for the Princess! very well.  Otrant. 
Here a strange tempting Thought of warm Ambition  
whispered my Soul, that this Exchange well managed  
Might mount my own Translated Veins to Empire.  Cleont. 
Sweet Villain!  Aside. Otrant. 
As I exposed  
A Daughter to the sullen chance of Slavery,  
Why not to th' Golden Lot of Glory too?  
I'th dying Eyes of the Sick Queen too plainly  
I saw approaching Death, and in her Death,  
The butted secret safe, the only Councel-Keepers,  
A Wife and Sister, both soft Wax to mould at pleasure.  
In less than one short Moon the Queen expired,  
How by the King deplored, I need not tell,  
Nor on what Terms the Princess was redeemed,  
It is enough my Daughter was that Princess.  Cleont. 
Rare Rogue.  Aside. Otrant. 
And to a Royal Fathers Arms received  
More than a Princely Blessing. For( alas)  
All things conspired for the deceit: for nine  
Kind absent Months in a young Infants Face  
Had worn out all Distinctions of the change.  Cleont. 
Here's a sweet Dog.  Aside. Otrant. 
But to conclude,  
My Alexandrian not long surviving,  
I gave the Royal Infant to my Sister,  
And called her Cloemira, now no more  
The Imperial Orundana; for that Title  
My more exalted Blood had filled.  Cleont. 
Well Sir, because  
The dying Queen left my false Beast, your Sister,  
And the proud Slave, your Wife, the only Confidents,  
Your itching Pride thought fit to graft your own  
Most hopeful Brat into the Blood of Cyrus.  Otrant. 
Yes, Friend, but now my Cleomira's Charms  
Have nursed a nobler Pride; I'll to the King,  
Implore his pardon for my blushing Fault;  
Unmask th' whole Truth and own myself his Son.  Cleont. 
You are sure you will?  Otrant. 
Yes Sir, I will do't.  Cleont. 
Yes Sir, you shall do't,  
Do't, tho it cost your Head; your Head bold juggler.  
Here's a fine Legerdemain put upon  
A whole cheated Kingdom: and my precious Imp  
In the Conspiracy?  Dor. 
Alas, dear Sir,  
persuaded by a Brother—  Cleont. 
By a Devil:  
But by this light, I'll instantly to th' King  
And ring him such a Peal—  offers to go Otrant. 
Stay, Brother, stay,  
All shall be well.  Cleont. 
Well, in the name of Vengeance!  Otrant. 
Upon my Word, my Honourable Word,  
Before to Morrow's setting Sun, the King,  
And the whole Court shall have the Tale at length.  
Only 'tis fit that first I break the Secret  
To Orundana, to prepare her Ear  
For the unpleasing sound.  Cleont. 
Well till to morrow,  
For once I will strain hard to tie my Tongue up;  
But such a Cursed Cheat—  Otrant. 
No more; the King.  Exeunt. 

SCENE 2.  Enter King, and some Attendants. King. 
Have you performed my Orders?  Attend. 
Yes, if Tortures,  
Wracks, Blood and Death in Thousand various Forms  
Be the performing 'em, we have performed' em.  King. 
Oh what a Barren toil, and fruitless Labour  
Has my mistaken Vengeance undertook!  
The Extirpation of this Christian Race;  
A work would baffle Hercules. His Hydra  
With all her springing Heads, alas was nothing  
To this more Growing Monster— Death,  
They Seed by Graves and Multiply by Destruction.  
Gods! even the very Dead Convert the Living.  
Lovely and Charming even in Ghastly Wounds!  
Almighty rhetoric, in each dying Gasp,  
And every Groan an Orator!— Oh Zeal!  
Oh Faith! How unaccountable's thy Power?  Enter Theodosius. Theod. 
Forgive, dread Monarch, an aspiring Gazer  
Whose soaring Eyes have dared t'uplift a Heart,  
A Bold Oblation to Imperial Beauty.  
But Orundana's all Commanding Charms  
Have that Resistless Power! and oh great Sir,  Kneels. 
If Kneeling Love, and all my Suppliant Sighs—  King. 
Rise kind Petitioner, I understand  
Thy Pleading svit, and grant thy Prayers unheard:  
And since, Dear Prince, thou art adopted mine,  
Be nearer so;— My Daughter is thy own.  Theod. 
Oh my Immortal Joys! Let me Embrace  
Your Royal Knees!  King. 
No more my Son: The Debt  
You owe in Gratitude to Isdigerdes,  
Reserve and pay in Love to Orundana.  Theod. 
Blessing like this!—  King. 
To seal the Gift I make,  
I'll instantly dispatch ambassadors  
To Constantinople, to the great Arcadius  
For his assenting Hand to tie the Gordian.  Theod. 
My Fathers binding hand; Yes Generous Monarch  
His Pride will soar with mine; A Love so high  
Will more than Crown my Youth,  
And bless his Age.  Exeunt Omnes praeter Theod. 
But oh in all my Bliss I mount too late,  
Poor lost Hormidas to avert thy Fate.  
I fear Thou'rt set, set in so thick a Night  
As my Meridian Glory cannot light.  Exit.  

SCENE 2.  Orundana and Otrantes attended by Briomar and Gobrias. Orund. 
How Sir! The Great and Glorious Cleomira,  
Heiress of Persia, Isdigerdes Daughter!  
And the Poor little Humble Orundana,  
That low-born thing must call Otrantes Father!  Otrant. 
I must confess 'tis an ungrateful History;  
And( it's) no doubt, these staggering sounds surprise you.  Orund. 
surprise me! No, have I not heard it out,  
Heard the Astonishing stupendious Tale,  
With all the Patience of a listening Wonder?  Otrantes. 
Tis true my Love, a more than Father's Love  
Took thee a tender Budding Flower, transplanted thee  
Into the Royal Garden; and to snatch thee  
Back to thy Native humble Root again,  
Is hard, is very hard;— But oh  
I cannot sleep in Cleomira's Arms,  
But I must give her back her ravished Birthright.  
Resistless and  
Almighty Love, Command their Restitution.  Orund. 
Hold Sacrilegious Insolent Monster, hold;  
Silence this Impious this Audacious Blasphemy:  
Thine, thy Base Blood, A Cloven-footed Cub,  
From that Black Hel-hound? Villain, Villain, never  
Was such accumulated Mass of Treason  
Together heaped, since the Embattel'd Giants  
piled Rocks on Rocks to scale the Throne of Gods;  
Infernal Impudence! Say Briomar, Gobrias  
Didst thou' ere hear the like?  Briom. 
