The Prince of Parthia

Scene II

Phraates [alone]I'll wait behind, my stayMay aid the cause; dissembling I must learn,Necessity shall teach me how to varyMy features to the looks of him I serve.I'll thrust myself disguis'd among the croud,And fill their ears with murmurs of the deed:Whisper all is not well, blow up the sparksOf discord, and it soon will flame to rage.

Scene III

Queen and LysiasQueenHaste, and shew me to the Prince Arsaces,Delay not, see the signet of Vardanes.LysiasRoyal Thermusa, why this eagerness?This tumult of the soul? – what means this dagger?Ha! – I suspect —QueenHold – for I'll tell thee, Lysias.'Tis – oh! I scarce can speak the mighty joy —I shall be greatly blest in dear revenge,'Tis vengeance on Arsaces – yes, this handShall urge the shining poniard to his heart,And give him death – yea, give the ruffian death;So shall I smile on his keen agonies.LysiasHa! am I robb'd of all my hopes of vengeance,Shall I then calmly stand with all my wrongs,And see another bear away revenge?QueenFor what can Lysias ask revenge, to barHis Queen of hers?LysiasWas I not scorn'd, and spurn'd,With haughty insolence? like a base cowardRefus'd what e'er I ask'd, and call'd a boaster?My honour sullied, with opprobrious words,Which can no more its former brightness know,'Til, with his blood, I've wash'd the stains away.Say, shall I then not seek for glorious vengeance?QueenAnd what is this, to the sad Mother's griefs,Her hope cut off, rais'd up with pain and care?Hadst thou e'er supported the lov'd Prattler?Hadst thou like me hung o'er his infancy,Wasting in wakeful mood the tedious night,And watch'd his sickly couch, far mov'd from rest,Waiting his health's return? – Ah! hadst thou knownThe parent's fondness, rapture, toil and sorrow,The joy his actions gave, and the fond wishOf something yet to come, to bless my age,And lead me down with pleasure to the grave,Thou wouldst not thus talk lightly of my wrongs.But I delay —LysiasTo thee I then submit.Be sure to wreck a double vengeance on him;If that thou knowst a part in all his body,Where pain can most be felt, strike, strike him there —And let him know the utmost height of anguish.It is a joy to think that he shall fall,Tho' 'tis another hand which gives the blow.

Scene IV

Arsaces and BethasArsacesWhy should I linger out my joyless days,When length of hope is length of misery?Hope is a coz'ner, and beguiles our cares,Cheats us with empty shews of happiness,Swift fleeting joys which mock the faint embrace;We wade thro' ills pursuing of the meteor,Yet are distanc'd still.BethasAh! talk not of hope —Hope fled when bright Astræa spurn'd this earth,And sought her seat among the shining Gods;Despair, proud tyrant, ravages my breast,And makes all desolation.ArsacesHow can IBehold those rev'rent sorrows, see those cheeksMoist with the dew which falls from thy sad eyes,Nor imitate distraction's frantic tricks,And chace cold lifeless reason from her throne?I am the fatal cause of all this sorrow,The spring of ills, – to know me is unhappiness; —And mis'ry, like a hateful plague, pursuesMy wearied steps, and blasts the springing verdure.BethasNo; – It is I that am the source of all,It is my fortune sinks you to this trouble;Before you shower'd your gentle pity on me,You shone the pride of this admiring world. —Evanthe springs from me, whose fatal charmsProduces all this ruin. – Hear me heav'n!If to another love she ever yields,And stains her soul with spotted falsehood's crime,If e'en in expectation tastes a bliss,Nor joins Arsaces with it, I will wreckMy vengeance on her, so that she shall beA dread example to all future times.ArsacesOh! curse her not, nor threaten her with anger,She is all gentleness, yet firm to truth,And blest with ev'ry pleasing virtue, freeFrom levity, her sex's character.She scorns to chace the turning of the wind,Varying from point to point.BethasI love her, ye Gods!I need not speak the greatness of my love,Each look which straining draws my soul to hersDenotes unmeasur'd fondness; but mis'ry,Like a fretful peevish child, can scarce tellWhat it would wish, or aim at.ArsacesImmortals, hear!Thus do I bow my soul in humble pray'r —Thou, King of beings, in whose breath is fate,Show'r on Evanthe all thy choicest blessings,And bless her with excess of happiness;If yet, there is one bliss reserv'd in store,And written to my name, oh! give it her,And give me all her sorrows in return.Bethas'Rise, 'rise my Prince, this goodness o'erwhelms me,She's too unworthy of so great a passion.ArsacesI know not what it means, I'm not as usual,Ill-boding cares, and restless fears oppress me,And horrid dreams disturb, and fright, my slumbers;But yesternight, 'tis dreadful to relate,E'en now I tremble at my waking thoughts,Methought, I stood alone upon the shore,And, at my feet, there roll'd a sea of blood,High wrought, and 'midst the waves, appear'd my Father,Struggling for life; above him was Vardanes,Pois'd in the air, he seem'd to rule the storm,And, now and then, would push my Father down,And for a space he'd sink beneath the waves,And then, all gory, rise to open view,His voice in broken accents reach'd my ear,And bade me save him from the bloody stream;Thro' the red billows eagerly I rush'd,But sudden woke, benum'd with chilling fear.BethasMost horrible indeed! – but let it pass,'Tis but the offspring of a mind disturb'd,For sorrow leaves impressions on the fancy,Which shew most fearful to us lock'd in sleep.ArsacesThermusa! ha! – what can be her design?She bears this way, and carries in her looksAn eagerness importing violence.Retire – for I would meet her rage alone.

