Page images
PDF
EPUB

Which your damned drugs, throw through the lingering world.

Rox. Rend not your temper; see a general silence

Confirms the bloody pleasure, which I sought; She dies.

Alex. And darest thou, monster, think to escape?

[ocr errors]

Stat. Life's on the wing,-my love, my lord, Come to my arms, and take the last adieu ! Here let me lie, and languish out my soul.

Alex. Answer me, father, wilt thou take her from me?

What, is the black, sad hour at last arrived,
That I must never clasp her body more?
Never more bask in her eye-shine again,
Nor view the loves, that played in those dear
beams,

And shot me with a thousand thousand smiles? Stat. Farewel, my dear, my life, my most loved lord!

I swear by Orosmades 'tis more pleasure,
More satisfaction that I thus die yours,
Than to have lived another's-Grant me one
thing.

Alex. All, all, but speak, that I may execute Before I follow thee.

Stat. Leave not the earth

Before Heaven calls you; spare Roxana's life;
'Twas love of you, that caused her give me death.
And, O! sometimes, amidst your revels, think
Of your poor queen, and ere the chearful bowl
Salute your lips, crown it with one rich tear,
And I am happy.

[Dies.

Alex. Close not thy eyes!
Things of import I have to speak before
Thou tak'st thy journey :-Tell the gods I'm
coming,

To give them an account of life and death,
And many other hundred thousand policies,
That much concern the government of heaven-
O she is gone the talking soul is mute!
She's hushed, no voice of music now is heard!
The bower of beauty is more still than death;
The roses fade, and the melodious bird,

That waked their sweets, has left them now for

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

pieces,

My dust shall be inspired with a ne
a new fondness;
Still the love-motes shall play before your eyes,
Where'er you go, however you despise.

Alex. Away! there's not a glance that flies from thee,

But, like a basilisk, comes winged with death. Rox. O speak not such harsh words, my royal master!

Look not so dreadful on your kneeling servant;
But take, dear sir, O take me into grace,
By the dear babe, the burden of my womb,
That weighs me down, when I would follow

faster!

My knees are weary, and my force is spent:
O do not frown, but clear thy angry brow!
Your eyes will blast me, and your words are bolts,
That strike me dead; the little wretch I bear,
Leaps frighted at your wrath, and dies within

me.

Alex. O thou hast touched my soul so tenderly, That I will raise thee, though thy hands are ruin. Rise, cruel woman, rise, and have a care, O do not hurt that unborn innocence, For whose dear sake I now forgive thee all. But haste, begone! fly, fly from these sad eyes, Fly with thy pardon, lest I call it back; Though I forgive thee, I must hate thee ever.

Ror. I go, I fly for ever from thy sight.
My mortal injuries have turned my mind,
And I could curse myself for being kind.
If there be any majesty above,

That has revenge in store for perjured love,
Send, Heaven, the swiftest ruin on his head;
Strike the destroyer, lay the victor dead;
Kill the triumpher, and avenge my wrong,
In height of pomp, while he is warm and

young;

Bolted with thunder let bim rush along,
And when in the last pangs of life he lies,
Grant I may stand to dart him with my eyes:
Nay, after death,

Pursue his spotted ghost, and shoot him as he flies! [Erit.

Alex. O my fair star, I shall be shortly with thee;

For I already feel the sad effects
Of those most fatal imprecations.
What means this deadly dew upon my forehead?
My heart too heaves.

Cass. It will anon be still-
The poison works,

[Aside

R

[Aside.

Pol. I'll see the wished effect
Ere I remove, and gorge me with revenge.
Enter PERDICCAS and LYSIMACHUS.
Per. I beg your majesty will pardon me,
A fatal messenger;

Great Sysigambis, hearing Statira's death,
Is now no more;

Her last words gave the princess to the brave
Lysimachus: but that, which most will strike you,
Your dear Hephestion, having drank too largely
At your last feast, is of a surfeit dead.

