poliphontes, erox.
erox.
My lord,
Did you expect to move her? Does the throne
Depend on her capricious will? Must she
Conduct you to it?
poliphontes.
’Twixt that throne and me,
Erox, I see a dreadful precipice
I must o’erleap, or perish: Mérope
Expects Ægisthus; and the fickle crowd,
If he returns, perhaps may bend towards him.
In vain his father’s and his brothers’ blood,
Have opened wide my passage to the throne;
In vain hath fortune cast her friendly veil
O’er all my crimes; in vain have I oppressed
The blood of kings, whilst the deluded people
Adored me as their friend, if yet there lives
A hateful offspring of Alcides’ race:
If this lamented son should e’er again
Behold Messene, fifteen years of toil
At once are lost, and all my hopes o’erthrown;
All the fond prejudice of birth and blood
Will soon revive the memory of Cresphontes,
A hundred kings for his proud ancestors,
The boasted honor of a race divine,
A mother’s tears, her sorrows, her despair,
All will conspire to shake my feeble power:
Ægisthus is a foe I must subdue:
I would have crushed the serpent in his shell,
But that the diligent and subtle Narbas
Conveyed him hence, e’er since that time concealed
In some far distant land, he hath escaped
My narrowest search, and baffled all my care:
I stopped his couriers, broke the intelligence
’Twixt him and Mérope; but fortune oft
Deserts us: from the silence of oblivion
Sometimes a secret may spring forth; and heaven,
By slow and solemn steps, may bring down vengeance.
erox.
Depend, undaunted, on thy prosperous fate;
Prudence, thy guardian god, shall still protect thee:
Thy orders are obeyed; the soldiers watch
Each avenue of Elis and Messene:
If Narbas brings Ægisthus here, they both
Must die.
poliphontes.
But say, canst thou depend on those
Whom thou hast placed to intercept them?
erox.
Yes:
None of them know whose blood is to be shed,
Or the king’s name whom they must sacrifice.
Narbas is painted to them as a traitor,
A guilty vagabond, that seeks some place
Of refuge; and the other, as a slave,
A murderer, to be yielded up to justice.
poliphontes.
It must be so: this crime and I have done;
And yet, when I have rid me of the son,
I must possess the mother: ’twill be useful:
I shall not then be branded with the name
Of a usurper; she will bring with her
A noble portion in the people’s love:
I know their hearts are not inclined to me;
With fears dejected, or inflamed with hope,
Still in extremes, the giddy multitude
Tumultuous rove, and interest only binds them,
That makes them mine. Erox, thy fate depends
On my success; thou art my best support:
Go, and unite them; bribe the sordid wretch
With gold to serve me, let the subtle courtier
Expect my favors; raise the coward soul,
Inspire the valiant, and caress the bold;
Persuade and promise, threaten and implore:
Thus far this sword hath brought me on my way;
But what by courage was begun, by art
We must complete; that many-headed monster,
The people, must be soothed by flattery’s power:
I’m feared already, but I would be loved.
End of the First Act.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
mérope, euricles, ismenia.
mérope.
Hast thou heard nothing of my dear Ægisthus?
No news from Elis’ frontiers? O, too well
I know the cause of this ill-boding silence!
euricles.
In all our search we have discovered naught,
Save a young stranger, reeking with the blood
Of one whom he had murdered: we have chained,
And brought him hither.
mérope.
Ha! a murderer,
A stranger too! Whom, thinkest thou, he has slain?
My blood runs cold.
euricles.
The mere effect of love
And tenderness: each little circumstance
Alarms a soul like thine, that ever dwells
On one sad object; ’tis the voice of nature,
And will be heard; but let not this disturb thee,
A common accident: our borders long
Have been infested with these ruffian slaves,
The baneful fruit of our intestine broils;
Justice hath lost her power; our husbandmen
Call on the gods for vengeance, and lament
The blood of half their fellow-citizens,
Slain by each other’s hand: but, be composed,
These terrors are not thine.
mérope.
Who is this stranger?
Answer me, tell me.
euricles.
Some poor nameless wretch,
Such he appears; brought up to infamy,
To guilt, and sorrow.
mérope.
Well, no matter who,
Or what he is; let him be brought before