Hear Madam? no;  
Nor hope e're shall: 'tis that Original Impudence,  
As is impossible should' ere be copied.  Orund. 
Nay, was there ever so much hardened falsehood,  
Such cankered poisoned Lies hatched at one Birth?  
Thou art so rank a Rogue, not Poet's Raptures,  
Not Madmens Dreams, not Swearing Lovers Oaths,  
Nor even Religious Legends, ever forged  
With half thy front of Brass.  Otrantes. 
Yet hear me, Madam.  Orund. 
No I have heard too much, and to Reward  
Thy bold tongued Guilt, by the wronged Blood of Cyrus,  
By all my towering Battlements of Glory,  
Supported by the Tutelar Gods of Empire,  
traitor, I'll have thee wrapped in Pitch, and Burnt,  
A Blazing Torch, to light me to my Throne.  Otrant. 
Oh whither does your Blinded Passion drive!  
Recall your wandring Reason and Consider—  Orund. 
That thou'rt a Devil; Yes I have Considered.  
Now thy detected Plots are all unraveled:  
Now poor Hormidas, that betrayed wronged Virtue  
Too plainly fell thy black Ambitions Sacrifice,  
His Leading Fall but a preparing Step,  
To Orundana's Throne.  
But I am too tame; Seize, seize the traitor,  
And in his hearts rank Blood—  Gobrias and Briomar seize him. Otrant. 
Yet hold fair Savage.  
Yes, you may Kill me;  
But have a care my unbelieving Parricide,  
That hand that Murders me, stabs thy own Father.  Orund. 
My Father! Death!  
My Father, Fool! how shallow dost thou plot?  
This Royal Pride, and this Imperial Beauty  
A base born Cottage Brat of thy begetting;  
And that bright Spark of Heaven.  
The sacred animating Fire that lights  
This Hollowed Mine, Great Orundana's Soul  
Struck from thy Dunghill-flint, dull senseless Traitor!  
Methinks it almost makes me smile to think  
How tickled will the laughing World, receive  
This fabulous Tale, thou poor Burlesque Romancer▪  Gobrias. 
Oh Divine Excellence, your Justice moves  
Too slow! Pronounce but the Commanding Word,  
And this commissioned Arm sends his Black Soul—  Orund. 
No, now I think on't better, let him live;  
I scorn to take the mean advantage  
Of my own Royal Walls, a Stage too Glorious  
For thy base Execution. No I'll give  
Thee play for Life, and hunt thee fairly dead.  
Nor hope to fall a Victim to my Vengeance  
dressed in those Gaudy Plumes; the Persian General  
And the great Isdigerdes darling Favourite.  
No Slave, before to Morrow's setting Sun,  
Expect the wronged Hormidas Resurrection.  
And when thy usurped Laurel all restored,  
I've stripped thee to thyself a Naked Villain,  
I'll have the uncas'd little mongrel Hanged  
In his own Native Kennel.  Otrant. 
threatening Madam,  
Your Thunder talks too big!  Orund. 
Arrogant Rebel!  
One bold word more pulls down thy Instant Fate:  
Take thy Face hence; be gon, and if thou canst,  
Wear thy false Head; yes, wear it till to Morrow.  Exit Otran 〈…〉 
Oh that so poor a Vassal should disturb me!  
Ye Gods what unknown sin have I Committed  
That for my Punishment, your sleeping Vengeance  
Should suffer so profane an Insolent  
To shock the Royal Peace of Orundana?  Briom. 
Alas Dear Madam, never mind the Snarler;  
Like the Proud Sister Goddess of the Sun,  
Disdain the little Angry Village-Cur  
That Barks beneath your Glory.  Orund. 
No my Gobrias,  
So rank a venomous Blast though never so feeble,  
Struck at the Root of Kings, the Veins of Cyrus;  
I must not Cheapen Majesty to pass  
Forgotten or Forgiven.— Oh that the Traitor  
Stood Mountain high, that my avenging Justice  
Might nobly reach his heart.— Howe'er for once,  
Thou underground low Wretch, to crush thy head,  
I'll stoop to Plow up a poor Mole-hill Bed.  Exeunt.  

SCENE, an Anti-Chamber.  Enter Hormidas and Lorella. Lor. 
'tis with the danger of my Life that I presume  
T'admit you here; but life's not worth my care,  
When hazarded to serve such suffering Virtue▪  Horm. 
Had I Rewards to thank thee for this Kindness,  
My showering Bounty—  Lor. 
Sir I am paid in serving you;  
No more: That Curtain opens to her Closet.  Exit. Horm. 
Now King, at this last blow thou hast reached my heart;  
stabbed through and through my Life, my Love, my Soul!  
Oh Cleomira! Gleomira!  
She's lost, she's lost, caught by a Gilded Bait,  
A tempting Lure of Power for ever lost.  
Yes black Ambition, with thy Dragon's tail,  
Thou has swept down that Beauteous falling Star!  
Oh Woman, Woman, what is thy Foundation!  
Who could believe that Dear All-Angel Yesterday,  
Should be All-Fiend to day!  The Scene opens, and discovers Cleomira in a Rich Nuptial Habit, Sleeping on a Couch. 
But see, see, there she lies! and oh, behold  
All the same fragrant sweetness on her Cheeks  
As if she never had sinned. Not all  
The Sooty Sulphur in her Veins has steyn'd  
One fading Rose, or dimmed one sullied lily!  
Oh Heaven! that Treason' ere should look so lovely!  
Wake Truth's Apostate, fair Perdition wake!  Cleom. 
Who calls me, and where am I? For methinks  
I am just rowzing from a long dead Sleep;  
And such a Giddy Mist swims round my Reason—  Horm. 
Dost thou not hear me yet, lethargic Infidel?  
Hangs the black Sleep of Sin and Death so heavy  
On thy benighted Soul?  Cleom. 
What's that that speaks in Thunder?  Horm. 
I am the Trumpet of thy shane; young siren,  
called by thy Crying Infamy to sound  
Thy echoing falsehood, and thy loud-Tongu'd Treason.  Cleom. 
falsehood and Treason those hard names for me?  Cleom. 
Hard names! thou gangrened Mass of foul Dishonour  
Thou purple Plague, with all thy spotted Deaths!  Cleom. 
Ha, who art thou, that look'st like my Hormidas,  
But dost not talk like him? For such wild sounds  
Such strange Accusing sounds, should be Strangers  
To that dear Voice of Peace!  Horm. 
Peace to thy Crimes!  
Thou bloated Dungeon Viper; Black adulteress!  Cleom. 
