Classic Poem

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Enter Abdall and Morat.

Abd. I Ever fear'd the Prince's too much greatness
Would make him less: the gretast heights are near
The greatest Precipice.
Mor. 'Tis in Worldly accidents
As in the World it self, where things most distant
Meet one another: Thus the East and West,
Upon the Globe, a Mathematick point
Only divides: Thus Happiness and Misery,
And all extreams, are still contiguous.
Abd. Or, if 'twixt Happiness and Misery there be
A distance, 'tis an Airy Vacuum ;
Nothing to moderate, or break the fall.
Mor. But oh this Saint-like Devil!
This damned Caliph , to make the King believe
To kill his Son, 's Religion.
Abd. Poor Princes, how are they mis-led!
While they, whose sacred Office 'tis to bring
Kings to obey their God, and Men their King;
By these mysterious links to fix and tye
Them to the Foot-stool of the Deity;
Even by these Men, Religion, that should be
The Curb, is made the Spur to Tyranny:
They with their double Key of Conscience bind
The Subjects Souls, and leave Kings unconfin'd;
While their poor Vassals Sacrifice their Bloods
T'Ambition; and to Avarice, their Goods:
Blind with Devotion. They themselves esteem
Made for themselves, and all the World for them;
While Heav'ns great Law, given for their Guide, appears
Just, or unjust, but as it waits on theirs:
Us'd, but to give the Eccho to their Words,
Power to their Wills, and Edges to their Swords.
To varnish all their Errors, and secure
The Ills they act, and all the World endure.
Thus by their Arts Kings awe the World, while they
Religion, as their Mistress, seem t'obey;
Yet as their Slave Command her; while they seem
To rise to Heav'n, they make Heav'n stoop to them.
Mor. Nor is this all, where feign'd Devotion bends
The highest things, to serve the lowest ends:
For if the many-headed Beast hath broke,
Or shaken from his Neck the Royal Yoke,
With popular Rage, Religion doth conspire,
Flows into that, and swells the Torrent higher:
Then Power's first Pedigree from Force derives,
And calls to mind the old Prerogatives
Of free-born Man; and with a saucy Eye
Searches the Heart and Soul of Majesty:
Then to a strict account, and censure brings
The Actions, Errors, the End of Kings;
Treads on Authority, and Sacred Laws;
Yet all for God, and his pretended Cause,
Acting such things for him, which he in them,
And which themselves in others will condemn;
And thus engag'd, nor safely can retire,
Nor safely stand, but blindly bold aspire,
Forcing their hopes, even through despair, to climb
To new attempts; disdain the present time,
Grow from Disdain to Threats, from Threats to Arms;
While they (though Sons of Peace) still sound th'Alarms:
Thus whether Kings or People seek extreams,
Still Conscience and Religion are their Themes:
And whatsoever Change the State invades,
The Pulpit either forces, or perswades.
Others may give the Fewel, or the Fire;
But they the Breath, that makes the Flame, inspire.
Abd. This, and much more is true; but let not us
Add to our ills, and aggravate Misfortunes
By passionate Complaints, nor lose our selves,
Because we have lost him; for if the Tyrant
Were to a Son so noble, so unnatural;
What will he be to us, who have appear'd
Friends to that Son?
Mor. Well thought on, and in time;
Farewel unhappy Prince, while we thy Friends,
As Strangers to our Country, and our selves,
Seek out our Safety, and expect with Patience
Heav'ns Justice.
Abd. Let's rather act it, than expect it:
The Prince's Injuries at our hands require
More than our Tears, and Patience:
His Army is not yet disbanded,
And only wants a head; thither we'll flye,
And all who love the Prince, or hate the Tyrant,
Will follow us.
Mor. Nobly resolv'd; and either we'll restore
The Prince, or perish in the brave attempt.
Ye Gods, since what we mean to execute,
Is your high office (to avenge the Innocent)
Assist us with a Fortune, equal to
The Justice of our Action; lest the World
Should think it self deluded, and mistrust
That you want Will, or Power to be Just.

Enter Haly.

Ha. 'Tis done, and 'twas my Master-piece, to work
My Safety 'twixt two dangerous extreams;
Now like a skilful Sailor have I past
Scylla and Charybdis , I have scap't the Rock
Of steep Ambition, and the gulf of Jealousie,
A danger less avoided, cause less fear'd.

Enter Mirvan.

