ARGIA

WHere shall we vent our griefs? what power on earth Can lend our woes redress? What shall we do T'appease the ghosts of our unburied Lords? Go you to Athens, sister, and entreat Great Theseus aid, whilst I, whose fatal quarrel Was cause of all this dire and mournful war, Will try what mercy can be found in Thebes. What mischief can and humble suppliant fear? Beside my suit to Creon will in Thebes Be seconded by Polynices friends. Go you with speed to Athens, if I fail, That your petitions timely may prevail. And all the gods prosper your pious suit. May Thebes prove gentle when Argia enters. Now I am free to act what I design. Shall I expect the doubtful grant of Creon, Or Theseus lingering aid, whilst thou, deer Lord, Art food for Praetors? while thy funeral Decreases daily, and thy wandering Ghost Perchance complaining to infernal gods Callest me unkind, and cruel? I will loose No longer time, no danger shall withstand That act, which love, and my chased fires command. O Thebes, a name Once deer to me, but now a word of horror, And endless sorrow! yet give leave to enterre My husbands hearse, and I will love thee still, And leave my heart for evermore to dwell On thy deer ground, behold with what attendance, What state the great Adrastus daughter comes To claim her right at Thebes; how poor a claim The wronged wife of Polynices makes. 'Tis not thy wealth, nor Cadmus stately throne, Nor crown, nor scepter that Argia claims. I crave but mourning free, but death and dust, And such abhorred dust, as thou disdainest To harbour lovingly, bestow but what Thou hatest on me, and take the greatest thanks A queen can give; and thou beloved ghost Of my dead Lord, if through these fields thou wander, And love the rites that I perform to night, Direct me where thy wronged body lies. Was this the sighed was promised me at Thebes? Are these the triumphs of my dearest Lord? Thus to thy native country dost thou bid Argia welcome? thus dost thou requite. The entertainment, that kind Argos gave To thee a stranger? why preparest thou not The Theban palace to receive thy queen? But why complain I vainly? thou alas Art held a stranger to thy native Thebes, Nay more, a foe, to whom the cruel ground Denies that common bounty, which in death The meanest creatures challenge at her hand. But woe is me, was I that caused thy fallen, Was I that moved my father to this war, And all those Grecian Princes; happy else Mightest thou have lived at Argos still with me, And never set foot on this accursed ground. Did I for this entreat those valiant Greeks To war with Thebes, to see my dearest Lord Thus all deformed with gore, trod down in dust, And covered over with filth? Was this a brother's hand? but in that name I find thy gilded as much; I'll rather think Thou never hadst any kindred, never brother, Nor other name of blood, which nature meant A name of love. For where are all their tears? Where is their sorrow now? if not in Thebes Where hast thou kindred? none laments but I; To me alone is Polynices dead. Where is thy mother, and thy sisters now? Where is that good Antigone, so famed Forpiety, whom thou so oft wouldst praise, And tell such pleasing stories of her virtue? Are you a woeful widowed Lady too, That come to break dire Creons savage law? But yet you seem a Theban; all their bodies Have rites of funeral performed already. Or does your too too charitable grief? Extend to some unhappy Grecian soul? O my heart? are you That good Antigone, whom I so long Have wished to see? Then see your brother my deer husbands hearse Your grief is mine. Dearest sister, Whose knowledge I am proud, though thus, to meet, By this true knot of everlasting love Our sorrow ties to night, I here protest, No grief, no lose that banishment could bring Did move so much sad Polynices heart, As parting from thy dearest company. No name to him was half so deer in Thebes, No name so often as Antigone Would his sad tongue to me alone repeat. O my dearest Lord! When first at Argos I beheld thy face, It was deformed with blood, and wounded then, Yet then I loved it; fortune to my love Showed thee at first a pitied spectacle As now at last, dearest Antigone; My brother Tydeus met him then at Argos, Both strangers there, before affinity Had made them brother's, in a mutual rage They fought; but all the blood that then was drawn Seemed but a sacrament, that did confirm Their after rare and unexampled love. The woeful widow of that wronged Prince Who stayed behind my countrymen, to do Those rites, which love, and piety required To my dead Lord; if that be judged a crime 'Tis such a crime as I profess, and boast. The same Why did the tyrant thus divide our sufferings? The tomb, where thou art closed, had been to me More pleasing then a palace. Furies have left their dark abodes, to dwell In human shapes on earth; there could not else Live such a monster, one so opposite To heaven and goodness, as cursed Creon is. Ah dearest, dearest sister, did the fates Differre so long our wished acquaintance here To make us meet so wretchedly at last? Whither is goodness fled from humane breasts? Tigers themselves, if tigers could perform These rites of funerals, would now correct The malice of mankind.