O, Chrysostom! look down and see, An off ring worthy heaven and thee! So rich the victim, bright and fair, That she on earth appears a star, Chor. Eudosia is the virgin's name,

And after times shall sing her fame, Atticus Lead her, votaries, lead her in, sings. Her holy birth does now begin, 1 Votary. In humble weeds, but clean urray,

Your hours shall sweetly pass away; And when the rites divine are past, To pleasant gardens you shall haste. Votary. Where many a flow'ry bed we have,

That emblem still to each a grave: And when within the stream we look, With tears we use to swell the brook: But, oh! when in the liquid glass, Our heav'n appears, we sigh to pass: Chor. For heaven alone we are design'd, And all things bring our heaven to mind.

Athen. O princess! O most worthy of the
world,
[Kneels.

That is submitted by its emperor
To your most wise and providential sway,
What Greek or Roman eloquence can paint
The rapture and devotion of my soul !

I am adopted yours; you are my goddess,
That have new-form'd, new-moulded my con-
ceptions,

And, by the platform of a work divine,
New-fram'd, new-built me to your own desires;
Thrown all the lumber of my passions out,
And made my heart a mansion of perfection;
Clean as an anchorite's grot, or votary's cell,
And spotless as the glories of his steps
Whom we far off adore!

Pulch. Rise, Eudosia,

And let me fold my Christian in my arms!
With this dear pledge of an eternal love
I scal thee, O Eudosia! mine for ever:
Accept, blest charge, the vows of my affection;
For, by the sacred friendship that I give thee,
I think that heav'n by miracle did send thee

To ease my cares, to help me in my councils,
To be my sister, partner in my bed;
And equally, through my whole course of life,
To be the better part of thy Pulcheria,
And share my griefs and joys.

Athen. No, madam, no;

Excuse the cares that this sad wretch must bring

you;

O rather let me leave the world for ever;
Or if I must partake your royal secrets,
If you resolve to load me with such honour,
Let it be far from cities, far from courts,
Where I may fly all human conversation;
Where I may never see, nor hear, nor name,
Nor think, nor dream, O heav'n! if possible,
Of mankind more..

Pulch. What now! in tears, Eudosia?
Athen. Far from the guilt of palaces, O send
me!

Drive me, O drive me, from the traitor man!
So I might 'scape that monster, let me dwell
In lions haunts, or in some tiger's den;
Place me on some steep, craggy, ruin'd rock,
That bellies out, just dropping in the ocean;
Bury me in the hollow of its womb,
Where, starving on my cold and flinty bed,
I may from far, with giddy apprehension,
See infinite fathoms down the rumbling deep;
Yet not ev'n there, in that vast whirl of death,
Can there be found so terrible a ruin,
As man, false man, smiling, destructive man!
Pulch. Then thou hast lov'd, Eudosia, Oh my

sister!

Still nearer to my heart, so much the dearer,
Because our fates are like, and hand in hand
Our fortunes lead us through the maze of life:
I am glad that thou hast lov'd; nay, lov'd with
danger,

Since thou hast 'scap'd the ruin,—Methinks it lightens

The weight of my calamities, that thou
(In all things else so perfect and divine,)
Art yet akin to my infirmity,

And bear'st thy part in love's melodious ill:
Love that, like bane perfum'd, infects the mind,
That sad delight that charms all womankind.

Athen, Yes, madam, I confess, that love has charm'd me,

But never shall again. No, I renounce him.
Inspire me all the wrongs of abus'd women,

All

you that have been cozen'd by false men: See what a strict example I will make; But for the perjuries of one I will revenge ye For all that's past, that's present, and to come. Pulch. O thou far more than the most mascu◄

line virtue !

Where, our Astræa, where, Q dawning bright-
ness!
Where hast thou been so long? Let me again
Protest my admiration and my love;
Let me declare aloud, while thou art here,
While such clear virtue shines within our circle
Vice shall no more appear within the palace,
But hide her dazzled eyes, and this be call'd
The holy court: But, lo! the emperor comes

Enter THEODOSIUS, and Attendants. Beauty, like thine, may drive that form away, That has so long entranc'd his soul.-My lord

Theo. If yet, alas! I might but hope to see her;

But, oh forgive me heav'n, this wilder start,
That thus would reach impossibility:
No, no, I never must behold her more;
As well my Atticus might raise the dead,
As Leontine should charm that form in view.
Pulch. My lord, I come to give your grief a

Pulch. She is your sister's charge, and made a
Christian,

And Athenais is Eudosia now;
Be sure a fairer never grac'd religion,
And for her virtue she transcends example.