Celinda! ha, who waits there?  Stamping. 
Enter Celinda.  Celind. 
Did you call  
Me Madam?  Cleom. 
Oh Celinda, see, look there;  
That angry Thing, so like my once kind Lord,  
Talks those wild frightful Words! and with a Thousand  
All hideous Names too terrible to think on,  
Says I am that strange Spotted Creature!— Nay  
( Wouldst thou believe't) he calls me an adulteress?  
What does he mean Celinda!  Horm. 
Mean Barbarian!  
Death! shee's all Innocent, Knows nothing ill!  
This hardened Brass, this more than Feminine front's  
Beyond Recorded Impudence!  Cleom. 
Dost hear him?  
Just so he talked before, all the same wild  
( I know not what) dire Croake!  Horm. 
And thou the same  
( I know not what) all Masquerading Perjury.  
Oh thou all Blood! all Guilt! just risen from  
Thy dallying Monster's Bed!—  Cleom. 
A Bed! What says he?—  Horm. 
The Guilty Kisses on thy melting Lips!  
Thy ruffled Arms, and burning Cheeks still Glowing.  
Yet thou'rt all Saint, all harmless innocent— Devil.  Cleom. 
Dost hear him still! am I awake Celinda?  
Or does he Sleep, that makes him talk thus strangely!  Horm. 
Death and Confusion! Sleep! no fair Destroyer,  
Thou hast took care these waking Eyes, and my  
Poor Murdered Peace shall never sleep again:  
Whilst thou Gay Venus lull'st on Beds of down,  
tricked in thy Morning Trim and Fluttering Robes.  Cleom. 
Ha!— Robes!  Horm. 
Yes, my Proud Wanton Cleopatra;  
Those fluttering Robes, the Monumental Pile  
Of thy Gay Bed of Death; the Gilded Sepulchre  
Of thy dead Virtue, and thy butted Honour.  Cleom. 
Oh I can hear no more! Celinda, speak,  
Say what are these!  Celind. 
These what?  Cleom. 
These Gaudy Trappings;  
These sparkling gems, and glittering Gold! Speak quickly.  
How came the Mourning Cleomira dressed  
In all this Pompous Vanity? And ha!  
This shining Roof, and that proud Bed of Gold!  
Oh my awakening Eyes! speak Dear Celinda.  
Where am I! and what am I! prithee tell me.  
Oh my foreboding Tears! Answer me quickly!  
Unriddle this dumb show of Splendid horrors.  Celind. 
This Royal Palace, and these Nuptial Ornaments,  
And thou the beauteous Pride to great Otrantes—  Cleom. 
Otrantes!  Celind. 
Ris'n with all thy Bridal Blushes  
From his incircling Arms.—  Cleom. 
Oh—  Swoons and Falls. Horm. 
She sinks, she sinks.  
Almighty Truth, thou art at last a Conqueror.  
Convey those Lovely Ruins from my Eyes.  The Scene shuts upon her. 
Oh Conscience! Conscience! Thou art kind too late.  
Had thy Alarm but struck before her Fall,  
How glorious had that still crowned Beauty lived!  
And oh! how happy had Hormidas died!  Enter Theodosius. Theod. 
Oh my Hormidas, I've that hideous Story,  
Thy Cleomira— That Dear Beauteous Innocence,—  Horm. 
Has turned all black Deformity; dyed all  
Her ermine Honour into sooty Sable;  
bartered her gems for Glass, and poorly sold  
Her Right in Heaven, and all my Peace on Earth.  Theod. 
Oh hold; forbear this unjust profanation:  
Wound not that ravished Virtue. For by Arts  
Infernal, by the Kings Command, performed  
By th' executing Fangs of Power, his Priests:  
That all unblemished Fair( Oh! wouldst thou think it!)  
Was to that Villains Bed by Philters poisoned.  Horm. 
Philters!  Theod. 
By Drugs, and execrable Sorceries poisoned.  Horm. 
poisoned! my unkind King, that was fowl Play.  
But, ha! a Dawning Joy tells my Eased heart,  
That she's all Truth still, all unshaken Truth;  
Only an Innocent Victim snared to Ruin,  
And Butchered in the toil, a Bleeding Martyr.  Theod. 
Only a sullen Cloud of Hell prevailed,  
And the bright Heaven eclipsed.  Horm. 
Oh my enlightened Peace!  
Yes my fair Saint; though thy frail Earth is lost,  
I have not lost thy Soul.— But I forget:  
Oh let me run, run to her Sacred Knees,  
And beg my blushing pardon at her Feet;  
For I have wronged her, basely wronged her.  Theod. 
wronged her!  Horm. 
Yes, Prince, reproached her with a Thousand all  
The vilest Names of lewd abandoned Woman.  
What though her cankered Veins run all Contagion;  
And all my blasted Hopes for ever die?  
Her spotless Mind's all white, and at that Charm  
A pleasing Rapture glides all heavenly fair— But oh!  
Great Love, how dazzling must thy Beams display,  
When one poor spark of Light lets in the day.  The Scence opens and discovers Cleomira held by her two Women Celinda and Lorella. Cleom. 
Why did you wake me  
From Deaths could Sleep to burning Lifes hot Fever?  
Oh heaven, heaven, heaven! the happy Cleomira  
Was once your darling care; when radiant virtue,  
And blooming Innocence fenced round my Peace;  
But, Oh! ye faithless Guardians of my Soul,  
Ye false deserting Powers! Why did you basely  
Shrink like poor craven Cowards from your Post,  
And leave me lost for ever?  Gelind. 
Why thus cruelly  
Do you afflict those fair tormented Eyes?  Enter Hormidas. Cleom. 
Eyes didst thou say? These treacherous Balls of Fire:  
Oh tear 'em, tear 'em out, these rolling Brands,  
That only light me to Eternal Night—  
Ha! Stay the growling Fiends, and hissing Furies;  
Stop, stop the Midnight Thieves, and Cut-Throat Robbers  
Of murdered Innocence, restore my rifled Treasures,  
And give me back my Peace, my Truth, my Soul—  
Oh my sick Brain! Tear off these shining Tresses,  
These traitor Jewels, and this guilty Gold;  
And give me my dear Rags,  
My loveliest, sweetest, beauteous, honest Rags.  Horm. 
Oh Harmony Divine!  Cleom. 
And art thou here,  
My dear wronged Lord? Oh thou art come to punish me.  
Yes, Charming Justice strike; my Heart stands fair;  
And whilst the kind Sword kills me, thus I'll kneel,  Kneels. 
