Long time unmatch'd in War the Hero fhone,
And mighty Fame in Fields of Battel won;
Till one fine Project of the Statesman's Brain
Bereaves him of the Spoils his Arms did gain,
And renders all his boafted Prowefs vain.
SCENE I. A Garden belonging to Mirza's Palace.
Cleone is difcover'd lying on a Bank of Flowers, Beliza attending.
SONG, by B. Stote Efq;
PON a fhady Bank repos'd,
Philanthe, amorous, young, and fair,
Sighing to the Groves difclos'd
The Story of her Care.
The Vocal Groves give fome relief,
While they her Notes return;
The Waters murmur o'er her Grief,
And Echo feems to mourn.
A Swain that heard the Nymph complain,
In pity of the Fair,
Thus kindly frove to cure her Pain,
And cafe her Mind of Care.
"Tis juft that Love should give you reft,
From Love your Torments came;
Take that warm Cordial to your Breast,
And meet a kinder Flame.
How wretched muft the Woman prove,
Beware fair Nymph, beware,
Whofe Folly Scorns another's Love
And courts her own Despair.
Cle. Oh Love! Thou Bane of an unhappy Maid !
Still art thou bufy at my panting Heart?
Still doft thou melt my Soul with thy foft Images,
And make my Ruin pleafing? Fondly I try
By Gales of Sighs and Floods of ftreaming Tears,
To vent my Sorrows, and affuage my Paffions;
Still fresh Supplies renew th' exhaufted Stores.
Love reigns my Tyrant, to himself alone
He vindicates the Empire of my Breaft,
And banishes all Thoughts of Joy for ever.
Bel. Why are you fill thus cruel to your felf?
Why do your feed and cherish the Disease,
That preys on your dear Life? How can you hope
To find a Cure for Love in Solitude ?
Why rather chufe you not to fhine at Court?
And in a thousand gay Diverfions there,
To lofe the Memory of this wretched Paffion?
Cleo. Alas! Beliza, thou haft never known
The fatal Power of a refiftless Love:
Like that avenging Guilt that haunts the Impious,
In vain we hope by flying to avoid it,
In Courts and Temples it purfues us ftill,
And in the loudest Clamours will be heard;
grows a Part of us, lives in our Blood,
And every beating Pulfe proclaims its Force..
Oh! think not then that I can fhun my felf
The Grave can only hide me from my Sorrows.
Bel. Allow me then at leaft to fhare your Griefs,
Companions in Misfortunes make 'em lefs
D 2
And I could fuffer much to make you easy.
Cleo. Sit by me, gentle Maid, and while I tell
A wretched Tale of unreguarded Love,
If thou in kind Compaffion of my Woes,
Shalt figh or fhed a Tear for my mishap,
My grateful Eyes fhall pay it back with Intereft.
Help me to rail at my too eafy Heart,
That rafhly entertain'd this fatal Guest:
And you, my Eyes, why were you still impatient
Of any other fight but Artaxerxes?
Why did you make my Woman's Heart acquainted
With all the thousand Graces and Perfections,
That drefs the lovely Hero up for Conqueft?
Bel. Had you oppos'd this Paffion in its Infancy,
E'er Time had given it ftrength, it might have dy'd.
Cleo. That was the fatal Error that undid me:
My Virgin Thoughts, and unexperienc'd Innocence,
Found not the Danger till it was too late.
And tho when first I faw the charming Frince,
I felt a pleafing Motion, at my Heart,
Short breathing Sighs heav'd in my panting Breast,
The mounting Blood flush'd in my glowing Face,
And dy'd my Cheeks with more than ufual Blushes
1 thought him fure the Wonder of his Kind,
And wifh'd my Fate had given me fuch a Brother:
Yet knew not that I lov'd, but thought that all,
Like me, beheld and blefs'd him for his Excellence.
Bel. Sure never hopeless Maid was curs'd before
With fuch a wretched Paffion; all the Gods
Join to oppofe your Happiness; 'tis faid
This day the Prince fhall wed the fair Ameftris.
Cleo. No, my Beliza, I have never known
The pleafing Thoughts of Hope: Certain Despair
Was born at once, and with my Love increas'd.
Bel. Think you the Prince has e'er perceiv'd your
Thoughts?
Cleo. Forbid it, all ye chafter Powers, that favour
The Modefty and Innocence of Maids:
No, till my Death no other Breast but thine
Shall e'er participate the fatal Secret.
O could I think that he had ever known
My hidden Flame, Shame and Confufion
Would force my Virgin Soul to leave her Manfion,
And certain Death enfue..
Thou nam'st the fair Ameftris, didst thou not?
Bel. Madam, I did.
Cleo. I envy not her Happiness;
Tho fure few of our Sex are blefs'd like her
In fuch a Godlike Lord.
Would I had been a Man!
With Honour then I might have fought his Friendfip:
Perhaps from long Experience of my Faith,
He might have loy'd me better than the rest.
Am dft the Dangers of the horrid War,
Still had I been the nearest to his fide;
In Courts and Triumphs ftill had fhar'd his Joys,.
Or when the sportful Chace had call'd us forth,
Together had we cheer'd our foaming Steeds,
Together prefs'd the Savage o'er the Plain :
And when o'er-labour'd with the pleafing Toil,
Stretch'd on the verdant Soil had flept together.
But whither does my roving Fancy wander?
These are the fick Dreams of fantastick Love.
So in a Calenture, the Seaman fancies
Green Fields and flowry Meadows on the Ocean,
Till leaping in, the Wretch is loft for ever.
Bel. Try but the common Remedies of Love,
And let a fecond Flame expel the first.
Cleo. Impoffible; as well thou mayft imagine,
When thou complain'ft of Heat at fcorching Noon,
Another Sun fhall rife to shine more kindly.
Believe me, my Beliza, I am grown
So fond of the Delusion that has charm'd
I hate the officious Hand that offers Cure.
Bel. Madam, Prince Artaban!
you then envy me my very But Death, the Wretch's only Remedy,
Shall hide me from your hated Light for ever.
Artab. Ah! lovely Mourner, ftill, ftill wilt thou blaft My eager Love with unaufpicious Tears? When at thy Feet I kneel, and fue for Pity, Or justly of thy cold Regards complain, Still wilt thou only answer we with Sighs?
Cleo. Alas! my Lord, what Anfwer can I give? If ftill I entertain you with my Grief,
Pity the Temper of a wretched Maid,
By Nature fad, and born the Child of Sorrow:
In vain you ask for Happiness from me,
Who want it for my felf.
Art. Can blooming Youth,
And Virgin Innocence, that knows not Guilt,
Know any Caufe for Grief?
The miferable State of Human Kind,
Where Wretches are the general Increafe,
And tell me if there be not Caufe for Grief.
Art. Such Thoughts as thefe, my fair Philofopher,
Inhabit wrinkled Cheeks and hollow Eyes;
The Marks which Years fet on the wither'd Sage:
The gentle Goddess, Nature, wifely has
Allotted other Cares for Youth and Beauty.
The God of Love ftands ready with his Torch
To light it at thy Eyes, but ftill in vain,
For e'er the Flame can catch 'tis drown'd in Tears.
Cleo. Oh! name not Love, the worst of all Misfor
The common Ruin of my eafy Sex,
Which I have fworn for ever to avoid,
In memory of all thofe hapless Maids,
That Love has plung'd in unexampled Woes.
Artab. Torbear to argue with that Angel Face,
Against the Paffion thou wert form'd to raise.
Alas! thy frozen Heart has only known
Love in reverse, not tafted of its Joys;
The Wishes, foft Defires, and pleasing Pains,
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