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The custom of this ceremony bluntly.
Near. None dares, lady.

Cal. Yes, yes; some hollow voice deliver❜d to

me

How that the king was dead.

Arm. The king is dead:

That fatal news was mine; for in mine arms He breath'd his last, and, with his crown, bequeath'd ye

Your mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender. Crot. Most strange!

Cal. Peace crown his ashes! We are queen then.

Near. Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign queen!

All. Long live the queen!

Cal. What whispered Bassanes?

Bass. That my Penthea, miserable soul, Was starved to death.

Cal. She's happy: she hath finish'd

A long and painful progress.-A third murmur Pierced mine unwilling ears,

Org. That Ithocles

Was murthered, rather butchered, had not bra

very

Of an undaunted spirit, conquering terror,
Proclaimed his last act triumph over ruin.
Arm. How? murther'd?

Cal. By whose hand?

Org. By mine; this weapon

Was instrument to my revenge: the reasons

Are just and known: quit him of these, and then
Never lived gentleman of greater merit,
Hope or abiliment to steer a kingdom.
Crot. Fye, Orgilus !

Euph. Fye, brother!
Cal. You have done it?

Bass. How it was done, let him report, the forfeit

Of whose allegiance to our laws doth covet
Rigour of justice; but, that done it is,
Mine eyes have been an evidence of credit
Too sure to be convinc'd. Armostes, rent not
Thine arteries with hearing the bare circumstances
Of these calamities: thou'st lost a nephew,
A niece, and I a wife: continue man still;
Make me the pattern of digesting evils,
Who can outlive my mighty ones, not shrinking
At such a pressure as would sink a soul
Into what's most of death, the worst of horrors:
But I have sealed a covenant with sadness,
And enter'd into bonds without condition,
To stand these tempests calmly. Mark me, nobles,
I do not shed a tear, not for Penthea.
Excellent misery!

Cal. We begin our reign
With a first act of justice. Thy confession,
Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence;
But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence
Shall be excus'd. Give, Crotolon, a blessing
To thy lost son: Euphranea, take a farewell,
And both be gone.

Crot. [To ORGILUS.] Confirm thee, noble

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[Exeunt CROTOLON, PROPHILUS, and
EUPHRANEA.

Bloody relater of thy stains in blood,
For that thou hast reported him, whose fortumes
And life by thee are both at once snatch'd from
him,

With honourable mention, make thy choice
Of what death likes thee best; there's all our
bounty:

But, to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin,
Intreat you
and these lords see execution
Instant before ye part.

Near. Your will commands us.

Org. One suit, just queen, my last: vouchsafe your clemency,

That by no common hand I be divided
From this my humble frailty.

Cal. To their wisdoms,

Who are to be spectators of thine end,

I make the reference: those that are dead,
Are dead; had they not now died of necessity,
They must have paid the debt they owed to nature,
One time or other.-Use dispatch, my lords,
We'll suddenly prepare our coronation.

[Exeunt CALANtha, Philema, and
CHRISTALLA.

Arm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on

Her female pity.

Bass. She has a masculine spirit:
And wherefore should I pule, and, like a girl,
Put finger in the eye? let's be all toughness,
Without distinction betwixt sex and sex.
Near. Now, Orgilus, thy choice.
Org. To bleed to death.

Arm. The executioner?

Org. Myself: no surgeon.

I am well skill'd in letting blood: bind fast
This arm, that so the pipes may from their con-
duits

Convey a full stream: here's a skilful instrument,
Only I am a beggar to some charity
To speed me in this execution,

By lending th' other prick to th' other arm,
When this is bubbling life out.

Bass. I am for ye.

It most concerns my art, my care, my credit.
Quick fillet both his arms.

[The arms of ORGILUS are bared, and
pieces of tape tied round the elbows.
He receives a stick in each arm.

Org. Gramercy, friendship:

Such courtesies are real, which flow chearfully
Without an expectation of requital.
Reach me a staff in this hand: If a proneness
Or custom in my nature, from my cradle,
Had been inclined to fierce and eager bloodshed,
A coward guilt, hid in a coward quaking,
Would have betrayed fame to ignoble flight,

And vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety:
But look upon my steadiness, and scorn not
The sickness of my fortune, which, since Bassanes
Was husband to Penthea, had lain bed-rid.
We trifle time in words: thus I shew cunning
In opening of a vein too full, too lively.
[Opens a vein in his arm.

Arm. Desperate courage!
Org. Honourable infamy.
Hem. I tremble at the sight.
Gro. 'Would I were loose!

Bass. It sparkles like a lusty wine new broached; The vessel must be sound from which it issues. Grasp hard this other stick; I'll be as nimble. But, pr'ythee, look not pale; have at ye! Stretch

out

Thine arm with vigour, and unshook virtue.
[Opens the vein in the other arm of ORGILUS.
Good: oh, I envy not a rival, fitted
To conquer in extremities; this pastime
Appears majestical: some high-tun'd poem
Hereafter shall deliver to posterity

The writer's glory, and his subject's triumph.
How is't, man? Droop not yet!
Org. I feel no palsies.

On a pair-royal do I wait in death;

My sovereign, as his liegeman; on my mistress,
As a devoted servant, and on Ithocles,
As if no brave, yet no unworthy enemy:
Nor did I use an engine to entrap
His life, out of a slavish fear to combat

Youth, strength, or cunning; but for that I durst

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they place him on the one side of the altar. After him enter CALANTHA, in a white robe, and crowned; EUPHRANEA, PHILEMA and CHRISTALLA, in white; NEARCHUS, ARMOSTES, CROTOLON, PROPHILUS, Amelus, Bassanes, HemophIL, and GRONEAS. Calantha goes and kneels before the altar, the women kneeling behind her; the rest stand off. The Recorders cease during her devotions. Soft music-CALANTHA and the rest rise, doing obeisance to the altur.