Scene V

Arsaces and QueenArsacesWhat means the proud Thermusa by this visit,Stoops heav'n-born pity to a breast like thine?Pity adorns th' virtuous, but ne'er dwellsWhere hate, revenge, and rage distract the soul.Sure, it is hate that hither urg'd thy steps,To view misfortune with an eye of triumph.I know thou lov'st me not, for I have dar'dTo cross thy purposes, and, bold in censure,Spoke of thy actions as they merited.Besides, this hand 'twas slew the curs'd Vonones.QueenAnd darst thou insolent to name Vonones?To heap perdition on thy guilty soul?There needs not this to urge me to revenge —But let me view this wonder of mankind,Whose breath can set the bustling world in arms.I see no dreadful terrors in his eye,Nor gathers chilly fears around my heart,Nor strains my gazing eye with admiration,And, tho' a woman, I can strike the blow.ArsacesWhy gaze you on me thus? why hesitate?Am I to die?QueenThou art – this dagger shallDissolve thy life, thy fleeting ghost I'll sendTo wait Vonones in the shades below.ArsacesAnd even there I'll triumph over him.QueenO, thou vile homicide! thy fatal handHas robb'd me of all joy; Vonones, toThy Manes this proud sacrifice I give.That hand which sever'd the friendship of thySoul and body, shall never draw againImbitt'ring tears from sorr'wing mother's eyes.This, with the many tears I've shed, receive[Offers to stab him.Ha! – I'd strike; what holds my hand? – 'tis n't pity.ArsacesNay, do not mock me, with the shew of death,And yet deny the blessing; I have metYour taunts with equal taunts, in hopes to urgeThe blow with swift revenge; but since that fails,I'll woo thee to compliance, teach my tonguePersuasion's winning arts, to gain thy soul;I'll praise thy clemency, in dying accentsBless thee for, this, thy charitable deed.Oh! do not stand; see, how my bosom heavesTo meet the stroke; in pity let me die,'Tis all the happiness I now can know.QueenHow sweet the eloquence of dying men!Hence Poets feign'd the music of the Swan,When death upon her lays his icy hand,She melts away in melancholy strains.ArsacesPlay not thus cruel with my poor request,But take my loving Father's thanks, and mine.QueenThy Father cannot thank me now.ArsacesHe will,Believe me, e'en whilst dissolv'd in ecstacyOn fond Evanthe's bosom, he will pause,One moment from his joys, to bless the deed.QueenWhat means this tumult in my breast? from whenceProceeds this sudden change? my heart beats high,And soft compassion makes me less than woman:I'll search no more for what I fear to know.ArsacesWhy drops the dagger from thy trembling hand?Oh! yet be kind —QueenNo: now I'd have thee live,Since it is happiness to die: 'Tis painThat I would give thee, thus I bid thee live;Yes, I would have thee a whole age a dying,And smile to see thy ling'ring agonies.All day I'd watch thee, mark each heighten'd pang,While springing joy should swell my panting bosom;This I would have – But should this dagger giveThy soul the liberty it fondly wishes,'Twould soar aloft, and mock my faint revenge.ArsacesThis mildness shews most foul, thy anger lovely.Think that 'twas I who blasted thy fond hope,Vonones now lies number'd with the dead,And all your joys are buried in his grave;My hand untimely pluck'd the precious flow'r,Before its shining beauties were display'd.QueenO Woman! Woman! where's thy resolution?Where's thy revenge? Where's