Mir. What's done, my Lord?
Ha. Enough, I warrant you; Imprison'd, and depriv'd of sight.
Mor. No more? This but provokes him: can you think
Your self secure, and he alive?
Ha. The rest o' th' business will do it self;
He can as well endure a Prison, as a wild Bull the Net:
There let him struggle, and toyl himself to death,
And save us so much Envy.
Mir. But if his Father should relent, such Injuries
Can receive no excuse or colour, but to be
Transferr'd upon his Counsellors; and then
The forfeiture of them redeems his error.
Ha. We must set a mark upon his Passion,
And as we find it running low,
What ebbs from his, into our Rage shall flow.
Why should we be more wicked
Than we must needs?
Mir. Nay, if you stick at Conscience,
More gallant Actions have been lost, for want of being
Compleatly wicked, than have been perform'd
By being exactly virtuous. 'Tis hard to be
Exact in Good, or excellent in Ill;
Our Will wants Power, or else our Power wants Skill.

Enter Solyman and Tormentors .

Sol. But Gentlemen, was the King in earnest?
I can scarce believe it.
Tor. You will when you feel it.
Sol. I pray, have any of you felt it, to tell me what it is?
Tor. No, Sir, but
Some of your Fellow-Courtiers can tell you,
That use something like it, to mend their shapes.
'Twill make you so straight and slender!
Sol. Slender! because I was slender in my Wits, must I be drawn
Slender in my Waste? I'd rather grow wise,
And corpulent, like him they call Abdomen .
Tor. Come Sir, 'tis but a little stretching.
Sol. No, no more's hanging; and sure this will be the death of me:
I remember my Grandmother died of Convulsion Fits.
Tor. Come, Sir, prepare, prepare.
Sol. Ay, for another World: I must repent first.
Tor. Quickly then.
Sol. Then first I repent that Sin of being a Courtier.
And secondly, the greatest Sin one can commit in that place, the speaking of Truth.
Tor. Have you no more Sins?
Sol. Some few trifles more, not worth the remembring;
Drinking, and Whoring, and Swearing, and such like:
But for those let 'em pass.
Tor. Have you done now?
Sol. Only some good Counsel to the Standers by.
Tor. We thank you for that, Sir.
Sol. Nay, Gentlemen, mistake me not;
'Tis not that I love you, but because 'tis a thing of course.
For dying Men.
Tor. Let's have it then.
Sol. First then, if any of you are Fools (as I think that
But a needless question) be Fools still, and labour still
In that Vocation, then the worst will be but whipping;
Where, but for seeming wise, the best is racking.
But if you have the luck to be Court-Fools, those that have
Either Wit or Honesty, you may fool withal, and spare not:
But for those that want either,
You'll find it rather dangerous than otherwise;
I could give you a modern
Instance or two, but let that pass: but if you happen to be State-Fools, then 'tis
But fooling on the right side, and all's well; then you shall at least be
Wise Mens Fellows, if not wise Mens Masters.
But of all things take heed of giving any Man good Counsel,
You see what I have got by it; and yet like a Fool, must
I be doing on't again.
Tor. Is this all?
Sol. All, but a little in my own behalf. Remember, Gentlemen,
I am at full Growth, and my Joints are knit; and yet
My Sinews are not Cables.
Tor. Well, we'll remember't.
Sol. But stay, Gentlemen, what think you of a Bottle now?
Tor. I hope you are more serious.
Sol. If you knew but how dry a thing this Sorrow is,
Especially meeting with my Constitution; which is
As thirsty as any Serving-Man's.
Tor. Let him have it, it may be 'twill make him confess.
Sol. Yes, I shall, I shall lay before you all that's within me,
And with most fluent Utterance.
Here's to you all Gentlemen, and let him that's good
Natur'd in his Drink, pledge me.
So, methinks I feel it my Joynts already,
It makes 'em supple.
Now I feel it in my Brains, it makes 'em swim.
Tor. Hold, Sir, you have no measure of your self.
Sol. What do you talk of measure, you'll take
Measure of me with a vengeance?
Tor. You are witty, Sir.
Sol. Nothing but a poor Clinch;
I have a thousand of them (a Trick I learnt amongst the States-men)
Well Rack, I defie thee, do thy worst;
I would thou wer't Man; Giant, or Monster.
Gentlemen, now if I happen to fall asleep
Upon this Engine, pray wake me not too suddenly;
You see here's good store of Wine, and if it be
Over rack'd, 'twill come up with Lees and all;
There I was with you again, and now I am for you.

Enter Prince, being Blind , Solus.