And kiss the guiding Hand.  Horm. 
Kill thee!  Cleom. 
Ah, kill me, Sir, for I am too black to live▪  
Oh strike:( alas!) a very little Blow  
Will do thee Justice now, a stroke so easy.  
Turn but one frowning Look from those dear Eyes  
And stifled in a flagrant Bed of Roses,  
I'll sink in Sweets and die.  Horm. 
No, ravished Sweetness, live.  
And, oh, forgive the too unkind Hormidas.  
For I have injured thee; given thee false Names;  
When oh, fair spotless Truth, thou bleeding Lucrece,  
An impious draft of horrid, horrid philtre  
drenched thy infatuated Sense all drowned,  
And dragged thee martyred to that Traytors Bed.  Cleom. 
Ha! My poor Heart by such vile Arts betrayed!  Horm. 
By foulest, blackest Arts lost and betrayed,  
Thy crystal Veins and purer Reason poisoned.  Cleom. 
Nay, then I am not quiter so black, not all  
So frightful and deformed a Specter;  
But thy poor Cleomira has a little,  
A little Innocence left.  Horm. 
A little!  
Oh thou all-whiteness, thy untainted Soul,  
That fair Eternity stands safe within,  
And but thy poorer, weaker Outwork's lost—  
But ha— he lives, th' unpunished poisoner lives!—  
Oh mourning Philomel, these lovely ruins  
Call loud for Blood: And this too tardy Arm  
Delays the avenging boult. Yes, he must bleed.  
No Christian Shackle now binds up my Arm,  
Now my keen Sword may strike: Toads, Vipers, Serpents,  
The speckled Adder, and the curling Snake,  
Mans common Foe, all Hands are armed to kill.  Cleom. 
And wilt thou kill that impious Savage?  Horm. 
Kill him!  
Yes, my fair murdered Life, this Arm must carve  
Thy bleeding Honours Monument, ripp up  
His poisoned Heart, that baneful Hemlock Root,  
And weed him from the World.  Cleom. 
Oh let me join in that Divine Revenge!  
Thy single Arm amid his crowding Followers  
Would be too weak to reach that guarded Fiend:  
And to expose thee in too rash a Danger,  
would not take his, but hazard thy dear Life.  
No, my wronged Lord, let me instruct your Vengeance.  Horm. 
Oh, speak my leading Oracle!  Cleom. 
Thus then——  
This Evening when the lustful satire comes  
Keen for his Prey( oh the detested thought)  
I'll have thee planted, hide within his Closet;  
In thy just Arm the pointed Steel, prepared  
And at th' unguarded Traytors safe Approach,  
Then strike for Cleomira. Oh my Lord,  
Rush on him like a Tempest; boult him headlong,  
plunged in Eternal Flames so quick, that Hell  
May see him fain, before it hears him falling.  Horm. 
Thou lovely Amazon, my Divine Inspirer!  Cleom. 
Nay to secure him there, till then I'll calm  
My Brow, smooth my false Looks, and dance before him  
A wandring Fire to train him to his Fate.  Horm. 
And will my Cleomira—  Cleom. 
Oh, my Love!  
To right thy Wrongs, methinks, I could even play  
The very Hypocrite, act the true Woman  
To give that Monster Death.  Horm. 
This is so generous—  
But( oh!) this Scorpion Wound has stung so deep  
That all the Scorpions Blood can never cure!  
Oh Love! There stands that parting gulf between us,  
That to those Arms I never can return.  
But though my happy Days and happier Nights  
Are mine no more; those sweets I am doomed to lose,  
I am resolved that heaven shall only find.  
lodged in a cloister of devoted Penitents,  
Thy mounting Prayers shall scale the Throne of Stars,  
And win the Crown of Peace.  Cleom. 
A cloistered Life!  
Oh thou dear only Good, and only kind!  
This is true Love indeed that gives me heaven.  Horm. 
Yes, my last Debt I'll pay. I loved thee living,  
And must embalm thee dead— But then; oh then  
To all that's dear, farewell; for we must part for ever.  Cleom. 
Say not for ever. No, my still loved Lord,  
Though these polluted Arms are thine no more,  
My Sighs, my Tears, my Prayers shall still be thine.  
And when these Eyes with endless Fountains fed,  
The Earth my Pillow and my Grave my Bed,  
I've worn out Life, and washed my stains away,  
I'll mount above, and meet thee spotless there.  Horm. 
There our new happier Spousals wee'l prepare,  
In all the Joys of everlasting Day—  Cleom. 
But I must mourn before I find the Way.  Exeunt severally.  
Finis Actus Quarti.   

ACT. V.  Enter Celinda introducing Hormidas with a Sword in his hand. Celind. 
MY Lord, behind that Covert take your stand;  
And when he's safe in your Swords Reach, to his  
False Heart direct your executing Justice.  Exit. Horm. 
Yes, Cleomira, Love and Vengeance call;  
Thy Tarquin bleeds to night— But, oh, that in  
Thy great Revenge this Hand can act so little!  
This Sword, when drawn in Honors cause, struck nobly;  
All sparkling in the Front of headed Legions.  
But, with what blushing shane this Arm must move,  
When it thus poorly sculks to strike for Love?  Exit. Enter Otrantes and Rugildas. Otrant. 
Is she so hot then for my thirsted Blood,  
And drives so furious?  Rug. 
Not a starving Tygress  
Can hunt more keen: Already she has pursued  
So close, that with a hundred rancrous whispers  
In the Kings Ear—( falsehood or Truth; no matter)  
Her subtlest Engines, Power, Arts, Interest, all  
Stand levelled at your Head.  Otrant. 
My Head! Yes Friend,  
She has given me leave to wear it till to Morrow.  Rug. 
To Morrow!  Otrant. 
So, the angry Orundana.  
The great Disposer of my Fate has fixed  
My bounded Life: My Lease is out to Morrow.  Rug. 
I must confess e're you presumed to tell her  
What Veins she wore, you should have first considered  
What Sex she had been too. Glory, Pride, Ambition  
The touching of that nice, that tender part,  
would shake an Angel were that Angel Woman.  Otrant. 
True, I've so shook the Woman in her Veins,  
Till turned a Fury,  
She has sworn my Death; and, I am but too certain,  
Will keep her Oath.  Rug. 
Will keep it?  Otrant. 
If she can.  
No, my dear Friend, I see my lowering Danger,  
The mixing gull and all the angry Viols  
●●st pouring, and to shield my Head,  
Have formed that glorious Counter-plot.  Rug. 
A Counter-plot!  Otrant. 