Theo. O all ye blest above, how can this be? Am I awake, or is this possible? [ATHEN, kneels. Pulch. She kneels, my lord, will you not go and raise her?

Theod. Nay, do thou raise her, for I am rooted here;

Yet if laborious love and melancholy
Have not o'ercome me, and quite turn'd me mad,
It must be she! that naked dazzling sweetness,
The very figure of that morning star,
That, dropping pearls, and shedding dewy beams,
Fled from the greedy waves when I approach'd:
Answer me, Leontine, am I distracted?
Or is this true?-By thee in all encounters
I will be rul'd, in temperance and wildness,
When reason clashes with extravagance;
But speak!

Leon. 'Tis true, my lord, this is my daughter,
Whom I conceal'd in Persia from all eyes
But yours, when chance directed you that way.
Theo. He says, 'tis true: Why then this
heartless carriage?

O! were I proof against the darts of love,
And cold to beauty as the marble lover,
That lies without a thought upon his tomb,
Would not this glorious dawn of life run through

Theo. Ha! what say'st thou, Leontinę? Unworthy! O thou atheist to perfection All that the blooming earth could send forth fair;

All that the gaudy heav'ns could drop down glorious!

Unworthy, say'st thou! Wert thou not her father,

I swear I would revenge-But haste, and tell me,
For love like mine will bear no second thought,
Can all the honours of the orient,

Thus sacrific'd with the most pure affection,
With spotless thoughts and languishing desires,
Obtain, O Leontine, the crown at last-
To thee, I speak,-thy daughter to my bride?
Leon. My lord, the honour bears such estima-
tion,

It calls the blood into my aged cheeks,
And quite o'erwhelms my daughter with confu-
sion;

Who, with her body prostrate on the earth,
Ought to adore you for the proffer'd glory.
Theo. Let me embrace, and thank thee: 0
kind heav'n!

O Atticus! Pulcheria! O my father!
Was ever change like mine? Run through the
streets,-

Who waits there?-Run, and loud as fame can speak,

With trumpet sounds proclaim your emperor's joy;
And as of old, on the great festival

Of her they call the mother of the gods,
Let all work cease, at least an oaken garland
Crown each plebeian head: Let sprightly bowl
Be dol'd about, and the toss'd cymbals sound:
Tell 'em their much-lamented Theodosius,
By miracle, is brought from death to life:
His melancholy's gone, and now once more
He shall appear at the state's helm again,
Nor fear a wreck while this bright star directs us;
For while she shines, no sands, no cow'ring rocks,
Shall lie unseen; but I will cut my way,
Secure as Neptune, through the highest stream,
And to the port in safety steer the world.

Athen. Alas! my lord, consider my extraction, With all my other wants

Theo. Peace, empress, peace! No more the daughter of old Leontine ; A Christian now, and partner of the east. Athen. My father has dispos'd me, you com

mand me;

What can I answer then but my obedience? Theo. Attend her, dear Pulcheria! and oh, tell her,

To-morrow, if she please, I will be happy.
[Exeunt PULCH. and ATHEN.
O why so long should I my joys delay ?
Time, imp thy wings, let not thy minutes stay,
But to a moment change the tedious day.
The day! 'twill be an age before to-morrow;
An age, a death, a vast eternity,
Where we shall cold, and past enjoyment lies

Enter VARANES and ARANTHES
Vara. O, Theodosius!

Theo. Ha! my brother here! Why dost thou come to make my bliss run o'er? What is there more to wish? Fortune can find No flaw in such a glut of happiness, To let one misery in.-O, my Varanes! Thou that of late didst seem to walk on clouds, Now give a loose, let go the slacken'd reins, Let us drive down the precipice of joy, As if that all the winds of heav'n were for us. Vara. My lord, I am glad to find the gale is turn'd, And give you joy of this auspicious fortune. Plough on your way, with all your streamers out; With all your glorious flags and streamers ride Triumphant on;-and leave me to the waves, The sands, the winds, the rocks, the sure destruction

And ready gulphs that gape to swallow me.

