PANTHEA

Nicasia sings while Panthra sits and sighs. But singing sings of Panthras wretchedness. What I would not be. You use me then but as you ought to do. But Lords what ere you ought is debt, you ought to use me well, and therefore debt. No Lords if captives might command the con querors, I would command you to release me hence. But captive as I am honour commands, That you entreat and use me honourably. My sex requires more then common grace. Let be my usage as shall please my conqueror, And now I'll learn to crave with servile terms. My lords, though captive, yet I am a Queen, And wife unto the absent Susan king. My lord and hear Assyrian Abradate, And noble prince and mighty man at arms. Upon ambassage of the king of Batria. Weighin the double fortune of the wars, And in my thoughts foredreading these mishaps, What likelier rescue to prevent my harms, Then to be guarded with a mighty camp, Since that and army of united hearts, Is stronger then a fort of brazen walls. Philosophy hath taught me to embrace, A mean and moderation in mishaps, Long since I learned to master all affects, And perturbations that assail the mind, Only I have not learned to master chance, yet have I learned to scorn the utmost spite Only the pang that most torments my thought, Is absence of my best beloved lord. Victorious Cyrus though I be his thrall, Shall know my honour is invincible. Lords dream of me or Cyrus as you please Only this outward person is his thrall, My mind and honour free and ever shall. So fortune and my destinies agree. I have intelligence that our Lord is sick, we come to comfort him as captives may. Fit still my Lord, why change you colour thus, what troubles you? Oh leave these idle words, they make you worse So say they that are going from the world. Nicasia command the music play, It may be music will allay the fit. Talk is nought, turn you about and sleep. How now my Lord, a soldier and lovesick? For me, my Lord. The air will hurt thee, whither wilt thou go. Then love me not, else I will more then frown. O give poor Panthea leave to thret her self. I mean my Tragedy shall end the love. What words be these that cut my ears with grief, O Abradates little dost thou know, What misery poor Panthea does sustain, wicked Araspas perish in thy love. Exit Panthea A way I will not, you are impudent. You are deceiude, I am not beautiful. What dreams and found illusions have I had? How comes this word Love, in Panthea's mind? I love, nay rather will I die then love, and yet against my will I think on love, Oh Panthea think upon thy funeral, For thou art withered with excessive grief, Love and deformity cannot agree. Araspas, Panthea and her self will jar, when she shall yield to love. Or what is love But gall and aloes to my martyred soul, Now Abradates is not in my sighed. For thee Araspas will I curse my stars, That suffers thee so to solicit me, For thee I will count the world as hell, Except thou leave thus to solicit me. Would I were change into some other shape, That I might fright thee with my hideous looks, I in the person of my self deceased. Protest this heart shall never harbour love, But if my looks be this preparative, I'll beat my face against the hapless earth, Or deeply harrow it with these my trembling hands, which I hold up to heaven to change thy mind, Or hasten death to rid me from this suit. Though fortune make me captive, yet know thou That Panthea's will can never be constrainde. Then should thy importunity enforce, The sighed of thee Araspas should constrain, For I protest before the gods of heaven, No torment can be greater in my thought. I feel more torments then thou canst invent, who add the more shall ease that I sustain, All torments be they never so exquisite, Are but ascending steps unto my end, And death tu Panthea is a benesite, what are thy threats but sugared promises. I, now is Panthea menaced to the proof. Yet every word thou speaks shall wound my heart, And in despite of thee I'll die at last, The earnester thou art the sooner too, But to prevent it thus I will fly from thee, Cyrus shall know Araspus villainy. Oh Cyrus if the fortune of thy hand, Have turned my freedom to captivity, And of a Queen made me a captive dame, Yet think that virtue is not thrall to chance, Nor honour subject to unhappy time, But Like a gallant consecrated ship, That in extremest wrath and storms of seas, Vaunts all her sails and fights the battle out. Then know my great Lord, the man that took the charge To guard my honour, and my person free, Long since doted on my person so, That doting he hath sought my bonors wreak, A tedious siege (God knows) I have endure, More hedious unto me then hasty arms, While vild Araspas with his lewd desires, Ceaseless solicited my unlawful bed, without repulses I have quailed his hope, which he renewed with charge of fresh assaults. But my denials made his purpose vain, In fine, when no intreaty could prevail, To frame my fancy to his wicked will, He