Ari. Oh! by what friendly Means? Be swift to an fwer,

Nor waste the precious Minutes with Delay.

Seof. The King, now absent from the Palace, feems To yield a fair Occafion for your Wishes;

A private Postern opens to my Gardens,
Thro' which the beauteous Captive might remove
'Till Night, and a Disguise fhall farther aid her,
To fly with Safety to the Britons Camp.
'Tis true, one Danger I might well object

Ari. Oh! do not, do not blaft the springing Hopes
Which thy kind Hand has planted in my Soul,
If there be Danger, turn it all on me.

Let

my devoted Head

Seof. Nay!-'tis not much,

Tis but my Life; and I would gladly give it,

To buy your Peace of Mind.

Ari. Alas! what mean'ft thou?

Seof. Does it not follow plain? fhall not the King
Turn all his Rage upon this hoary Head?
Shall not all Arts of Cruelty be try'd,

To find out Tortures equal to my Falfhood?
Imagine you behold me bound and scourg'd,
My aged Muscles harrow'd up with Whips,
Or hear me groaning on the rending Rack,
Groaning and screaming with the fharpeft Senfe
Of piercing Pain; or see me gafh'd with Knives,
And fear'd with burning Steel, 'till the fcorch'd Marrow
Fries in the Bones, the fhrinking Sinews start,

A fmeary Foam works o'er my grinding Jaws,
And utmost Anguifh fhakes my lab'ring Frame:
For thus it must be.

Ari, Oh!

my Friend! my Father!

It

It must not be, it never can, it sha'not.

Wouldst thou be kind, and save my Ethelinda,
Leave me to answer all thy Brother's Fury.

The Crime, the Falfhood, fhall be all my own.
Seof. Just to my Wish.

Ari. Thou shalt accufe me to him.

[Afide.

Thou know'ft his own Admittance gave me Entrance:

Swear that I ftole her, that I forc'd her from thee;

Frame, with thy utmoft Skill, fome artful Tale,

And I'll avow it all.

Seof. Then have you thought

Upon the Danger, Sir?

Ari, Ob, there is none,

Can be no Danger while my Love is fafe.

Seof. Methinks indeed it leffens to my View.
When the first Violenge of Rage is over,
The Fondness of a Brother will return,
And plead your Cause with Nature in his Heart:
You will, you must be safe; and yet 'tis hard,
And grieves me much I should accuse you to him.
Ari. 'Tis that muft cover the Design. But fly,
Lofe not a Minute's time.

Hafte to remove her from this cursed Place;
My faithful Ofwald fhall at Night attend thee,
And help to guide her to the British Camp;
Thou know'ft that is not far.

Seof. Too near I know it.

Ari. She has a Brother there, the noble Lucius,
A gallant Youth, and dear to brave Ambrofius;
To his kind Care refign thy beauteous Charge.
Seof. This Inftant I obey you.

Ari. Half my Fears

Are over now

[Afide.

[Going

Seof.

Seef. One thing I had forgot.

It will import as much, that you should feem
Inclin'd to meet the Love of haughty Redogune:
>Twill coft you but a little courtly Flattery,

A kind refpectful Look, join'd with a Sigh,
And few foft tender Words, that mean just nothing,
Yet win most Womens Hearts. But fee fhe comes,
Conftrain your Temper, Sir, be falfe, and meet her
With her own Sex's Arts; purfue your Task,
And doubt not all fhall profper to your Wish.

Aribert folus.

[Exit Seofrid

Ari. She comes indeed! Now where fhall I begin, How fhall I teach my Tongue to frame a Language So different from my Heart? Oh Etbelinda !

My Heart was made to fit and pair with thine,
Simple and plain, and fraught with artless Tenderness;
Form'd to receive one Love, and only one,
But pleas'd and proud, and dearly fond of that,
It knows not what there can be in Variety,
And would not if it could.

Enter Rodogune.

Rodo. Why do I stay,

Why linger thus within this hated Place,
Where ev'ry Object shocks my loathing Eyes,
And calls my injur'd Glory to Remembrance?
The King! the Wretch; but wherefore did I name

him? }

Find out, my Soul, in thy rich Store of Thought,
Somewhat more Great, more Worthy of thy self;
Or let the mimick Fancy fhew its Art,
And paint fome pleafing Image to delight me.

Let

Let Beauty mix with Majesty and Youth,

Let manly Grace be temper'd well with Softnefs;
Let Love, the God himself, adorn the Work,
And I will call the charming Fantom, Aribert.
Oh Venus! - whither
Be hufh'd, my Tongue-ye Gods! 'tis he himself.

whither would I wander?

[Seeing Ari.

Ari. When, faireft Princefs, you avoid our Court, And lonely thus from the full Pomp retire, Love and the Graces follow to your Solitude; They croud to form the shining Circle round you, And all the Train seems yours; while Purple Majesty, And all thofe outward Shews which we call Greatness, Languish and droop, feem empty and forfaken, And draw the wondering Gazer's Eyes no more.

Rodo, The Courtier's Art is meanly known in Britain, If yours prefent their Service, and their Vows, At any Shrine but where their Master kneels. You know your Brother pays not his to me, Nor would I that he should.

Ari. The Hearts of Kings

Are plac'd, 'tis true, beyond their Subject's fearch;
Yet might I judge by Love or Reafon's Rules,
Where fhall my Brother find on Earth a Beauty,
Like what I now behold?

Rodo. That you can flatter,

Is common to your Sex; you say indeed,
We Women love it and perhaps we do.
Fools that we are, we know that you deceive us,
And yet, as if the Fraud were pleafing to us,

And our undoing Joy

And still we hear you

ftill you go on,

But, to change the Theme,

I'll find a fitter for you than my Beauty.

Ari. Then let it be the Love of Royal Hengift.

Rodo. The King, your Brother, could not chuse an Ad

vocate,

Whom I would fooner hear on any Subject,

Bating that only one, his Love, than you;

Tho' you perhaps (for fome have wondrous Arts)
Could foften the harsh Sound. The String that jars,
When rudely touch'd ungrateful to the Senfe,
With Pleasure feels the Master's flying Fingers,
Swells into Harmony, and charms the Hearers.
Ari. Then hear me speak of Love.

Rodo. But not of his.

Ari. 'Tis true, I should not grace the Story much, Rude and unskilful in the moving Passion, I should not paint its Flames with equal Warmth; Strength, Life, and glowing Colours would be wanting, And languid Nature speak the Work imperfect.

Rodo. Then happ'ly yet your Breaft remains untouch'd;

Though that feems ftrange: You've feen the Court of Britain;

There, as I oft have heard, imperial Beauty

Reigns in its native Throne, like Light in Heaven;
While all the Fair Ones of our neighb'ring World,
With fecond Luftre meanly feem to shine,

The faint Reflections of the Glory there.

Ari. If e'er my Heart incline to Thoughts of Love, Methinks I fhould not (tho' perhaps I err)

Expect to meet the gentle Paffion join'd

With Pomp and Greatnefs: Courts may boaft of Beauty, But Love is feldom found to dwell amongst 'em.

Rodo. Then Courts are wretched.