Prince . Nature,
How didst thou mock Mankind, to make him free,
And yet to make him fear; or when he lost
That Freedom, why did he not lose his Fear?
That Fear of Fears, the Fear of what we know not,
While yet we know it is in vain to fear it:
Death, and what follows Death, 'twas that that stamp'd
A Terror on the Brow of Kings; that gave
Fortune her Deity, and Jove his Thunder.
Banish but fear of Death, those Giant names
Of Majesty, Power, Empire, finding nothing
To be their Object, will be nothing too:
Then he dares yet be free that dares to die,
May laugh at the grim Face of Law, and scorn
The cruel wrinkle of a Tyrant Brow:
But yet to die so tamely,
O'ercome by Passion and Misfortune,
And still unconquer'd by my Foes, sounds ill;
Below the temper of my Spirit:
Yet to embrace a Life so poor, so wretched,
So full of Deaths, argues a greater Dulness;
But I am dead already, nor can suffer
More in the other World. For what is Hell,
But a long sleepless Night? And what's their Torment,
But to compare past Joys with present Sorrows?
And what can Death deprive me of? the sight
Of Day, of Children, Friends, and hope of Empire;
And whatsoever others lose in Death,
In Life I am depriv'd of; then I will live
Only to die reveng'd: nor will I go
Down to the Shades alone.
Prompt me some witty, some revengeful Devil,
His Devil that could make a bloody Feast
Of his own Son, and call the Gods his Guests;
Her's that could kill her aged Sire, and cast
Her Brother's scatter'd Limbs to Wolves and Vultures;
Or his that slew his Father, to enjoy
His Mother's Bed; and greater than all those,
My Fathers Devil.
Come Mischief, I embrace thee; fill my Soul:
And thou Revenge ascend, and bear the Scepter
O'er all my Passions, banish thence
All that are cool, and tame.
Know, old Tyrant,
My Heart's too big to break, I know thy Fears
Exceed my Sufferings; and my Revenge,
Though but in Hope, is much a greater Pleasure
Than thou canst take in Punishing. Then my Anger,
Sink to the Center of my Heart, and there
Lye close in Ambush, till my seeming Patience
Hath made the cruel Tyrant as secure,
Though with as little cause, as now he's Jealous.
Who's there?
I find my Nature would return
To her old course, I feel an inclination
To some Repose; welcome thou pleasing Slumber:
A while embrace me in thy leaden Arms,
And charm my careful Thoughts:
Conduct me to my Bed.

Enter King, Haly and Caliph.

King . How do's the Prince? how bears he his Restraint?
Ha. Why, Sir, as all great Spirits
Bear great and sudden Changes, with such impatience
As a Numidian Lion, when first caught,
Endures the toyl that holds him.
He would think of nothing
But present Death, and sought all violent means
To compass it. But Time hath mitigated
Those furious Heats, he now returns to Food
And Sleep, admits the Conversation
Of those that are about him.
King . I would I had not
So easily believ'd my Fears, I was too sudden;
I would it were undone.
Cal. If you lament it,
That which now looks like Justice, will be thought
An inconsiderate Rashness.
King . But there are in Nature
Such strong Returns! That I punisht him,
I do not grieve; but that he was my Son.
Ha. But it concerns you to bear up your Passion,
And make it good; for if the People know,
That you have cause to grieve for what is done,
They'll think you had no cause at first to do it.
King to the Cal. Go visit him from me, and teach him Patience;
Since neither all his Fury, nor my Sorrow,
Can help what's past, tell him my Severity
To him shall in some measure be requited,
By my Indulgence to his Children. And if he desire it,
Let them have access to him: endeavour to take off
His thoughts from Revenge, by telling him of
Paradise, and I know not what Pleasures
In the other World.
Cal. I shall, Sir.
Manet Haly.
Ha. Miravan , The King relents, and now there's left
No Refuge but the last; he must be Poison'd:
And suddenly, lest he survive his Father.
Mir. But handsomly, lest it appear.
Ha. Appear!
To whom? you know there's none about him
But such as I have plac'd; and they shall say
'Twas Discontent, or Abstinence.
Mir. But at the best
'Twill be suspected.
Ha. Why though't be known,
We'll say he Poisoned himself.
Mir. But the curious will pry further
Than bare Report, and the old King's Suspicions
Have piercing Eyes.
Ha. But those Nature
Will shortly close: you see his old Disease
Grow strong upon him.
Mir. But if he should recover?
Ha. But I have cast his Nativity; he cannot, he must not.
I' th' mean time I have so besieg'd him,
So blockt up all the Passages, and plac'd
So many Centinels and Guards upon him,
That no Intelligence can be convey'd
But by my Instruments. But this business will require
More Heads and Hands than ours: Go you to the Prison,
And bring the Keeper privately to me,
To give him his Instructions.