all thy hopes of vengeance?Giv'n to the winds – Ha! is it pity? – No —I fear it wears another softer name.I'll think no more, but rush to my revenge,In spite of foolish fear, or woman's softness;Be steady now my soul to thy resolves.Yes, thou shalt die, thus, on thy breast, I writeThy instant doom – ha! – ye Gods![Queen starts, as, in great fright, at hearing something.ArsacesWhy this pause?Why dost thou idly stand like imag'd vengeance,With harmless terrors threatning on thy brow,With lifted arm, yet canst not strike the blow?QueenIt surely was the Echo to my fears,The whistling wind, perhaps, which mimick'd voice;But thrice methought it loudly cry'd, "Forbear."Imagination hence – I'll heed thee not —[Ghost of Artabanus rises.Save me – oh! – save me – ye eternal pow'rs! —See! – see it comes, surrounded with dread terrors —Hence – hence! nor blast me with that horrid sight —Throw off that shape, and search th' infernal roundsFor horrid forms, there's none can shock like thine.GhostNo; I will ever wear this form, thus e'erAppear before thee; glare upon thee thus,'Til desperation, join'd to thy damn'd crime,Shall wind thee to the utmost height of frenzy.In vain you grasp the dagger in your hand,In vain you dress your brows in angry frowns,In vain you raise your threatning arm in air,Secure, Arsaces triumphs o'er your rage.Guarded by fate, from thy accurs'd revenge,Thou canst not touch his life; the Gods have giv'nA softness to thy more than savage soulBefore unknown, to aid their grand designs.Fate yet is lab'ring with some great event,But what must follow I'm forbid to broach —Think, think of me, I sink to rise again,To play in blood before thy aching sight,And shock thy guilty soul with hell-born horrors —Think, think of Artabanus! and despair —[Sinks.QueenThink of thee, and despair? – yes, I'll despair —Yet stay, – oh! stay, thou messenger of fate!Tell me – Ha! 'tis gone – and left me wretched —ArsacesYour eyes seem fix'd upon some dreadful object,Horror and anguish clothe your whiten'd face,And your frame shakes with terror; I hear you speakAs seeming earnest in discourse, yet hearNo second voice.QueenWhat! saw'st thou nothing?ArsacesNothing.QueenNor hear'd? —ArsacesNor Hear'd.QueenAmazing spectacle! —Cold moist'ning dews distil from ev'ry pore,I tremble like to palsied age – Ye Gods!Would I could leave this loath'd detested being! —Oh! all my brain's on fire – I rave! I rave! —[Ghost rises again.Ha! it comes again – see, it glides along —See, see, what streams of blood flow from its wounds!A crimson torrent – Shield me, oh! shield me, heav'n. —ArsacesGreat, and righteous Gods! —QueenAh! frown not on me —Why dost thou shake thy horrid locks at me?Can I give immortality? – 'tis gone —[Ghost sinks.It flies me, see, ah! – stop it, stop it, haste —ArsacesOh, piteous sight! —QueenHist! prithee, hist! oh death!I'm all on fire – now freezing bolts of iceDart thro' my breast – Oh! burst ye cords of life —Ha! who are ye? – Why do ye stare upon me? —Oh! – defend me, from these bick'ring Furies!ArsacesAlas! her sense is lost, distressful Queen!QueenHelp me, thou King of Gods! oh! help me! help! —See! they envir'n me round – Vonones too,The foremost leading on the dreadful troop —But there, Vardanes beck'ns me to shunTheir hellish rage – I come, I come!Ah! they pursue me, with a scourge of fire. —[Runs out distracted.