The Arms of Persia are all mine to day;  
What thinkest thou if to Morrow wears her Crown?  Rug. 
The Crown!  Otrant. 
A Crown, that gives me all my Wishes;  
A Crown, that plants me far above the Shock  
Of Foes or Fortune's Frowns, walled in with safety  
From the weak Blast of Orundana's Rage;  
Her Feeble Threats, and Cobweb Plots, all burst.  
'tis true, the means to reach that Crown  
Is something of the roughest, when my passage  
lies only through the Life of Isdegerdes.  
'tis something hard to cut so keen as I must.  Rug. 
Hard!  Otrant. 
And the thought of Treason—  Rug. 
Treason! fie!  
Is that a Bar to Souls resolved like ours?  Otrant. 
Oh, my kind Oracle!  Embracing him. 
We are alone, and safe; and in thy Bosom  
I dare repose my Heart; know then this night  
This Jason's Arm bears the proud Fleece of Gold.—  
You know, t' assist the King's Devotion, every night  
One of his Priests, his Magi, is admitted  
Into his Closet private and alone.  Rug. 
Alone, and private! Yes, his Guards, Attendants,  
All, all removed at that commanded distance,  
As if he studied with the same resigning Faith,  
To trust his Person as he trusts his Soul.  Otrant. 
This night then, my Rugildas, I am that Priest.  Rug. 
Most excellent!  Otrant. 
Alas! how easily  
Will the dispatching Instrument of Fate  
Be lodged under the mask and rob of Sanctity,  
The time, place, hour, all aiding the great dead.  Rug. 
Exquisite Mischief!  Otrant. 
Nay, and my Retreat  
Will be as safe as my Approach. For since  
'tis death by Persia's Laws for any Subject  
The Closet of the King uncalled to enter;  
Who, who shall call, when Death has signed his last  
Long silence, and the Silencer retired  
With all the safety and the Peace of Innocence!  
Ay, and to make his Death pass currant Priest-work;  
It is but hanging half a dozen of  
Those sanctified Church-tools, and the Work's done.  Rug. 
O sublime Reach!  Otrant. 
Nay, put 'em to the Wrack first, and perhaps  
Some of the softest pampered Fatlings of 'em,  
That ne're felt pain, unless from a Debauch,  
May at a Stretch too hard confess the very Murder.  
It is not the first Wonder of that kind,  
That Cords and Pulleys have performed.— That done,  
His very Death confessed, and Blood revenged,  
The feeble Orundana's Talons pared;  
The poor Hormidas, all his weak pretensions,  
hushed with a Poniard; and my Cleomira  
proclaimed and proved, dressed in her native Beams,  
An Infant of the Sun, and Child of Empire;  
And my great Self the Partner of her Throne.—  Rug. 
Never was Plot so all divinely Great!  
Methinks I see the Radiant Hoop of Gold  
Already twine your Brow, a Crown, a circled,  
In which more bright Celestial myriad dance  
Then half the Round of heaven.  Otrant. 
A Crown, Rugildas!  
Now Fortune for the laurels of the Bold.  
One Hand a Dagger and a sceptre hold.  Exeunt. Re-enter Hormidas as from his Stand overhearing. Horm. 
A Crown! No; Slave, a Gibbet and a Pinnacle.  
Oh blessed Discovery! Dear heaven, not all  
My studied Vengeance could have formed a Wish▪  
Beyond this pleasing Sound. Quick, let me fly  
To th' alarmed Ear of Royal Isdigerdes,  
And guard his Sacred Life:— For He's my King still.—  
Oh Cleomira! Now, I'll do thee noble Justice.  
For that stained Slave's black Blood this Sword's too bright.  
No; the vile Hangman's hand shall do thee right.  Exit. Enter King solus. Scene Changes. King. 
Oh, why  
Does the mistaken popular Adoration  
Call Monarchs heaven's Vicegerents.— Is it, because  
We Sovereign Heads bear Rule like them!— Ah no!  
Such disproportion our Dominions hold▪  
What Harmony and Order move their Orbs;  
And what Confusion ours? Their Measures▪ spheres▪  
powers, Dominations, Movements numberless,  
And Circles infinite dance th' Eternal Round,  
Without one erring Step, or Jar between 'em;  
Whilst even old Hoary Time himself, with all  
His Thousand, Thousand Years upon his Back,  
Beats not one Pulse uneven. But, Oh, how sickly  
Is our distempered State, our Crazy Sway?  
Convulsions and Distractions half our Days;  
And our whole Reign one restless Ferment all:  
And we resemble heaven( alas) no more,  
Than theirs the Bliss, and ours the Toil of power!  Enter Hormidas Introduced by Orundana. Orund. 
Otrantes armed for Isdigerdes Blood!  
But see, the King! Approach, thou kind Discoverer.  King. 
Hormidas!  Horm. 
If so poor a vagrant Wretch  
May dare intrude within these Royal Walls;  
And Rags and Misery may be permitted  
To kneel on hallowed Ground—  Kneels. Orand. 
Stand up, Hormidas,  
And boldly speak the Mighty Truth thou bring'st.  
Thou that art come to save a Monarch's Life,  
Art Heav'ns Ambassador, and thy great Cause  
Adorns thy poorest Rags.  King. 
To save a Monarch's Life!  Horm. 
To save the Life of Royal Isdigerdes.  
Oh the most Impious Execrable Treason  
That ever called up Hell, or called down Vengeance!  King. 
Treason! From whom?  Orund. 
From that unparallelled Villain,  
As Blisters even the very Tongue that names him;  
That Prodigy, that Monster of all Monsters,  
Otrantes, comes this Night to be your Murderer.  King. 
Otrantes!  Horm. 
Otrantes, Sir,  
That vile, that low-born Slave, the coursest Earth  
That lavish power e'er moulded into Honour;  
So blessed, so favoured, so advanced; for all  
Those Pyramids of Glory you had raised him,  
Returns a Dagger to their Founders Heart;  
With his own Hand this Night designs your Death.  King. 
Thou strik'st those Sounds of horror in my Ear,  
As my Faith staggers but to think— Otrantes!  
Gods! 'tis impossible— May I believe thee!  Form. 
Sir, on the forfeit of my Hopes in heaven,  
( For Hopes on Earth I've none, or else I'd pledge them too)  
What I have  told you, is Oraculous Truth;  
These f●i●hted Ears heard the whole Plotted Treason.  King. 
Otrantes Hand! Ingratitude so Monstrous!  Horm. 
