Go comfort, Sir, Amyntor, while we run
To stop the Rage of this revolting Town;
And let them know the Happiness they have
In fuch a Royal Pair, so just, so brave.
Lend me your Guards, that if Perswasion fail,
Force may against the Mutinous prevail.
King [to the Guards.] Go, and obey, with as exact a Care All his Commands, as if our self were there.
[Afide.] He that depends upon another, must Oblige his Honour with a boundless Trust.
[Exeunt King and Lucippus. Mel. How frail is Man ! how quickly changed are Our Wrath and Fury to a Loyal Care!
This drawn but now against my Sov'raign's Breast,
Before 'tis fheath'd, fhall give him Peace and Rest.
[Exeunt Brothers and Guards.
The SCENE changes into a Foreft.
Afp. They fay wild Beasts inhabit here;
But Grief and Wrong fecure my Fear.
Compar'd to him that does refufe,
A Tyger's kind, for he pursues.
To be forfaken's worfe than torn;
And Death a leffer Ill than Scorn.
No Forest, Cave, or Savage Den
Holds more pernicious Beafts than Men.
Vows, Oaths, and Contracts they devife,
And tell us, they are Sacred Ties;
And fo they are in our Efteem;
But empty Names, defpis'd by them.
Women with study'd Arts they vex:
Ye Gods, destroy that impious Sex!
And if there must be fome t'invoke
Your Pow'rs, and make your Altars smoke,
Come down your felves, and in their Place
Get a more Juft and Nobler Race:
Such as the old World did adorn,
When Hero's like your felves were born.
But this I wish not for Afpafia's fake:
For the no God wou'd for Amyntor take
The Heart, which is our Paffion's Seat,
Whether we will or no, does beat:
And yet we may fupprefs our Breath:
This lets us fee that Life and Death
Are in our Pow'r; but Love and Hate,
Depend not on our Will, but Fate.
My Love was lawful, when 'twas born;
Their Marriage makes it merit Scorn.
Evadne's Husband 'tis a Fault
To love, a Blemish to my Thought!
Yet twisted with my Life; and I,
That cannot faultlefs live, will die.
Oh! that some hungry Beast wou'd come,
And make himself Afpafia's Tomb!
If none accept me for a Prey.
Death must be found fome other way.
In colder Regions Men compofe
Poison with Art; but here it grows,
Not long fince, walking in the Field,
My Nurfe and I, we there beheld
A goodly Fruit; which tempting me,
I wou'd have pluck'd; but, trembling, fhe,
Whoever eat thofe Berries, cry'd,
In less than half an Hour dy❜d.
Some God direct me to that Bough,
On which those useful Berries grow!
Enter Amyntor alone.
Amyn. Repentance, which became Evadne fo,
Wou'd no lefs handsome in Amyntor show.
She ask'd me Pardon; but Afpafia, I,
Injur'd alike, fuffer to pine and die.
'Tis faid, that fhe this dang'rous Foreft haunts,
And in fad Accents utters her Complaints.
If overtaken, ere fhe perish, I
Will gain her Pardon, or before her die.
Not ev'ry Lady does from Virtue fall;
Th' injurious King does not poffefs them all.
Well I deferv'd Evadne's Scorn to prove,
That to Ambition facrific'd my Love.
Fools that confult their Avarice or Pride!
To chufe a Wife, Love is our nobleft Guide.
Enter Afpafia alone, with a Bough full of fair Berries.
Afp. This happy Bough fhall give Relief,
Not to my Hunger, but my Grief,
The Birds know how to chufe their Fare,
To peck this Fruit they all forbear.
Those chearful Singers know not why
They fhou'd make any hafte to dye:
And yet they couple-Can they know
What 'tis to Love, and not know Sorrow too?
'Tis Man alone that willing dyes;
Beasts are less wretched, or lefs wife.
How lovely these ill Berries fhew!
And fo did false Amyntor too.
Heav'n wou'd enfnare us! who can 'scape
When fatal things have fuch a Shape?
Nothing in vain the Gods create,
This Bough was made to haften Fate.
'Twas in Compassion of our Woe,
That Nature first made Poisons grow;
For hopeless Wretches, fuch as I,
Kindly providing Means to dye."
As Mothers do their Children keep,
So Nature feeds, and makes us fleep:
The indifpos'd she does invite
To go to Bed, before 'tis Night.
Death always is to come, or past:
If it be ill, it cannot last.
Sure 'tis a thing was never known;
For when that's prefent, we are gone.
'Tis an imaginary Line,
Which does our Being here confine.
Dead we shall be, as when unborn;
And then I knew nor Love, nor Scorn.
But fay we are to live elsewhere,
What has the Innocent to fear?
Can I be treated worse than here?
Juftice from hence long fince is gone,
And reigns where I shall be anon.
Am. 'Tis fhe; thofe fatal Berries fhew
The Mischief fhe's about to do.
Women are govern'd by a stubborn Fate:
Their Love's infuperable, as their Hate.
No Merit their Averfion can remove;
Nor ill Requital can efface their Love.
Afp. Like Slaves redeem'd, Death fets us free
From Paffion, and from Injury,
The Living, chain'd to Fortune's Wheel,
In Triumph led, her Changes feel:
And Conquerors kept Poisons by,
Prepar❜d for her Inconftancy.
Bays against Thunder might defend their Brow:
But against Love and Fortune here's the Bough.
[Here he puts fome of the Berries to her Mouth, Amyntor ftrikes the Berries out of her Hand, and fnatches the Bough.
Am. Rash Maid, forbear; and lay thofe Berries by, Or give them him that has deferv'd to dye.
Afp. What double Cruelty is this? Wou'd you, That made me wretched, keep me always fo?
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