Scene VI

Arsaces [alone]Oh! – horror! – on the ground she breathless lies,Silent, in death's cold sleep; the wall besmear'dWith brains and gore, the marks of her despair.O guilt! how dreadful dost thou ever shew!How lovely are the charms of innocence!How beauteous tho' in sorrows and distress! —Ha! – what noise? —[Clashing of swords.

Scene VII

Arsaces, Barzaphernes and GotarzesBarzaphernesAt length we've forc'd our entrance —O my lov'd Prince! to see thee thus, indeed,Melts e'en me to a woman's softness; seeMy eyes o'erflow – Are these the ornamentsFor Royal hands? rude manacles! oh shameful!Is this thy room of state, this gloomy goal?Without attendance, and thy bed the pavement?But, ah! how diff'rent was our parting last!When flush'd with vict'ry, reeking from the slaughter,You saw Arabia's Sons scour o'er the plainIn shameful flight, before your conqu'ring sword;Then shone you like the God of battle.ArsacesWelcome!Welcome, my loyal friends! Barzaphernes!My good old soldier, to my bosom thus!Gotarzes, my lov'd Brother! now I'm happy. —But, say, my soldier, why these threatning arms?Why am I thus releas'd by force? my Father,I should have said the King, had he relented,He'd not have us'd this method to enlarge me.Alas! I fear, too forward in your love,You'll brand me with the rebel's hated name.BarzaphernesI am by nature blunt – the soldier's manner.Unus'd to the soft arts practis'd at courts.Nor can I move the passions, or disguiseThe sorr'wing tale to mitigate the smart.Then seek it not: I would sound the alarm,Loud as the trumpet's clangour, in your ears;Nor win I hail you, as our Parthia's King,'Til you've full reveng'd your Father's murther.ArsacesMurther? – good heav'n!BarzaphernesThe tale requires some time;And opportunity must not be lost;Your traitor Brother, who usurps your rights,Must, ere his faction gathers to a head,Have from his brows his new-born honours torn.ArsacesWhat, dost thou say, murther'd by Vardanes?Impious parricide! – detested villain! —Give me a sword, and onward to the charge,Stop gushing tears, for I will weep in blood,And sorrow with the groans of dying men. —Revenge! revenge! – oh! – all my soul's on fire!Gotarzes'Twas not Vardanes struck the fatal blow,Though, great in pow'r usurp'd, he dares supportThe actor, vengeful Lysias; to his breastHe clasps, with grateful joy, the bloody villain;Who soon meant, with ruffian wiles, to cutYou from the earth, and also me.ArsacesJust heav'ns! —But, gentle Brother, how didst thou eludeThe vigilant, suspicious, tyrant's craft?GotarzesPhraates, by an accident, obtain'dThe knowledge of the deed, and warn'd by himI bent my flight toward the camp, to seekProtection and revenge; but scarce I'd leftThe city when I o'ertook the Gen'ral.BarzaphernesEre the sun 'rose I gain'd th' intelligence:The soldiers when they heard the dreadful tale,First stood aghast, and motionless with horror.Then suddenly, inspir'd with noble rage,Tore up their ensigns, calling on their leadersTo march them to the city instantly.I, with some trusty few, with speed came forward,To raise our friends within, and gain your freedom.Nor hazard longer, by delays, your safety.Already faithful Phraates has gain'dA num'rous party of the citizens;With these we mean t' attack the Royal Palace,Crush the bold tyrant with surprise, while sunkIn false security; and vengeance wreck,Ere that he thinks the impious crime be known.ArsacesO! parent being, Ruler of yon heav'n!Who bade creation spring to order, hear me.What ever sins are laid upon my soul,Now let them not prove heavy on this day,To sink my arm, or violate my cause.The sacred rights of Kings, my Country's wrongs,The punishment of fierce impiety,And a lov'd Father's death, call forth my sword. —Now on; I feel all calm within my breast,And ev'ry busy doubt is hush'd to rest;Smile heav'n propitious on my virtuous cause,Nor aid the wretch who dares disdain your laws.End of the Fourth Act

ACT V

Scene I. The Palace

The Curtain rises, slowly, to soft music, and discovers Evanthe sleeping on a sofa; after the music ceases, Vardanes enters.