Aler. How! dead? Hephestion dead? alas, the dear

Unhappy youth!-But he sleeps happy,

I must wake for ever:-This object, this,
This face of fatal beauty,

Will stretch my lids with vast, eternal tears-
Who had the care of poor Hephestion's life?
Lys. Philarda, the Arabian artist.

Alex. Fly, Meleager, hang him on a cross!
That for Hephestion.

But here lies my fate; Hephestion, Clytus,
All my victories for ever folded up:
In this dear body my banner's lost,
My standard's triumph's gone!

O when shall I be mad? Give order to

The army, that they break their shields, swords,

spears,

Pound their bright armour into dust; away!
Is there not cause to put the world in mourning?
Tear all your robes:-he dies, that is not naked
Down to the waste, all like the sons of sorrow.
Burn all the spires, that seem to kiss the sky;
Beat down the battlements of every city;
And for the monument of this loved creature,
Root up those bowers, and pave them all with
gold:

Draw dry the Ganges, make the Indies poor;
To build her tomb, no shrines nor altars spare,
But strip the shining gods to make it rare. [Exit.
Cass. Ha! whither now? follow him, Polyper-
chon.
[Exit POL.
I find Cassander's plot grows full of death;
Murder is playing her great master-piece,
And the sad sisters sweat, so fast I urge them.
O how I hug myself for this revenge!
My fancy's great in mischief; for methinks
The night grows darker, and the labouring ghosts,
For fear that I should find new torments out,
Run o'er the old with most prodigious swiftness.
I see the fatal fruit betwixt the teeth,
The sieve brim-full, and the swift stone stand still.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

A bolt of ice runs hissing through my bowels: 'Tis sure the arm of death: give me a chair; Cover me, for I freeze, and my teeth chatter, And my knees knock together.

Perd. Heaven bless the king! Alex. Ha! who talks of heaven? I am all hell; I burn, I burn again! The war grows wondrous hot; hey for the Tigris Bear me, Bucephalus, amongst the billows: O'tis a noble beast; I would not change him For the best horse the Sun has in his stable: For they are hot, their mangers full of coals, Their manes are flakes of lightning, curls of fire, And their red tails, like meteors, whisk about. Lys. Help all, Eumenes, help! I cannot hold him!

Aler. Ha, ha, ha! I shall die with laughter. Parmenio, Clytus, dost thou see yon fellow, That ragged soldier, that poor tattered Greek? See how he puts to flight the gaudy Persians, With nothing but a rusty helmet on, throu which

The grizzly bristles of his pushing beard

Drive them like pikes-Ha, ha, ha!
Perd. How wild he talks!

Lys. Yet warring in his wildness.

Alex. Sound, sound, keep your ranks close; ay, now they come:

O the brave din, the noble clank of arms! Charge, charge apace, and let the phalanx move; darius comes-ha! let me in, none Dare

To cross my fury.-Philotas is unhorsed; ay, 'tis Darius;

I see, I know him by the sparkling plumes,
And his gold chariot, drawn by ten white horses:
But, like a tempest, thus I pour upon him-
He bleeds! with that last blow I brought him
down;

He tumbles! take him, snatch the imperial crown. They fly, they fly!--follow, follow!--Victoria! Victoria!

Victoria!- -O let me sleep.

Perd. Let's raise him softly, and bear him to his bed.

Aler. Hold, the least motion gives me sudden
death;

My vital spirits are quite parched up,
And all my smoky entrails turned to ashes.
Lys. When you, the brightest star that ever
shone,

Shall set, it must be night with us for ever.

Alex. Let me embrace you all before I die: Weep not, my dear companions; the good gods Shall send you, in my stead, a nobler prince, One that shall lead you forth with matchless conduct.

[blocks in formation]

EPILOGUE.