Theo. It was thy hand that drew me from the

grave,

Who had been dead by this time to ambition,
To crowns, to titles, and my slighted greatness ;
But still, as if each work of thine deserv'd
The smile of heav'n,-thy Theodosius met
With something dearer than his diadem,
With all that's worth a wish, that's worth a life;
I met with that which made me leave the world.
Vara.And I, O turn of chance! O cursed fortune,
Have lost at once all that could make me happy.
O ye too partial powers!--but now no more:
The gods, my dear, my most lov'd Theodosius,
Double all those joys that thou hast met upon thee;
For sure thou art most worthy, worthy more
Than Jove in all his prodigality

Can e'er bestow in blessings on mankind;
And oh! methinks my soul is strangely mov'd,
Takes it the more unkindly of her stars,
That thou and I cannot be blest together:
For I must leave thee, friend; this night must
leave thee,

To go in doubtful search of what perhaps
I ne'er shall find, if so my cruel fate
Has order'd it. Why then farewel for ever,
For I shall never, never see thee more.

Theo. How sensible my tender soul is grown
Of what you utter! O my gallant friend!
O brother! O Varanes! do not judge
By what I speak, for sighs will interrupt me;
Judge by my tears, judge by these strict embraces,
And by my last resolve: Though I have met
With what in silence I so long ador'd,
Though in the rapture of protesting joys,
I had set down to-morrow for my nuptials,
And Atticus to-night prepares the temple,
Yet, my Varanes, I will rob my soul
Of all her health, of my imperial bride,
And wander with thee in the search of that
On which thy life depends.

Vara. If this I suffer,
Conclude me then begotten of a hind,
And bred in wilds: No, Theodosius, no;

I charge thee by our friendship, and conjure thee
By all the gods, to mention this no more:
Perhaps, dear friend, I shall be sooner here
Than

you expect, or I myself imagine: What most I grieve, is that I cannot wait

To see your nuptials: Yet my soul is with you, And all my adorations to your bride.

Theo. What, my Varanes! will you be so cruel As not to see my bride before you go? Or are you angry at your rival's charms, Who has already ravish'd half my heart, That once was all your own?

Vara. You know I am disorder'd; My melancholy will not suit her blest condition. [Exit THEO. And the gods know, since thou, my Athenais, Art fled from these sick eyes, all other women To my pall'd soul seem like the ghost of beauty, And haunt my memory with the loss of thee.

Enter ATHENAIS, THEODOSIUS leading her. Theo. Behold, my lord, the occasion of my joy. Vara. O ye immortal gods! Aranthes! oh! Look there, and wonder! Ha! is't possible? Athen. My lord, the emperor says you are his friend;

He charges me to use my interest,
And beg of you to stay, at least so long
As our espousals will be solemnizing:
I told him I was honour'd once to know you;
But that so slightly, as I could not warrant
The grant of any thing that I should ask you.

Vara. O heaven and earth! O Athenais ! why, Why dost thou use me thus? Had I the world, Thou know'st it should be thine.

Athen. I know not that

But yet, to make sure work, one half of it
Is mine already, sir, without your giving.—
My lord, the prince is obstinate, his glory
Scorns to be mov'd by the weak breath of woman;
He is all hero, bent for higher game;
Therefore, 'tis nobler, sir, to let him go:
If not for him, my lord, yet for myself,
I must intreat the favour to retire.

[Exit ATHEN. Vara. Death and despair! confusion! hell and furies!

Theo. Heav'n guard thy health, and still pre

serve thy virtue!

What should this mean? I fear the consequence, For 'tis too plain they know each other well.

Vara. Undone, Aranthes! lost, undone for ever! I see my doom, I read it with broad eyes, As plain as if I saw the book of fate: Yet I will muster all my spirits up, Digest my griefs, swallow the rising passions: Yes, I will stand this shock of all the gods Well as I can, and struggle for my life.

Theo. You muse, my lord; and if you'll give me leave

To judge your thoughts, they seem employ'd at present

About my bride-I guess you know her too. Vara. His bride! O gods! give me a moment's patience!