Nay, this Ungrateful Infidel, if possible,  
To add to Guilt, so exquisitely wicked,  
Comes in the Habit of your Priest, and under  
That Holy rob he brings th' Infernal Dagger.  King. 
So keen warm Snake; so hot my rank-tooth'd Viper!  
I'll find you Scorpions that shall match your sting.  Orund. 
Scorpions! Yes, King, rouse all your knotted Vengeance:  
Whole Years and Ages on the Wrack,  
Would be a Mercy to so damned a traitor.  King. 
That Hand my Murderer; and thine, thine my  
Deliverer! Gods! which is my greatest Wonder,  
He brings me Death, or that thou bring'st me Life!  Horm. 
That I should bring you Life! Alas!  
Is that so strange! Sir, are you not my King!  King. 
Thy King!  Horm. 
And is my Duty such a Wonder!  King. 
Duty to me! My Cruelty and my shane!  
Life from that Hand! Thou the kind Guardian Angel  
To Cleomira's poisoner? What, with thy Load of Wrongs!  Horm. 
Wrongs! breath those empty Sounds no more.  
Oh, Sir, consider I 'm you Nephew, all  
My Veins your own; and with my Mothers Milk,  
sucked in Allegiance to that Sacred Name;  
Even the first Breath I drew was all your own.  
And if at last( alas!) I leave the world  
With some small Service to that Honoured Head,  
I only finish where I first begun;  
And die no more than that which I was born.  King. 
Oh my Awakening Senses!  
There's something whispers my Relenting Soul,  
And tells me thou art True.  Horm. 
That I am true—  King. 
That thou art true, Confusion, horror, shane  
Tear my wracked Peace; and all my shivering Nerves  
Start at thy frightful Wrongs.  Horm. 
Oh, Sir, no more.  
Let me be still all Black, all spotted Guilt,  
Ambition, Treason; all the same loathed Wretch.  
For, Oh! to see you shake that Noble Frame,  
There's something so all Tender touches here,  
I dare not purchase Innocence so dear.  King 
Oh! thou all Truth—  Horn. 
pursue that Traitors Falsehood;  
And leave my Truth to Heaven.— But if my Injuries  
Must force a Sigh, and melt a Royal Tear,  
Oh, may that dropping Pearl glide gently down;  
No haunting Dreams, nor Walking Vision tread:  
For, Oh! to shield the Peace of that crowned Head,  
Light may my Wrongs, all hushed my Ashes lye;  Exit. 
If heaven can but forgive as much as I.  King. 
How Rich a Jewel that course Casket holds!  
— But! Ha! I dare not think!  
Lull, Conscience, lull; and slumb'ring Reason wink:  
For( Oh Remembrance!) if thou wak'st, I sink.  Exeunt● Scene changes. Enter Otrantes disguised as a Magus. Otrant. 
Thus far I have walked safe, with Bows and Knees  
Saluted as I past; the distant Crowd  
with aweful Homage bending low before me.  
Oh the bewitching Charm of Beard and Sanctity!  
Some of 'em, as I past, whose bolder Zeal  
Durst find a Tongue to Greet me, cried, All Health,  
Health to the Soul of Majesty, the Life of Empire;  
And Blessings Crown his Prayers!— Yes, all the Blessings,  
And all that Health the Airy Food of heaven,  
To which this Hour I wing his mounted Soul,  
Can give, I bring him. Now a Stroke for Empire!  
wield Nobly, my bold Arm, but this one boult  
Of Thunder, and the Thunderer's Throne is mine.  
Ha! the King's Closet opening for my Entrance!  
Now boil; boil up the Fever of my Blood,  
And every Pulse of my warm Soul beat high.  Enter King. King. 
Oh, art thou there, my Cut-throat Masquerader!  Aside. Otrant. 
The King approaches. Now, now for the Spirit  
Of the great Brutus, the Immortal Cassius,  
And a whole Roman Senate in one Arm.  King. 
So punctual at th'infernal Assignation.  Aside. 
Well, Reverend Sanctity, I see thy pious  
And holy Zeal is come to bring me heaven,  Advancing a little nearer to Otrantes. 
And I thee Hell to thank thee for't.  The King stamping with his Foot, enter Gobrias, Briomer, Artaban, Ortagan, and other Attendants, who run in, and seize Otrantes, pulling off his false Beard, and seizing a large Dagger concealed under his rob. Otrant. 
Confusion!  
betrayed and lost!  King. 
Yes, outside Holiness, and inside Devil,  
We have prepared a Counter-Masque to match you.  
So sharp, my hard-mouth'd Cerberus! Nay, then,  
'twas time to find a Muzzle for my Bloodhound.  Otran. 
True; you have caught me, King. But doubly damned  
Be those persidious fiends that laid the toil.  King. 
Ha! Dares he speak? Strike the Audacious Insolence  
Down his false Throat? ripp, ripp his gangrened Heart up.  Otrant. 
Yet hold your Royal Vengeance; Save my Life  
But for an hour; I have Wonders to discover  
Concern your Safety, Peace, Life, Glory, Empire;  
Of new Conspiracies, Swords, poisons, Treasons.  King. 
Treasons against my Life! and thou, Barbarian,  
Thou, the Discoverer! No; Slave, I'll trust  
My Life and Throne to heaven; Not borrow Engines  
From Hell for my Protection. But the traitor  
Has lived too long. Strike, strike the Monster dead.  
Quickly, ye tedious Slaves.  They all 〈◇〉 h him with their s●veral Daggers, he falls and dies. 
Now, Briomar,  
Be it your Charge to see the Traytor's Carcase  
dragged round the Walls of Babylon; then hanged  
On some erected pinnacle, if possible,  
So high, the very Vultures to devour him,  
Shall droop their flagging Wings, and tyre to reach him.  Exeunt some part of the Attendants with the Body of Otrantes. 
But though our just Disdain refused the Service  
Of a Discoverer from that black Ruffian,  
'tis fit we found the Bottom of this Treason.  
And therefore, Ortagan, go instantly  
And seize the false Rugildas. That sly Confident,  
So dipped in his Intreigues, cannot be ignorant  
Of this Conspiracy. If his hardened Guilt  
Refuses a Discovery, give him the Wrack  
To soften him to Confession.  Exit Ortagan. 
Oh, poor Hormidas! Were the ravished Coronets  
Torn from thy Brow for Chaplets for this Villain?  
Oh the mistaken Favours of the Crown!  
And, Kings, why are we Gods? 'tis true, their Thunder,  
Like Gods, we wield in our Revenge: But when  
We shower our Blessings, we are only Men.  Exit King and Attendants. Enter Orundana and Theodosius. Theod 
Light of my Life, forgive th' ill-mannered Rudeness  
Of this ill-season'd Visit. But the Cause  
That brings me will excuse a greater Fault.  