WHATE'ER they mean, yet ought they to be curst,
Who this censorious age did polish first,
Who the best play for one poor error blame,
As priests against our ladies's arts declaim,
And for one patch both soul and body damn.
But what does more provoke the actor's rage,
(For we must shew the grievance of the stage)
Is, that our women, which adorn each play,
Bred at our cost, become at length your prey:
While green and sour, like trees we bear them
all,

But when they're mellow, straight to you they fall;

You watch them bare and squab, and let them rest,

But with the first young down you snatch the

nest.

Pray leave those poaching tricks, if you are wise,
Ere we take out one letter of reprise;
For we have vowed to find a sort of toys
Known to black friars, a tribe of chopping boys;
If once they come, they'll quickly spoil your
sport;

There's not one lady will receive your court:

But for the youth in petticoats run wild,
With," oh! the archest wag, the sweetest child!"
The panting breast, white hands, and lily feet,
No more shall your pall'd thoughts with plea-

sure meet:

The woman in boy's clothes all boy shall be, And never raise your thoughts above the knee. Well, if our women knew how false you are, They would stay here, and this new trouble

spare:

Poor souls! they think all gospel you relate,
Charmed with the noise of settling an estate;
But when at last your appetites are full,
And the tired Cupid grows with action dull,
You'll find some tricks to cut off the entail,
And send them back to us all worn and stale.
Perhaps they'll find our stage, while they have
rang'd,

To some vile canting conventicle chang'd;
Where, for the sparks who once resorted there,
With their curl'd wigs that scented all the air,
They'll see grave blockheads with short greasy
hair,

Green aprons, steeple-hats, and collar-bands,

Dull sniv❜ling rogues that wring-not clap their | hands;

Where for gay punks that drew the shining crowd,

And misses that in vizards laugh'd aloud, They'll hear young sisters sigh, see matrons old

To their chopp'd cheeks their pickled kerchers hold,

Whose zeal too might persuade, in spite to you,
Our flying angels to augment their crew;
While Farringdon, their hero, struts about 'em,
And ne'er a damning critic dares to flout 'em.

21

THEODOSIUS:

OR,

THE FORCE OF LOVE.

BY

NATHANIEL LEE.

PROLOGUE.

WIT long opprest, and fill'd at last with rage,
Thus in a sullen mood rebukes the age:
What loads of fame do modern heroes bear,
For an inglorious, long, and lazy war?
Who for some skirmish, or a safe retreat,
(Not to be dragg'd to battle) are called great.
But oh, what do ambitious statesmen gain,
Who into private chests whole nations drain?
What sums of gold they hoard, is daily known,
To all men's cost, and sometimes to their own.
Your lawyer too, that like an oyes bawls,
That drowns the market-higler in the stalls,
That seems begot, conceiv'd, and born in
brawls,

Yet thrives: he and his crowd get what they please,

Swarming all term-time through the Strand

like bees,

They buz at Westminster, and lie for fees.
The godly too their ways of getting have,
But none so much as your fanatic knave:
Wisely the wealthiest livings they refuse,
Who by the fattest bishoprics would lose;
Who with short hair, large ears, and small blue
band,

True rogues, their own, not god's elect, command. Let pigs then be prophane; but broth's allow'd, Possets and christian caudles may be good, Meat helps, to reinforce a brother's blood; Therefore each female saint he doth advise, With groans, and hums, and ha's, and goggling

eyes,

To rub him down, and make the spirit rise;
While with his zeal transported from the ground,
He mounts, and sanctifies the sisters round.
On poets only no kind star e'er smil'd;
Curst fate has damn'd 'em every mother's child:
Therefore he warns his brothers of the stage,
To write no more for an ungrateful age.
Think what penurious masters you have serv'd;
Tasso run mad, and noble Spencer starv'd:
Turn then, whoe're thou art that canst write
well,

Thy ink to gall, and in lampoons excel.
Forswear all honesty, traduce the great,
Grow impudent, and rail against the state;
Bursting with spleen, abroad thy pasquils send,
And chuse some libel-spreader for thy friend:
The wit and want of Timon point thy mind,
And for thy satyr-subject chuse mankind.

[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »