The Favourite of the Gods, and Joy of Men-
I faint! Oh! let me lean upon your Arm-
Artax. Hold up the Light, my Father; Ha! fhe
The Iron-hand of Death is on her Beauties,
And fee, like Lillies nipp'd with Froft, they languish.
Mem. My tough old Soldier's Heart melts at the Sight,
And an unwonted Pity moves my Breaft.
Ill-fated Maid, too good for that damn'd Race,
From which thou drew'ft thy Being! Sure the Gods,
Angry e'er while, will be at length appeas'd
With this egregious Victim: let us tempt 'em
Now while they seem to smile.
Artax. A Beam of Hope,
Strikes thro my Soul, like the firft infant Light,
That glanc'd upon the Chaos; if we reach
The open City, Fate may be ours again :
But Oh! whate'er Succefs or Happiness
Attend my Life, still fair unhappy Maid,
Still fhall thy Memory be my Grief and Honour.
On one fix'd Day in each returning Year,
Cyprefs and Myrtle for thy Sake I'll wear,
Ev'n my Ameftris thy hard Fate fhall mourn,
And with fresh Rofes crown thy Virgin Urn.
Till, in Elyfium blefs'd, thy gentle Shade
Shall own my Vows of Sorrow juftly paid. [Exeunt,
Enter Mirza, Magas, and Attendants with Lights.
HO! You o'er-rate the Danger.
We err in the Extreams, fince you e
fteem it
As much too lightly; think you then 'tis nothing,
This horrid Jar of Tumult and Confusion?
Heads white with Years, and vers'd in long Experience,
Who yet remember all the different Changes
A rolling Age produces, cannot call
To Mind one Inftance dreadful as this Night
Infernal Discord, hideous to behold,
Hangs like its evil Genius o'er the City,
And fends a Snake to every vulgar Breaft.
From feveral Quarters the mad Rabble swarm,
Arm'd with the Inftruments of hafty Rage,
And in confus'd diforderly Array
Most formidable march: their differing Clamours,
Together join'd, compofe the deafning Sound;
Arm! Arm! they cry, Religion is no more,
Our Gods are flighted, whom if we revenge not,
War, Peftilence, and Famine will enfue,
And univerfal Ruin fwallows all.
Mirz. A Crew of mean unthinking heartless Slaves,
With ease stirr'd up to Mutiny, and quell'd
With the fame eafe, with like Expreffions fhew
Their Joy or Anger, both are Noife and Tumult.
Add ftill when Holidays make Labour cease,
They meet and fhout do thefe deferve our Fears?
Mag. Moft certainly they may; if we confider
Each Circumftance of Peril that concurs;
Tigranes, with the reft that 'fcap'd the Temple,
Are mix'd amongst this Herd, and urge the Wrongs
Which with the Gods their Prince and Memnon fuffer,
Mirz. Nor need we fear ev'n that, fafe in the Aid
And Number of our Friends, who treble theirs :
For this mad Rout that hum and fwarm together
For want of fomewhat to employ their Folly,
Indulge 'em in their Fancy for Religion.
Thou and thy holy Brotherhood of Priests,
Shall in Proceffion bear the facred Fire,
And all our golden Gods; let their Friends judge
If ftill they look not kindly as of old:
'Tis a moft apt Amufement for a Crowd,
They'l gaze, and gather round the gaudy Shew,
And quite forget the Thoughts of Mutiny..
A Guard fhall wait you.
Mag. Why go not you too with us?
They hold your Wisdom in moft high regard,
And will be greatly fway'd by your Perfwafion,
Th' occafion is well worth your Care and Presence.
Mirz. O you'l not need my Aid: Befides, my Friend,
My Hours this Night are deftin'd to a Task
Of more import, than are the Fates of Millions
Such grovelling Souls as theirs. As yet the Secret
Is immature, nor worth your prefent Knowledge:
To-morrow that and all my Breast is yours.