Oh, my bright Excellence, I was led hither  
By an Alarm of that strange horror.  Orund. 
horror!  
Yes, Prince, the busy Demons of the Air,  
In close Cabal with their great Lord of Darkness,  
Have sate this Night a hatching mighty Mischiefs,  
till watchful Providence, and I above 'em,  
looked down, and crushed the brooding Treason dead.  Enter King reading a Letter, with Cleontes and Doranthe, with Attendants. Dor. 
Oh, Sir, that Letter to your dying Queen  
To my eternal shane does but too plainly  
Confirm the fatal Truth which I have  told you.  King. 
Too plain indeed.  Dorant. 
Forgive a Woman's weakness  
Seduced by a fond Brother's treacherous Art,  
The mad Ambition of the false Otrantes  
To mount his own base Brat, false Orundana,  
A Fairy changeling to the Throne of Cyrus.  Orund. 
How's this? Confusion!  King. 
The true-born Cleomira,  
My own Imperial Veins!  Orund. 
Can there be Truth then!  Dorant. 
Too fatal Truth proved by too strong Credentials.  Orund. 
The happy Cleomira—  Dorant. 
The great Blood  
Of Isdiguerdes.  Orund. 
And poor Orundana—  King. 
Orantes Daughter.  Orund. 
Oh Prince, thy Orundana is no more!  To Theodosius, sinking into his Arms. Dorant. 
But, oh, dear Sir, let my repenting Tears  
For this black Crime implore your Royal Mercy.  Cleont. 
Yes, let her beg that Mercy, as to hang the Witch.  
Hanging's too good for her. If your Princely Wisdom  
Can think of any more convenient Noose,  
Upon my Knees I promise you, Your Majesty,  
As in all Loyal Duty bound, shall have  
An honest Husband's hearty Prayers to thank you for't.  Enter Ortagan, and some other Attendants. Ortag. 
I went, great Sir, t'obey your dread Commands,  
And seize the false Rugildas, but the traitor  
alarmed, and sheltering his perfidious Head,  
Is not yet found.  
But to unkennel him, thô ne're so closely earthed,  
Already we have beset the princes Palace,  
The most suspected Scene, nor can he scape,  
For the whole Babylon's armed to apprehended him.  
But oh, dread Sir! from one of his Confederates,  
One of his wicked Priests, his impious Engine,  
Already I've extorted this Discovery,  
That their own hands your Royal Temple burnt,  
And on the most wronged Virtue, the Poor lost  
Hormidas, and th' whole suffering Christian Race  
Most safely threw their own Barbarian Guilt.  King. 
Good Gods! what do I live to hear?  Ortag. 
And, Sir,  
All the whole Christian Blood that you have  shed,  
Through the wide Persian World, has only been  
The crying Wounds of martyred Innocence.  King. 
Those murdered Thousands! Oh, my butchering Hand▪  
Gods! What a Torrent, what an Inundation  
Of loud tongued Blood o'rewhelms my sinking Soul!  
But, oh Hormidas! thy more ghastly Wrongs!  
Thine, and thy ravished Cleomira's Wrongs▪  
And, oh, my own dire Doom! hard sated Prince!  
Gods! made a Prostitute of my own Daughter!  
From her most injured Lo●d, the brightest Worthy  
That ever set on Earth to rise in Heaven,  
The richest Jewel sto●●● that e're crowned Life,  
T' adorn the blackest Slave that shamed the light.  Orund. 
Now, ●rince, where must your Orundana fall?  King. 
But sl 〈…〉 fly, recall my bloody Edicts  
Against the christian Lives; proclaim their Innocence,  
Spotless as a new born Day;  Several of the Attendants go off, as to obey this Order. 
And hast, kind ●riomar, seize  
Those holy Beasts of Prey, my cursed Priests,  
And give 'em to a Den of hungry Lions,  
Devourers to Devourers, and thou, Ortagan,  
Burn all their costly Palaces, those Nests  
Of pious Luxury, fire their hoarded Treasures.  
Religious Sacrilege those Death-bed, Rapines,  
The Spoils of cheated Souls; set 'em all blazing,  
A Sacrifice to my Cleomira's Wrongs.  Orund. 
Now, now my Doom!  King. 
But fly, call instantly that beauteous Sacrifice,  
And her wronged Lord, that long Eclipsing Sun,  
Of Glory forth.  
Bow down ye Slaves, low as your Graves before 'em:  
With bending Knees, and prostrate Necks, receive' em.  
Oh! call 'em, call 'em to their Coronation,  
Bid 'em prepare for loads of Royal Honours—  
And showers of Royal Tears.  Exeunt Cleontes and Doran▪ the as to obey this Order. Orund. 
Yet stay, stay King.  
Before your Cleomira's Coronation  
Perform my juster Rites, your Orundana's Funeral.  
Oh King, I've filled a spacious Orb of Glory;  
And like the glittering Charioteer of Day,  
Driven my vast Round for twenty smiling Years.  
But, Oh! the mighty finished Circle's done,  
And I am seen no more; a long long Night!  King. 
Yes, thou unhappy setting fair—  Orund. 
Well, Sir,  
If I must set, do me this last just right:  
Tell the vain babbling World, when busy Fools  
And buzzing Crowds talk little of my Name;  
Tell 'em, that though my parsimonious Stars  
Too poorly furnished out my humbler day.  
Otrantes course-born Blood too low for Empire:  
howe'er, the kinder Gods enriched me with  
That nobler Spark of their own Heav'ns, a Soul,  
Of that unbounded Grasp, as could have wielded  
The sceptre of the Universe, given Laws  
To kneeling Kings, driven the reigned World before me,  
And played beneath the toil. To my Recorded Memory  
writ that, and then writ this.  Stabs her self Theod. 
Oh, cruel Fair,  
What has your Fury done!  Orund. 
Only let out that poor ignoble Blood,  
That shamed me from the World.  Theod. 
Thou rash, unkind Destroyer,  
Oh! thou hast razed the noblest fairest Palace,  
That e're lodged Life, a Temple for the God  
Of Love to sit enthroned, and suppliant Monarchs  
Come Pilgrims to the Shrine.  Orund. 
Ah! no, kind Prince,  
My humble Veins—  Theod. 
Name not thy humble Veins;  
Thy Eyes, thy Beauty, thy Imperial Charms,  
Were all the dazzling Orundana still,  
All the same heavenly Fair. The Diamond  
Shines not less bright for the course Rock that bread it.  Orund. 
