Page:Representative American plays.pdf/39

22

. Hence, away, Edessa,

For thou know'st not the pangs of jealousy.

Say, has he not forsook my bed, and left me

Like a lone widow mourning to the night?

This, with the injury his son has done me,

If I forgive, may heav'n in anger show'r

Its torments on me— Ha! is n't that the King!

. It is your Royal Lord, great Artabanus.

. Leave me, for I would meet him here alone,

Something is lab'ring in my breast—

. This leads

To fair Evanthe's chamber— Ha! the Queen.

. Why dost thou start? so starts the guilty wretch,

When, by some watchful eye, prevented from

His dark designs.

. Prevented! how, what mean'st thou?

. Art thou then so dull? cannot thy heart,

Thy changeling heart, explain my meaning to thee,

Or must upbraiding 'wake thy apprehension?

Ah! faithless, tell me, have I lost those charms

Which thou so oft hast sworn could warm old age,

And tempt the frozen hermit from his cell,

To visit once again our gayer world?

This, thou hast sworn, perfidious as thou art,

A thousand times; as often hast thou sworn

Eternal constancy, and endless love,

Yet ev'ry time was perjur'd.

. Sure, 't is frenzy.

. Indeed, 't is frenzy, 't is the height of madness,

For I have wander'd long in sweet delusion.

At length the pleasing Phantom chang'd its form,

And left me in a wilderness of woe.

. Prithee, no more, dismiss those jealous heats;

Love must decay, and soon disgust arise,

Where endless jarrings and upbraidings damp

The gentle flame, which warms the lover's breast.

. Oh! grant me patience heav'n! and dost thou think

By these reproaches to disguise thy guilt?

No, 't is in vain, thy art 's too thin to hide it.

. Curse on the marriage chain!—the clog, a wife,

Who still will force and pall us with the joy,

Tho' pow'r is wanting, and the will is cloy'd,

Still urge the debt when Nothing 's left to pay.

. Ha! dost thou own thy crime, nor feel the glow

Of conscious shame?

. Why should I blush, if heav'n

Has made me as I am, and gave me passions?

Blest only in variety, then blame

The Gods, who form'd my nature thus, not me.

. Oh! Traitor! Villain!

. Hence—away—

No more I'll wage a woman's war with words.

. Down, down ye rising passions, give me ease,

Or break my heart, for I must yet be calm—

But, yet, revenge, our Sex's joy, is mine;

By all the Gods! he lives not till the morn.

Who slights my love, shall sink beneath my hate.

. What, raging to the tempest?

. Away!—away!—

Yes, I will rage—a tempest 's here within,

Above the trifling of the noisy elements.

Blow[,] ye loud winds, burst with your violence,

For ye but barely imitate the storm

That wildly rages in my tortur'd breast—

The King—the King—

. Ha! what?—the King?

. Evanthe!—