Enter Prince and Caliph.

Cal. Sir, I am Commanded by the King
To visit you.
Prince. What, to give a period to my Life,
And to his Fears? You're welcom; here's a Throat,
A Heart, or any other part, ready to let
In Death, and receive his Commands.
Cal. My Lord, I am no Messenger, no Minister of Death,
'Tis not my Function.
Prince. I should know that Voice.
Cal. I am the Caliph , and am come to tell you, your Father
Is now return'd to himself: Nature has got
The Victory o'er Passion, all his Rigour
Is turn'd to Grief and Pity,
Prince. Alas good Man!
I pity him, and his Infirmities;
His Doubts, and Fears, and accidents of Age,
Which first provok'd his Cruelty.
Ca. He bid me tell you,
His Love to yours should amply recompence
His Cruelty to you: And I dare say 'tis real;
For all his Thoughts, his Pleasures, and Delights,
Are fixt on Fatyma: when he is sad,
She comforts him; when Sick, she's his Physician.
And were it not for the Delight he takes
In her, I think he'd die with Sorrow.
Prince. But how, are his Affections fixt so strangely
On her alone? sure 'tis not in his Nature;
For then he had lov'd me, or hated her,
Because she came from me.
Ca. 'Tis her Desert,
She's fair beyond Comparison, and witty
Above her Age; and bears a Manly Spirit
Above her Sex.
Prince. But may not I admire her?
Is that too great a Happiness? pray let her make it
Her next Suit to be permitted to visit me her self.
Cal. She shall, Sir: I joy to see your Mind
So well compos'd; I fear'd I should have found
A Tempest in your Soul, and came to lay it.
I'll to the King;
I know to him that News will be
Most acceptable.
Prince. Pray do, and tell him
I have cast off all my Passions, and am now
A Man again; fit for Society
And Conversation.
Cal. I will, Sir.
Prince. I never knew my self till now; how on the sudden
I'm grown an excellent Dissembler, to out-do
One at the first, that has practis'd it all his Life:
So now I am my self again, what is't
I feel within? Methinks some vast design
Now takes possession of my Heart, and swells
My labouring Thoughts above the common bounds
Of human Actions, something full of horror
My Soul hath now decreed, my Heart does beat,
As if 'twere forging Thunder-bolts for Jove ,
To strike the Tyrant dead: So, now I have it,
I have it, 'tis a gallant mischief,
Worthy my Father, or my Father's Son.
All his delight's in Fatyma , poor Innocent!
But not more innocent than I, and yet
My Father loves thee, and that's Crime enough.
By this Act, old Tyrant,
I shall be quit with thee: while I was Virtuous,
I was a Stranger to thy Blood, but now
Sure thou wilt love me for this horrid Crime,
It is so like thy own. In this I'm sure,
Although in nothing else, I am thy Son:
But when 'tis done, I leave him yet that remedy
I take my self, Revenge; but I as well
Will rob him of his Anger, as his Joy,
And having sent her to the Shades,
I'll follow her.
But to return again, and dwell
In his dire thoughts, for there's the blacker Hell.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. Sir, your Wife the Princess is come to visit you.
Prince. Conduct her in. Now to my disguise again.

Enter Princess.