VardanesNow shining Empire standing at the goal,Beck'ns me forward to increase my speed;But, yet, Arsaces lives, bane to my hopes,Lysias I'll urge to ease me of his life,Then give the villain up to punishment.The shew of justice gains the changeling croud,Besides, I ne'er will harbour in my bosomSuch serpents, ever ready with their stings —But now one hour for love and fair Evanthe —Hence with ambition's cares – see, where reclin'd,In slumbers all her sorrows are dismiss'd,Sleep seems to heighten ev'ry beauteous feature,And adds peculiar softness to each grace.She weeps – in dreams some lively sorrow pains her —I'll take one kiss – oh! what a balmy sweetness!Give me another – and another still —For ever thus I'd dwell upon her lips.Be still my heart, and calm unruly transports. —Wake her, with music, from this mimic death.[Music sounds.SongTell me, Phillis, tell me why,You appear so wond'rous coy,When that glow, and sparkling eye,Speak you want to taste the joy?Prithee, give this fooling o'er,Nor torment your lover more.While youth is warm within our veins,And nature tempts us to be gay,Give to pleasure loose the reins,Love and youth fly swift away.Youth in pleasure should be spent,Age will come, we'll then repent.Evanthe [waking]I come, ye lovely shades – Ha! am I here?Still in the tyrant's palace? Ye bright pow'rs!Are all my blessings then but vis'onary?Methought I was arriv'd on that blest shoreWhere happy souls for ever dwell, crown'd withImmortal bliss; Arsaces led me throughThe flow'ry groves, while all around me gleam'dThousand and thousand shades, who welcom'd meWith pleasing songs of joy – Vardanes, ha! —VardanesWhy beams the angry lightning of thine eyeAgainst thy sighing slave? Is love a crime?Oh! if to dote, with such excess of passionAs rises e'en to mad extravaganceIs criminal, I then am so, indeed.EvantheAway! vile man! —VardanesIf to pursue thee e'erWith all the humblest offices of love,If ne'er to know one single thought that doesNot bear thy bright idea, merits scorn —EvantheHence from my sight – nor let me, thus, polluteMine eyes, with looking on a wretch like thee,Thou cause of all my ills; I sicken atThy loathsome presence —Vardanes'Tis not always thus,Nor dost thou ever meet the sounds of loveWith rage and fierce disdain: Arsaces, soon,Could smooth thy brow, and melt thy icy breast.EvantheHa! does it gall thee? Yes, he could, he could;Oh! when he speaks, such sweetness dwells uponHis accents, all my soul dissolves to love,And warm desire; such truth and beauty join'd!His looks are soft and kind, such gentlenessSuch virtue swells his bosom! in his eyeSits majesty, commanding ev'ry heart.Strait as the pine, the pride of all the grove,More blooming than the spring, and sweeter far,Than asphodels or roses infant sweets.Oh! I could dwell forever on his praise,Yet think eternity was scarce enoughTo tell the mighty theme; here in my breastHis image dwells, but one dear thought of him,When fancy paints his Person to my eye,As he was wont in tenderness dissolv'd,Sighing his vows, or kneeling at my feet,Wipes off all mem'ry of my wretchedness.VardanesI know this brav'ry is affected, yetIt gives me joy, to think my rival onlyCan in imagination taste thy beauties.Let him, – 'twill ease him in his solitude,And gild the horrors of his prison-house,Till death shall —EvantheHa! what was that? till death – ye Gods!Ah, now I feel distress's tort'ring pang —Thou canst not, villain – darst not think his death —O mis'ry! —VardanesNaught but your kindness saves him,Yet bless me, with your love, and he is safe;But the same frown which kills my growing hopes,Gives him to death.EvantheO horror, I could dieTen thousand times to save the lov'd Arsaces.Teach me the means, ye pow'rs, how to save him:Then lead me to what ever is my fate.VardanesNot only shall he die, but to thy viewI'll bring the scene, those eyes that take delightIn cruelty, shall have enough of death.E'en here, before thy sight, he shall expire,Not sudden, but by ling'ring torments; allThat mischief can invent shall be practis'dTo give him pain; to lengthen out his woeI'll search around the realm for skillful men,To find new tortures.EvantheOh! wrack not thus my soul!VardanesThe sex o'erflows with various humours, heWho catches not their smiles the very moment,Will lose the blessing – I'll improve this softness. —[Aside to her.Heav'n never made thy beauties to destroy,They were to bless, and not to blast mankind;Pity should dwell within thy lovely breast,That sacred temple ne'er was form'd for hateA habitation; but a residenceFor love and gaiety.EvantheOh! heav'ns!VardanesThat sigh,Proclaims your kind consent to save Arsaces.[Laying hold of her.EvantheHa! villain, off – unhand me – hence —VardanesIn vainIs opportunity to those, who spendAn idle courtship on the fair, they wellDeserve their fate, if they're disdain'd; – her charmsTo rush upon, and conquer opposition,Gains the Fair one's praise; an active loverSuits, who lies aside the coxcomb's empty whine,And forces her to bliss.EvantheAh! hear me, hear me,Thus kneeling, with my tears, I do implore thee:Think on my innocence, nor force a joyWhich will ever fill thy soul with anguish.Seek not to load my ills with infamy,Let me not be a mark for bitter scorn,To bear proud virtue's taunts and mocking jeers,And like a flow'r, of all its sweetness robb'd,Be trod to earth, neglected and disdain'd,And spurn'd by ev'ry vulgar saucy foot.VardanesSpeak, speak forever – music's in thy voice,Still attentive will I listen to thee,Be hush'd as night, charm'd with the magic sound.EvantheOh! teach me, heav'n, soft moving eloquence,To bend his stubborn soul to gentleness. —Where is thy virtue? Where thy princely lustre?Ah! wilt thou meanly stoop to do a wrong,And stain thy honour with so foul a blot?Thou who shouldst be a guard to innocence.Leave force to brutes – for pleasure is not foundWhere still the soul's averse; horror and guilt,Distraction, desperation chace her hence.Some happier gentle Fair one you may find,Whose yielding heart may bend to meet your flame,In mutual love soft joys alone are found;When souls are drawn by secret sympathy,And virtue does on virtue smile.VardanesNo more —Her heav'nly tongue will charm me from th' intent —Hence coward softness, force shall make me blest.EvantheAssist me, ye bless't pow'rs! – oh! strike, ye Gods!Strike me, with thunder dead, this moment, e'erI suffer violation —Vardanes'Tis in vain,The idle pray'rs by fancy'd grief put up,Are blown by active winds regardless by,Nor ever reach the heav'ns.