Cal. Our orisons are heard; the gods are mer-
ciful.

Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute
To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful
Your duties or obedience is to render
Subjection to the scepter of a virgin,
Who have been ever fortunate in princes
Of masculine and stirring composition?
A woman has enough to govern wisely
Her own demeanours, passions and divisions.
A nation, warlike and inur'd to practice
Of policy and labour, cannot brook
A feminate authority: we therefore
Command your counsel, how you may advise us
In choosing of a husband, whose abilities
Can better guide this kingdom.

Near. Royal lady,
Your law is in your will.

Arm. We have seen tokens

Of constancy too lately to mistrust it.

Crot. Yet, if your highness settle on a choice, By your own judgment both allow'd and lik'd of, Sparta may grow in power, and proceed To an increasing height.

Cal. Hold you the same mind?

Bass. Alas, great mistress, reason is so clouded With the thick darkness of my infinite woes, That I forecast nor dangers, hopes, or safety. Give me some corner of the world to wear out The remnant of the minutes I must number, Where I may hear no sounds, but sad complaints Of virgins, who have lost contracted partners; Of husbands howling that their wives were ravished

By some untimely fate; of friends divided
By churlish opposition; or of fathers
Weeping upon their children's slaughtered car-

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THE

RIVAL QUEENS;

OR,

THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

BY

NATHANIEL LEE.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY SIR CAV. SCROOP, BART.

How hard the fate is of the scribbling drudge,
Who writes to all, when yet so few can judge!
Wit, like religion, once divine was thought,
And the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught;
Now each fanatic fool presumes t' explain
The text, and does the sacred writ prophane;
For while your wits each other's fall pursue,
The fops usurp the power belongs to you.
Ye think y'are challeng'd in each new play-bill,
And here you come for trial of your skill,
Where, fencer-like, you one another hurt,
While with your wounds you make the rabble
sport.

Others there are that have the brutal will
To murder a poor play, but want the skill;
They love to fight, but seldom have the wit
To spy the place where they may thrust and hit;
And, therefore, like some bully of the town,
Ne'er stand to draw, but knock the poet down.
With these, like hogs in gardens, it succeeds,
They root up all, and know not flowers from
weeds.

As for you, sparks, that hither come each day

To act your own, and not to mind our play,
Rehearse your usual follies to the pit,
And with loud nonsense crown the stage's wit;
Talk of your cloathes, your last debauches tell,
And witty bargains to each other sell;
Glout on the silly she, who, for
your sake,
Can vanity and noise for love mistake,
Till the coquette, sung in the next lampoon,
is by her jealous friends sent out of town;
For in this duelling, intriguing age,
The love you make, is like the war you wage,
Y'are still prevented ere you come ť
But it is not such trifling foes as you
The mighty Alexander deigns to sue;
Ye Persians of the pit he does despise,
But to the men of sense for aid he flies;
On their experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds, if they but prove his friends.
For as he once a little handful chose
The numerous armies of the world t' oppose;
So, back'd by you, who understand the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools.

engage:

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Then, mischief's in the bosom of you both.
Lys. I have his sword.

Cly. But must not have his life.

Lys. Must not, old Clytus?

Cly. Mad Lysimachus, you must not. Heph. Coward flesh! O feeble arm! He dallied with my point, and when I thrust, He frowned and smiled, and foiled me like a fencer. O reverend Clytus, father of the war, Most famous guard of Alexander's life, Take pity on my youth, and lend a sword! Lysimachus is brave, and will but scorn me; Kill me, or let me fight with him again.

Lys. There, take thy sword, and since thou art resolved

For death, thou hast the noblest from my hand. Cly. Stay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion, hold;

I bar you both, my body interposed.
Now let me see, which of you dares to strike!
By Jove, ye have stirred the old man; that rash

arm,

That first advances, moves against the gods, Against the wrath of Clytus, and the will Of our great king, whose deputy I stand. Lys. Well, I shall take another time. Heph. And I.

Cly. 'Tis false.

Another time, what time? what foolish hour?
No time shall see a brave man do amiss.
And what's the noble cause, that makes this
madness?

What big ambition blows this dangerous fire?
A Cupid's puff, is't not, a woman's breath?
By all your triumphs in the heat of youth,
When towns were sacked, and beauties prostrate
lay,

When my blood boiled, and nature worked me

high,

Clytus ne'er bowed his body to such shame: The brave will scorn the cobweb arts-The souls

Of all that whining, smiling, cozening sex,
Weigh not one thought of any man of war.
Lys. I confess our vengeance was ill-timed.
Cly. Death! I had rather this right arm were
lost,

To which I owe my glory, than our king
Should know your fault- what, on this fa
mous day!
Heph. I was to blame.
Cly. This memorable day,

When our hot master, that would tire the world,
Out-ride the labouring sun, and tread the stars,
When he, inclined to rest, comes peaceful on,
Listening to songs; while all his trumpets sleep,
And plays with monarchs, whom he used to
drive;

Shall we begin disorders, make new broils?
We, that have temper learnt, shall we awake
Hushed Mars, the lion that had left to roar?

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