Princess. Is this my Lord the Prince?
Prince. That's Erythaea ;
Or some Angel, Voic'd like her. 'Tis she, my strugling Soul
Would fain go out to meet and welcom her. Erythaea !
No Answer but in fighs (dear Erythaea? )
Thou cam'st to comfort, to support my Suff'rings,
Not to oppress me with a greater weight:
To see that my Unhappiness
Involves thee to.
Princess. My Lord, in all your Triumphs and your Glories,
You call'd me into all your Joys, and gave me
An equal share, and in this depth of misery
Can I be unconcern'd? you needs must know,
You needs must hope I cannot, or which is worse,
You must suspect my Love: for what is Love
But Sympathy? And this I make my Happiness,
Since both cannot be happy,
That we can both be miserable.
Prince. I prethee do not say thou lov'st me;
For Love, or finds out Equals, or makes 'em so:
But I am so cast down, and fallen so low,
I cannot rise to thee, and dare not wish
Thou should'st descend to me; but call it Pity,
And I will own it then; that Kings may give
To Beggars, and not lessen their own Greatness.
Princess. Till now I thought Virtue had stood above
The reach of Fortune; but if Virtue be not,
Yet Love's a greater Deity: whatever Fortune
Can give or take, Love wants not, or despises;
Or by his own Omnipotence supplies.
Then like a God with joy beholds
The Beauty of his own Creations.
Thus what we Form and Image to our Fancies,
We really possess.
Prince. But can thy Imagination
Delude it self, to fix upon an Object
So lost in Miseries, so old in Sorrows;
Paleness and Death hang on my Cheek, and Darkness
Dwells in my Eyes; more chang'd from what I was
In Person than in Fortune.
Princess. Yet still the same to me:
Alas my Lord, these outward Beauties are but the Props and Scaffolds
On which we built our Love, which now made perfect,
Stands without those Supports: nor is my flame
So earthy as to need the dull material Fuel
Of Eyes, or Lips, or Cheeks, still to be kindled,
And blown by Appetite, or else t'expire:
My Fires are purer, and like those of Heav'n,
Fed only, and contented with themselves,
Need nothing from without.
Prince. But the disgrace that waits upon Misfortune,
The meer Reproach, the Shame of being miserable,
Exposes Men to Scorn and base Contempt,
Even from their nearest Friends.
Princess. Love is so far from scorning Misery,
That he delights in't, and is so kindly cruel,
Sometimes to wish it, that he may be alone;
Instead of all, of Fortunes, Honour, Friends, which are
But meer Diversions from Love's proper Object,
Which only is it self.
Prince. Thou hast almost
Taught me to love my Miseries, and forgive
All my Misfortunes. I'll at least forget 'em;
We will revive those Times, and in our Memories
Preserve, and still keep fresh (like Flowers in Water)
Those happier days; when at our Eyes our Souls
Kindled their mutual Fires, their equal Beams
Shot and returned, 'till linkt, and twin'd in one,
They Chain'd our Hearts together.
Princess. And was it just, that Fortune should begin
Her Tyranny, where we began our Loves?
No, if it had, why was not I blind too?
I'm sure if weeping could have don't, I had been.
Prince. Think not that I am blind, but think it Night,
A season for our Loves, and which to Lovers
Ne'er seems too long; and think of all our Miseries,
But as some melancholy Dream which has awak'd us,
To the renewing of our Joys.
Princess. My Lord, this is a temper
Worthy the old Philosophers.
Prince. I but repeat that Lesson
Which I have learnt from thee. All this Morality
Thy Love hath taught me.
Princess. My Lord, you wrong your Virtue,
T'ascribe the effect of that to any Cause
Less noble than it self.
Prince. And you your Love,
To think it is less noble, or less powerful,
Than any the best Virtue: and I fear thy Love
Will wrong it self: so long a stay will make
The jealous King suspect we have been plotting:
How do the Pledges of our former Love,
Our Children?
Princess. Both happy in their Grandsires Love, especially
The pretty Fatyma ; yet she,
According to her apprehension feels,
A sense of your Misfortunes.
Prince. But let her not too much express it,
Lest she provoke his Fury.
Princess. She only can allay it
When 'tis provok'd; she
Plays with his Rage, and gets above his Anger;
As you have seen a little Boat
To mount and dance upon the Wave, that threatens
To overwhelm it.
Prince. To threaten is to save, but his Anger
Strikes us like Thunder, where the blow out-flies
The loud report, and even prevents Mens fears.
Princess. But then like Thunder
It rends a Cedar, or an Oak, or finds
Some strong resisting matter; Women and Children
Are not Subjects worthy a Prince's anger.
Prince. Whatsoever
Is worthy of their Love is worth their Anger.
Princess. Love's a more natural motion; they are angry
As Princes, but love as Men.
Prince. Once more I beg,
Make not thy Love thy Danger.
Princess. My Lord, I see with what unwillingness
You lay upon me this Command, and through your Fears
Discern your Love, and therefore must obey you.
Prince. Farewel my dearest Erythaea .
There's a strange Musick in her Voice. The Story
Of Orpheus , which appears so bold a Fiction,
Was prophecy'd of thee; thy Voice has tam'd
The Tygers and the Lions of my Soul.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. Sir, your Daughter Fatyma .
Prince. Conduct her in; how strangely am I tempted
With Opportunity, which like a sudden gust
Hath swell'd my calmer Thoughts into a Tempest?
Accursed Opportunity!
The Midwife and the Bawd to all our Vices,
That work'st our Thoughts into Desires, Desires
To Resolutions; those being ripe, and quickned,
Thou giv'st 'em Birth, and bring'st 'em forth to Action.