And could you love me still?  Theod. 
Yes, thou mistaken Cruelty,  
Didst thou want Birth for me, for Love like mine?  
No; in these dear, dear Eyes, these lovely Suns,  
I could have bask'd my whole long Life away,  
Though they had only light me to a Cottage.  
Oh, hadst thou truly loved me!  Orund. 
Yes, so loved thee!  
And yet even for that Love I durst not live.  
No, I had a Soul too Great to out-live Glory,  
And therefore with it die.  Dyes. Theod. 
Set then, proud Star!  
Thou fairest Child of Night, a long Farewell.  King. 
Remove that Funeral Object from my sight,  
And lodge her in the Sepulchre of Cyrus.  
I owe thy pitied Dust that Royal Monument.  
But now let's find Hormidas: O Cleomira!  
That Nature should not pled in thy behalf!  
No sympathising Notion to preserve thee,  
Or inward Touch to stop my hasty Vengeance.  
But now thy Father comes to mourn his Fate,  
And offer thee a Crown, if not too late.  Exeunt. 

SCENE LAST.  Enter Rugildas, draging in Cleomira with a Dagger in his Hand. Bedchamber. Cleo. 
OH, whither Monster, whither dost thou drag me?  Rug. 
To bear me company to the other World.  
Thou sayest,  
There is a Power above what we Adore,  
I am sure to die, but know not where I go;  
And if thy Heaven be happier than ours,  
I'll cling thus to thee when▪ thy Saints receive thee,  
And take thy better choice.  Cleo. 
No, Villain, no; no Murderers come there,  
No poisoning Infidels of thy black die:  
Hell scarce will take thee.  Rug. 
If Hell superabundant take me, then the other must,  
And to be blacker yet, so much I hate thy Husband,  
That had I time,  
I would not kill thee, but enjoy thee, proud One!  
taste, like Otrantes, all thy rifled Sweets,  
And leave thee more polluted for Hormidas.  
But hark! he comes! This I am sure of,  Clashing of Swords. 
And have a chance for more.  Horm. 
Not a Soul enter, as you love your General;  Hormidas within. 
If any hand revenge me but my own,  
My shane's but half washed off.  Enter Hormidas. Horm. 
Where is the traitor?  Rug. 
Thou hits me right, the traitor's here.  Hor. 
horror! That Beauteous Prey in that keen Vultures Talons.  Rug. 
What, didst thou never see this thing before?  
Look on her well, thou hast not long to look,  
Nor we to live.  Hor. 
What says the Villain?  Rug. 
What he means to do:  
Keep off, or by the Sun, nay, by thy Gods I swear,  
If thou approach me, this shall enter here.  Hor. 
O hold, and hear me.  Rug. 
What is't thou canst propose to save her Life?  Hor. 
Propose thyself, and I'll agree to all that thou shalt ask.  Rug. 
Thou canst not save my Life, if I spare hers.  Hor. 
By all I Worship and Adore, I will.  Rug. 
The King has sworn my Death.  Hor. 
No matter, he 'll relent:  
I'll hang upon his Knees, and wring his Hands,  
Melt with my Prayers and Tears his stubborn Heart,  
And beg for all the Injuries he has done me,  
Thy Life, which shall atone for my vast Wrongs.  Rug. 
And when he has given me Life, what shall I do with it?  
I must for ever live abhorred and shunned  
A Wandring Scandal through the Persian Empire.  
No, I am satisfied thou canst not save me;  
It is thy fear that promises this Pardon:  
The Crimes I've done, not Man nor Heaven can pardon,  
And, Christian, thou art a Dog if thou'dst forgive me,  
After such Wrongs.  Hor. 
My Faith my Soul's at pawn for 't.  Cleo. 
No, let him strike, I'd rather die than owe  
My Life to such a barbarous Monster.  Within. 
Room for the King.  Rug. 
Then 'tis no time to parley.  Stubs Cleomira. Hor. 
Damnation seize the Insatiate Bloodhound.  Hormidas runs at Rugildas, they close. Enter King and Guards, Rugildas in the close stabs Hormidas, and falls. King. 
Part them, you Villains,  
And sheath your Swords in cursed Rugildas Heart.  
Oh Cleomira!— Oh execrable Barbarous Butcher!  
How is it, my Hormidas?  Hor. 
Near my kind end, set me but nearer there,  
And I shall die in peace.  King. 
unparallelled Monster!  
What could provoke thee to so damned an Action?  Rug. 
Revenge: I knew that I should die for them,  
And now they die with me.  King. 
To Tortures with the Slave; the little Life that's left him,  
Let him curse out in exquisite Torments.  Rug. 
No, silly, credulous, and thoughtless King,  
I am past thy spite; and what most vexes me,  
Is, that thou art past mine.  Dies. King. 
Unheard of Wickedness! Drag him hence.  
Oh Cleomira, if the Wound's not Mortal,  
Look up to Empire; 'tis a Father calls,  
And offers thee his Crown.  Cleo. 
A Father! To that honoured Name thus let my Reverence how;  
But to an Empire; King, you call too late,  
That Villain's Dagger, Sir, has gone too far;  
A Grave, alas, is all my Birthright now.  King. 
Unhappy Innocence! But my Hormydas sure—  Hor. 
Must follow her.  
All I have left to do, is now  
Only to steer this tattered bark to Shore,  
And Land me safe upon Eternal Peace.  
But Oh! I had once a little Infant-Son—  King. 
snatched from thy Arms by my Barbarian Rage.  
But post kind Artaban with Angels speed,  
And bring that Infant-Innocence, that budding Bloom  
Of Majesty, the unplum'd Imperial Eaglet,  
Back to his Native Nest, the Royal Cedar.  Cleo. 
Now Life and Love, farewell: To my new Bridal  
Eternal Mercy calls.  Hor. 
Oh thou soft Soul!  Cleo. 
farewell.  
I only go to take my last kind Sleep,  
That I may wake all thine.  Dies. Hor. 
She's gone, and dying grasped me by the Hand  
As she were jealous I would stay behind her.  King. 
O that thou couldst! A Crown, Hormidas,—  Hor. 
The Vanity of Crowns I cannot choose;  
I have a Heaven to find, and World to loose.  Dies. King. 
Yes, go, blessed Pair, now more than Royal Heirs;  
Go to your happy Groves, and there look down  
On the dim Lustre of my poorer Crown:  
Their Reign above me blessed with Joys Divine,  
I'll envy yours, and you shall pity mine.   
FINIS.