Scene II

Vardanes, Evanthe and LysiasLysiasArm, arm, my Lord! —VardanesDamnation! why this interruption now? —LysiasOh! arm! my noble Prince, the foe's upon us.Arsaces, by Barzaphernes releas'd,Join'd with the citizens, assaults the Palace,And swears revenge for Artabanus' death.VardanesHa! what? revenge for Artabanus' death? —'Tis the curse of Princes that their counsels,Which should be kept like holy mysteries,Can never rest in silent secrecy.Fond of employ, some cursed tattling tongueWill still divulge them.LysiasSure some fiend from hell,In mischief eminent, to cross our views,Has giv'n th' intelligence, for man could not.EvantheOh! ever blest event! – All-gracious heav'n!This beam of joy revives me.

Scene III

Vardanes, Evanthe, Lysias, to them, an OfficerOfficerHaste! my Lord!Or all will soon be lost; tho' thrice repuls'dBy your e'erfaithful guards, they still returnWith double fury.VardanesHence, then, idle love —Come forth, my trusty sword – curs'd misfortune! —Had I but one short hour, without reluctance,I'd meet them, tho' they brib'd the pow'rs of hell,To place their furies in the van: Yea, rushTo meet this dreadful Brother 'midst the war —Haste to the combat – Now a crown or death —The wretch who dares to give an inch of groundTill I retire, shall meet the death he shun'd.Away – away! delays are dang'rous now —

Scene IV

Evanthe [alone]Now heav'n be partial to Arsaces' cause,Nor leave to giddy chance when virtue strives;Let victory sit on his warlike helm,For justice draws his sword: be thou his aid,And let the opposer's arm sink with the weightOf his most impious crimes – be still my heart,For all that thou canst aid him with is pray'r.Oh! that I had the strength of thousands in me!Or that my voice could wake the sons of menTo join, and crush the tyrant! —