The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Ii Part 41

_Sem_. Ah, Madam, what is't you intend to do?

_Cleo_. What shou'd I do but die--ah! do not weep, But haste to do as I command ye: Haste, haste, the Time and my Revenge require it.

_Sem_. For Heaven's sake, Madam, for your royal self, Do not pursue this cruel fatal Enterprize; Pity the Queen, your Servants, and all Mankind.

_Cleo_. Away, thou feeble thing, that never knew'st the real Joys of Love, Or ever heard of any Grief like mine; If thou wou'dst give me Proofs of thy Esteem, Forget all Words, all Language, but Revenge.

Let me not see so much of Woman in thee To shed one Tear, but dress thy Eyes with fierceness, And send me forth to meet my Love, as gay, As if intended for my nuptial Day.

That Soul that sighs in pity of my Fate, Shall meet returns of my extremes! Hate: Pity with my Revenge must find no room; I'll bury all but Rage within thy Tomb.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. _A Flat Wood_.

_Enter_ Cleomena _drest in_ Clemanthis's _Clothes_, Semiris _bearing the Cap and Feather_, Pimante _the Sword_.

_Cleo_. Come, my _Semiris_, you must a.s.sist a little, And you, _Pimante_, buckle on my Sword.

_Pim_. I never parted with a Sword so unwillingly in my Life.

_Cleo_. So--How dost thou like me now?

Might I not pa.s.s, thus habited, for _Clemanthis_?

_Pim_. Yes, Madam, till you come to the fighting part.

_Cleo_. Now go, and do as I have ordered you.

_Sem_. Ah, Madam, though I must not wait on you to fight, I will in Death, 'tis my first Act, and last of Disobedience.

[_Weeps_.

_Cleo_. Do not disturb me with thy Grief, _Semiris_: Go leave me to my self, and Thoughts of Vengeance: And thou, base Traitor-Prince, shalt buy thy Life At such a Rate shall ruin thee for ever; And if I fall--as I believe I shall-- The very Shame to know I am a Woman, Shall make thee curse thy Fortune and thy Arms, If thou hast any Sense of Manhood left, After the barbarous Murder thou hast done: But if my better Fortune guide my Arm, This Arm (whom Love direct) to meet thy Heart, Then I shall die with real Satisfaction.

The time draws on when I should try my Fate; a.s.sist me, mighty Love, in my Design, That I may prove no Pa.s.sion equals mine.

_Sem_. Madam, consider whom you must encounter.

_Cleo_. Consider thou who's dead, the brave _Clemanthis_!

[_Weeps_.

Oh, 'tis a Shame to weep, being thus attir'd; Let me once more survey my self-- And yet I need not borrow Resolution: _Clemanthis_, thou art murder'd, that's the Word, 'Tis that creates me Man, and valiant too, And all incensed Love can prompt me to.

Hark--hark--the joyful Summons to my Death.

[_Trumpets sound_.

Go, leave me to approach it solemnly-- Come, my dear Sword, from thee I must expect That Service which my Arm may fail to affect; And if thou ever did'st thy Master love, Be sure each Stroke thou mak'st may mortal prove.

[_Exeunt severally_.

SCENE II. _Between the two Camps_.

_After a Noise of Trumpets at some distance and fighting, the Scene draws, and discovers_ Cleomena _and_ Thersander _fighting_: Lysander. _On one side stands the_ King of Scythia _with his Party: on the other, the_ Queen of Dacia, Hon.

Artabazes, _and her Party_: Vallentio.

_Ther_. What mak'st thou to fight as if indeed thou wert _Clemanthis_?

But since thou art not him thou represent'st, Whoe'er thou be'st, 'twas indiscreetly done, To draw me from an order might have sav'd thee; --Whois't that dares a.s.sume _Clemanthis'_ shape?

[_They fight_.

_Cleo_. Unworthy _Scythian_, whose reported Valour Unjustly was admir'd, cou'dst thou believe the covert of the Wood [Cleo. _falls, he stoops to look on her_.

Cou'd hide thy Treason--Treason which thou durst own too?

[_A cry of Joy on the_ Scythian's _side_.

_Ther_. Ah! _Cleomena_, is it you?

What have I done that could so far transport you?

_Clemanthis'_ Boldness has incur'd your Hate, But he has been severely punisht for't; And here in lieu of that unhappy Stranger, Receive _Thersander_ with his equal Pa.s.sions, But not his equal Crimes.

_Cleo_. Oh, Villain, since thou'st punish'd _Clemanthis_, Punish the unhappy _Cleomena_ too, And take her Life who came to have taken thine.

_Qu_. 'Tis not _Clemanthis_, but my _Cleomena_-- With whom _Thersander_ fights--ah, cruel Child; [_They carry her off_.

_Ther_. Oh, whither, whither do you bear my G.o.ddess?

Return, and here resign your sacred Load, That whilst't has Life it may behold the Sacrifice That I will make of this wild wretched Man That has so much offended--Disobey'd!

--My Arms, my Arms, Lysander, mount me strait, And let me force the disobedient Troops; Those Coward-Slaves that could behold her bleed, And not revenge her on the Murderer: Quickly my Arms, kill, burn, and scatter all; Whilst 'midst the Ruins of the World I fall.

[_The_ Scythian _Guards carry him off by force.

Enter_ Ismenes _with his Sword. They all descend_.

_Ism_. Still thus defeated and outstript by Fate, Resolv'd betimes, but sallied out too late; Fortune and Love are equally unkind: --Who can resist those mighty Powers combin'd?

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _A Prison_.

_Enter_ Orsames, Geron.

_Ger_. May I not know what 'tis afflicts you so?

You were not wont to hide your Soul from me.

_Ors_. Nor wou'd I now, knew I but how to tell thee; Oh, _Geron_, thou hast hitherto so frighted me With thoughts of Death, by Stories which thou tell'st Of future Punishment i'th' other World, That now I find thou'st brought me to endure Those Ills from Heaven thou say'st our Sins procure.

There's not a little G.o.d of all the Number That does not exercise his Arts on me, And practise Power, which by my suffering He grows more mighty in--I'll not endure it.

_Ger_. Why not, as well as I?

_Ors_. Thou may'st do what thou wilt; but there's a Difference (As vast as 'twixt the Sun and lesser Lights) Between thy Soul and mine; Thou canst contented sit whole Days together, And entertain thy Lute, that dull Companion, Till duller Sleep does silence it and thee: But I, whose active Soul despise that drousy G.o.d, Can ever dare him in his height of Power: Then when he ties thee to thy lazy Couch, Where thou'rt so far from Sense, thou'st lost thy Soul; Even then, my Geron, my divertive Fancy Possesses me, beyond thy waking Thought-- But, _Geron_, all was but an airy Dream; I wak'd, and found my self a thing like thee.

_Ger_. What was your Dream?