falls to threatenings from persuasious terms, And vows to purchase his desires by force, And therefore Cyrus (as thou art a king) Protect a Ladies honour from the spoil, And let thy bondmaid live and die unstained, And if there rest no other hope for me, But havoc wrake and ruin of my fame, Oh Cyrus on thy sword let Panthea die, And so prevent the danger of my shame, So stand the gods assistant to your arms, as you stand pitiful to my mishaps. Ready the humble handmaid of my Lord. What warrior means my Lord and conqueror? Cyrus let not his lose perplex your mind, If you will let me send a messenger, Unto my Lord and husband Abradates, I know for these your princely favours done, To me his wife in this my captives plighted, He will attend your fortune in the wars. With more sincere affection, love and zeal, Then ever that ungracious person did. Again, my Lord my husband is a knight, As forward treads, and fortunate in arms, As ever spread his colours in the field. The father of this king by Cyrus slain, was highly loved and honourde of my Lord, This now that reigns affected Panthea's bed, Sought to prucure a most unjust divorce, Betwixt my best beloved Lord and me, who therefore bears him and immortal hate, The stars of which incurable despite, Remain so deep inprinted in his thought, That ten times blessed would he think himself, To find a fit occasion for revenge. Cyrus, I will presume to make my Lord A trusty follower of the Persian arms, And him your highness shall not fail to find, A noble friend and valiant gentleman. My husband mighty Lord, from Bactria, Where he lay legar for the Assyrian king, Is come to serve under your highness flags, and in your aid hath brought two thousand horse, Backed by his friends Assyrian Gentlemen. all which will die at conquering Cyrus feet. But Abradates I will arm thee first, Seest thou these pouldrons they are gold, These vanbraces and currets massy gold, The gorget and thy helmet beaten gold, The belt embroidered gold, yet all to base, For Abradate lovelier then the gold, May never spear be broken on this breast, But that the point thereof may soon return, And strike him dead that durst to give that charge, This helmet shun thee from the sling sand darts, This kisle make thee turn with victory, As for this garland made of lostie palm, Panthea reserves it for her conquering Lord, Upon whose head will Panthea fasten it, And hanging on hit neck Like Hector's wife, Inquire the manner of the battle passed. Farewell, and my good angel follow thee, And every star that reigned when I was born, Whose influence hath kept me yet from harm, Unfortunate be to make thee blessed You Persian Deities for Cyrus sake, Assyrian Gods for Abradates sake, Give victory unto the Persians, That I may see my husband wear this wreathe. I'll offer all my jewels on the shrine, And make sweet fumes of Ambergris and Myrrh, Of Indian Cassia, Musk and Frankinsense, That Abradates may be conqueror, First at her alter let us jointly sing, For Mnsicke is a sacrifice to her. Great lords to whom the Assyrian sceptre yields and Babylon through right of victory, Lies open to those conquering swords of yours, How fares my lord, my lord and loving fear, My Abradates, lives he conqueror, Or left by destiny numbered with the dead? When to the sighed my lord addressed his bans Devoutly entered I Belona's fame, And there before the altar of the Saint, Perfumed the air with smoke of holy fire, And breathed forth my plaints and eke my mones, Thrice I me seemed the Goddess turned her face, Offending-like frowning with angry brows, Against my prayers and my holy vows, Oh Cyrus, if my jealous thoughts divine, Some dismal sequel to this fantasy, Yet pardon me seeing women's wits are weak, And loves abounds with superstitious fear. Now let my Lord the prince of Persia judge, whither unhappy Panthea feared in vain, Oh noble love whose manly heart deserved, To joy the benefit of longer life, And richer Trophies to enlarge the same. But tell us now after what sort he died? Now Euphrates whose sad and hollow banks, Have sucked the sum of Abradates blood: which from his wounds did issue with his life, Now cease thy course of thy disdained tears, And let thy courage turn against the tide, Of mere remorse of wretched Panthea's plaints. Is this the hand that plighted faith to me, The hand, that aye hath manage kingly arms, And brought whole troops of mighty warriors down, Now sended from the body of my Lord, Clean void of feeling, sense and vital breath, So Gods and cruel destinies command, Malignant of poor Panthea's happiness. Live Cyrus. You Lords of Persia, Command my honour to posterity, That ages hence the world report may make, That Panthea died for Abradates sake. She stabs her self. I would be free. You Persian Lords I am a woeful dame. Exposed to wretchedness and Fortune's wrath, And thus I have resolved you what I am My husband is a king, Cyrus I hope will therefore grant it, if not for desert,