I must confess the sight of Athenais,
Where I so little did expect to see her,
So grac'd and so adorn'd, did raise my wonder
But what exceeds all admiration is,

That you should talk of making her your bride;

"Tis such a blind effect of monstrous fortune, That, though I well remember you affirm'd it, I cannot yet believe-

Theo. Then now believe me:

By all the pow'rs divine I will espouse her. Vara. Ha! I shall leap the bounds !-come, come, my lord,

By all these pow'rs you nam'd, I say you must not. Theo. I say I will;` and who shall bar my pleasure?

Yet more, I speak the judgment of my soul,
Weigh but with fortune, merit in the balance,
And Athenais loses by the marriage.

Vara. Relentless fates! malicious cruel pow'rs!
O for what crime do you thus rack your creature?
Sir, I must tell you this unkingly meanness
Suits the profession of an anchorite well;
But in an oriental emperor

It gives offence; nor can you, without scandal,
Without the notion of a grov'ling spirit,
Espouse the daughter of old Leontine,
Whose utmost glory is to have been my tutor.
Theo. He has so well acquitted that employment,
Breeding you up to such a gallant height
Of full perfection, and imperial greatness,
That ev'n for this respect, if for no other,
I will esteem him worthy while I live.

Vara. My lord, you'll pardon me a little freedom,
For I must boldly urge in such a cause-
Whoever flatters you, though ne'er so near
Related to your blood, should be suspected.
Theo. Iffriendship would admit a cold suspicion,
After what I have heard and seen to-day,
Of all mankind I should suspect Varanes.
Vara. He has stung me to the heart; my
groans will choke me,

Unless my struggling passion gets a vent.
Out with it then,-I can no more dissemble.-
Yes, yes, my lord, since you reduce me to
The last necessity, I must confess it;
I must avow my flame for Athenais.
I am all fire! my passion eats me up,
It grows incorporate with my flesh and blood!
My pangs redouble, now they cleave my heart!
O Athenais! O Eudosia-oh-

Though plain as day I see my own destruction,
Yet to my death, and oh, let all the gods
Bear witness! still I swear I will adore thee.
Theo. Alas, Varanes! Which of us two the

heavens

Have mark'd for death is yet above the stars:
But while we live, let us preserve our friendship
Sacred and just, as we have ever done.
This only mean in two such hard extremes
Remains for both: To-morrow you shall see her,
With all advantage, in her own apartment;
Take your own time, say all you can to gain her;
If you can win her, lead her into Persia;
If not, consent that I espouse her here.

Vara. Still worse and worse! O Theodosius!
oh,

I cannot speak for sighs, my death is seal'd
By this last sweetness; had you been less good,
I might have hoped; but now my doom's at hand.

Go then and take her, take her to the temple:
The gods too give you joy.—O Athenais!
Why does thy image mock my foolish sorrow?
O Theodosius, do not see my tears:
Away, and leave me! leave me to the grave.
Theo. Farewell; let's leave the issue to the
heav'ns;

I will prepare your way with all that honour
Can urge in your behalf, though to my ruin.
[ET. THEOD.

Vara. O I could tear my limbs, and eat my flesh; Fool that I was, fond, proud, vain-glorious fool! Damn'd be all courts, and trebly damn'd ambition! Blasted be thy remembrance! curses on thee! And plagues on plagues fall on those fools that seek thee!

Aranth. Have comfort, sir

Vara. Away, and leave me, villain! Traitor, who wrought me first to my destructionYet stay and help me, help me to curse my pride, Help me to wish that I had ne'er been royal, That I had never heard the name of Cyrus, That my first brawl in court had been my O that I had been born some happy swain, And never known a life so great, so vain! Where I extremes might not be forc'd to choose, And, blest with some mean wife, no crown could lose;

last.

Where the dearer partner of my little state, With all her smiling offspring at the gate, Blessing my labours, might my coming wait; Where in our humble beds all safe might lie, And not in cursed courts for glory die!

SONG.

}

[Excunt.

Hail to the myrtle shade,
All hail to the nymphs of the fields;
Kings would not here invade
Those pleasures that virtue yields.

Chor. Beauty here opens her arms,

To soften the languishing mind;
And Phillis unlocks her charms;
Ah, Phillis! ah why so kind?
Phillis, thou soul of love,

Thou joy of the neighb’ring swains ;
Phillis that crowns the grove,

And Phillis that gilds the plains.