Enter Fatyma and Messenger.

Prince. Leave us. O Opportunity!
That when my dire and bloody Resolutions,
Like sick and froward Children,
Were rockt asleep by Reason or Religion,
Thou like a violent noise cam'st rushing in,
And mak'st 'em wake and start to new Unquietness.
Come hither, pretty Fatyma ,
Thy Grandsire's Darling, sit upon my Knee:
He loves thee dearly.
Fat. Ay Father, for your sake.
Prince. And for his sake I shall requite it.
O Virtue, Virtue,
Where art thou fled? thou art my Reason's Friend;
But that, like a deposed Prince, has yielded
His Scepter to his base usurping Vassals;
And like a Traitor to himself, takes pleasure
In serving them.
Fat. But Father,
I desir'd him that you might have liberty, and that
He would give you your Eyes again.
Prince. Pretty Innocence!
'Tis not i'th' Art, not Pow'r of Man to do it.
Fat. Must you never see again then, Father?
Prince. No, not without a Miracle.
Fat. Why Father, I can see with one Eye, pray take one
Of mine.
Prince. I would her innocent Prate could overcome me:
O what a Conflict do I feel! how am I
Tost like a Ship 'twixt two encountring Tides!
Love that was banisht hence, would fain return
And force an Entrance, but Revenge
(That's now the Porter of my Soul) is deaf,
Deaf as the Adder, and as full of Poison.
Mighty Revenge! that single canst o'erthrow
All those joint Powers, which Nature, Virtue, Honour,
Can raise against thee.
Fat. What do you seek for, your Handkerchief? pray use mine,
To drink the bloody moisture from your Eyes;
I'll shew't my Grandfather,
I know 'twill make him weep.
Why do you shake, Father?
Just so my Grandsire trembled at the instant
Your Sight was ta'en away.
Prince. And upon the like occasion.
Fat. O Father, what means the Naked Knife?
Prince. 'Tis to requite thy Grandsire's Love Prepare
To meet thy Death.
Fat. O, 'tis I, 'tis I,
Your Daughter Fatyma !
Prince. I therefore do it.
Fat. Alas, was this the Blessing my Mother sent me to receive?
Prince. Thy Mother! Erythaea ! There's something in that
That shakes my Resolution.
Poor Erythaea , how wretched shall I make thee,
To rob thee of Husband and a Child?
But which is worse, that first I fool'd and won thee
To a belief that all was well; and yet
Shall I forbear a Crime for love of thee,
And not for love of Virtue? But what's Virtue?
A meer imaginary sound, a thing
Of speculation; which to my dark Soul,
Depriv'd of Reason, is as indiscernable
As Colours to my Body, wanting sight.
Then being left to Sense, I must be guided
By something that my Sense grasps and takes hold of;
On then my Love, and fear not to encounter
That Giant, my Revenge. Alas, poor Fatyma !
My Father loves thee, so dos Erythaea :
Whether shall I by justly plaguing
Him whom I, hate, be more unjustly cruel
To her I love? Or being kind to her,
Be cruel to my self, and leave unsatisfied
My Anger and Revenge? but Love, thou art
The nobler Passion, and to thee I sacrifice
All my ungentle Thoughts. Fatyma forgive me,
And seal it with a Kiss: What is't I feel?
The Spirit of Revenge, reinforcing
New Arguments. Fly Fatyma ,
Fly while thou may'st, nor tempt me to new mischief,
By giving means to act it; to this Ill
My Will leads not my Pow'r, but Pow'r my Will.
O what a Tempest have I 'scap'd, thanks to Heav'n,
And Erythaea 's Love!
No: 'twas a poor, a low Revenge, unworthy
My Virtues, or my Injuries; and
As now my Fame, so then my Infamy,
Would blot out his; And I, instead of his Empire,
Shall only be the Heir of all his Curses.
No: I'll be still my self, and carry with me
My Innocence to th' other World, and leave
My Fame to this: 'twill be a brave Revenge,
To raise my Mind to a Constancy, so high,
That may look down upon his Threats, my Patience
Shall mock his Fury; nor shall he be so happy
To make me miserable; and my Sufferings shall
Erect a prouder Trophy to my Name,
Than all my prosp'rous Actions: Every Pilot
Can steer the Ship in Calms, but be performs
The skilful part, can manage it in Storms.