I must not, dare not truft him with my Weakness,
'Twill mark me for his Scorn; 'tis yet fome Wisdom,
If we must needs be Fools, to hide our Folly. [Afide.
Mag. He means the Pris'ners death, let him engrofs
The People's hate, monopolize Damnation,
I will be fafely ignorant of Mischief.
Hereafter, when your Wifdom fhall think fit
To fhare thofe Thoughts, and truft 'em with your Friend,
I fhall be pleas'd to know; this inftant Hour,
My Cares are all employ'd on my own Province,
Which haftes me hence.
Mirz. May all your Gods affift you.
An Apartment in Mirza's Palace.
Amef. Will ye not hear, ye ever gracious Gods? Since fure you do not joy in our Misfortunes, But only try the Strength of our frail Vertue. Are not my Sorrows full? Can ought be added? My Royal Lord, and Father! ye dear Names In which my all of Happiness was fumm'd, What have the Minifters of Fate done with you ? Are you not dead? Too fure! That's past a doubt; O Memnon! Oh my Prince! My Father! Oh my Husband!
Mirg. Such Juno was (except alone thofe Tears) When, upon Ida's Top, fhe charm'd the God,
That long had been a Stranger to her Bed
Made him forget the Bufinefs of the World,
And lay afide his Providence, t'employ
The whole Divinity upon her Beauty.
And fure 'twas worth the while, had 1 been Jove,
So had I too been pleas'd to be deceiv'd
Into immortal Joys. Oh ceafe thy Tears!
Amef. Give 'em me back, or if the Grave and thou
Reftore to none, Oh join my Fate to theirs ;
Shut us together in fome filent Vault,
Where I may fit and weep till Death's kind Hand
Shall lay me gently by my Lord's dear fide,
And hufh my Sorrows in eternal Slumber.
Mirz. In pity to your Form affuage thofe Tears,
Sorrow is Beauty's Bane; nor let your Breaft
Harbour a Fear: I wage not War with fair ones;
But wish you would efface thofe ugly Thoughts,
That live in your Remembrance to perplex you;
Let Joy, the Native of your Soul, return,
And Love's gay God fit fmiling in your Eyes,
As e'rft he did; I wifh you wondrous well,
And would fo fully recompence the Lofs
You fondly mourn, that when you count the Gains,
Your felf fhould own your Fortunes are well chang'd.
Amef. Oh impious Comforter! talk'ft thou of Joy,
When Nature dictates only Death and Horror,
Is there a God can break the Laws of Fate?
And give me back the precious Lives I've loft?
What nam'st thou Recompence? Can ought atone
For Blood? A Father's and a Husband's Blood?
Such Comfort brings the hungry midnight Wolf,
When having flain the Shepherd, fmear'd with Gore,
He leaps amidst the helpless bleating Flock.
Mirz. Away with this Perverseness of thy Sex,
Thele foolish Tears, thefe peevish Sighs and Sobbings!
Look up, be gay, and chear me with thy Beauties,
And, to thy wish I will indulge thy Fancy,
Not all the imagin'd Splendor of the Gods
Shall match thy Pomp, fublimely fhalt thou fhine,
The Boaft and Glory of our Afian World;
Nor fhall one She of all thy towring Sex
Out-rival thee (thou lovely Fair) in Power,
Oh think on Power, on Power and Place fupreme.
Amef. There is but one, one only thing to think on,
My murder'd Lord, and his dark gaping Grave,
That waits unclos'd impatient of my coming.
Mirz. Oh liften, gentle Maid, while I impart
A Story of fuch foftnefs to thy Ear,
As (like the Halcyon brooding o'er the Waves)
May with its Influence hufh thy ftormy Griefs.
Amef. Begone, and if thou bear'ft one Thought of
Pity
In that hard Breaft; Oh leave me to my felf,
Nor by thy Prefence, hideous to my Soul,
And horrid Confolations, ftrive to add
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