Chor. Phillis, that ne'er had the skill,

To paint, to patch, and be fine;
Yet Phillis whose eyes can kill,
Whom nature hath made divine.
Phillis, whose charming song

Makes labour and pains a delight;
Phillis that makes the day young,
And shortens the live-long night:

Chor. Phillis, whose lips like May,
Still laugh at the sweets that they
bring;

Where love never knows decay,
But sets with eternal spring.

SCENE II.

Enter MARCIAN and LUCIUS, at a distance.
Marc. The general of the oriental armies
Was a commission large as fate could give :
Tis gone: why what care I? O Fortune, Fortune!
Thou laughing empress of this busy world,
Marcian defies thee now.

Why what a thing is a discarded favourite!
He who but now, though longing to retire,
Could not for busy waiters be alone,
Throng'd in his chamber, haunted to his closet,
With a full crowd, and an eternal court;
When once the favour of his prince is turn'd,
Shunn'd as a ghost the clouded man appears,
And all the gaudy worshippers forsake him.
So fares it now with me where'er I come,
As if I were another Catiline.

The courtiers rise, and no man will sit near me;
As if the plagues were on me, all men fly me.
O Lucius! Lucius! if thou leav'st me too,
I think, I think, I could not bear it;
But, like a slave, my spirit broke with suffering,
Should on these coward knees fall down, and beg
Once to be great again.

Luc. Forbid it, heav'n,

That e'er the noble Marcian condescend
To ask of any but the immortal gods!
Nay, I avow, if yet your spirit dare,
Spite of the court, you shall be great as Cæsar.
Marc. No, Lucius, no; the gods repel that

humour.

Yet since we are alone, and must ere long
Leave this bad court, let us, like veterans,
Speak out-Thou say'st, alas! as great as Cæsar;
But where's his greatness? where is his ambition?
If any sparks of virtue yet remain

In this

poor figure of the Roman glory; I say, if any be, how dim they shine, Compar'd with what his great forefathers were! How should he lighten then, or awe the world, Whose soul in courts is but a lambent fire, And scarce, O Rome! a glowworm in the field: Soft, young, religious-god-like qualities, For one that should recover the lost empire, And wade through seas of blood, and walk 'o'er

The theatre is open'd too, where he

And the hot Persian mean to act their follies. Gods! gods! is this the image of our Cæsars? Is this the model of our Romulus? lé

O why so poorly have you stamp'd Rome's glory? Not Rome's but yours!-Is this man fit to bear it? This waxen portraiture of majesty,

Which every warmer passion does melt down, And makes him fonder than a woman's longing?

Luc. Thus much I know to the eternal shame
Of the imperial blood; this upstart empress,
This fine new queen, is sprung from abject parents,
Nay, basely born: but that's all one to him;
He likes, and loves, and therefore marries her.
Marc. Shall I not speak? shall I not tell him
of it?

I feel this big-swol'n throbbing Roman spirit
Will burst, unless I utter what I ought.
Enter PULCHERIA with a paper in her hand,
and JULIA.

Marc. Pulcheria here! why she's the scourge
of Marcian;

I tremble too when ever she approaches,
And my heart dances an unusual measure;
Spite of myself I blush, and cannot stir
While she is here-What, Lucius, can this
mean?

'Tis said Calphurnia had the heart of Cæsar:
Augustus doted on the subtile Livia:
Why then should I not worship that fair anger?
Oh didst thou mark her when her fury lighten'd?
She seem'd all goddess; nay, her frowns became
her:

There was a beauty in her very wildness.
Were I a man born great as our first founder,
Sprung from the blood divine-but I am cast
Beyond all possibility of hope.

Pulch. Come hither, Marcian; read this paper o'er,

And mark the strange neglect of Theodosius :
He signs whate'er I bring; perhaps you've heard,
To-morrow he intends to wed a maid of Athens,
New made a Christian, and new nam'd Eudosia;
Whom he more dearly prizes than his empire:
Yet in this paper he hath set his hand,
And seal'd it too with the imperial signet,

That she shall lose her head to-morrow morning.
Marc. 'Tis not for me to judge; yet
this seems

strange. Pulch. I know he rather would commit a murder

On his own person, than permit a vein
Of her to bleed; yet, Marcian, what might fol-
low,

If I were envious of this virgin's honour?
By his rash passing whatsoe'er I offer

Without a view-ha! but I had forgot: