Tamerlane (Rowe)/Act 2 Sc 1
ACT II. SCENE I.
SCENE Tamerlane's Camp.
Enter Moneses.
Mon.The dreadful Business of the War is over,And Slaughter, that, from yester Morn till Even,With Giant Steps, past striding o'er the Field,Besmear'd, and horrid with the Blood of Nations,Now weary sits among the mangled Heaps,And slumbers o'er her Prey; while from this CampThe chearful Sounds of Victory, and Tamerlane,Beat the high Arch of Heav'n; deciding Fate,That crowns him with the Spoils of such a Day,Has given it as an Earnest of the World,[Enter Stratocles.That shortly shall be his.My Stratocles!Most happily return'd; might I believe,Thou bring'st me any Joy?
Str. With my best Diligence,This Night, I have enquired of what concerns you.Scarce was the Sun, who shone upon the HorrorOf the past Day, sunk to the western Ocean,When by permission from the Prince Axalla,I mixt among the Tumult of the Warriors,Returning from the Battle: here a TroopOf hardy Parthians red with honst Wounds, Confest the Conquest, they had well deserv'd:There a dejected Crew of wretched CaptivesSore with unprofitable Hurts, and groaningUnder new Bondage, follow'd sadly afterThe haughty Victor's heels; but that, which fullyCrown'd the Success of Tamerlane, was Bajazet,Fall'n like the proud Archangel from the heigth,Where once (even next to Majesty Divine).Enthron'd he sat, down to the vile descentAnd lowness of a Slave; but oh! to speakThe Rage, the Fierceness, and the Indignation!———It bars all Words, and cuts description short.
Mon.Then he is fall'n! that Comet, which, on high,Portended Ruin; he has spent his Blaze,And shall distract the World with Fears no more:Sure it must bode me well, for oft my SoulHas started into Tumult at his Name,As if my Guardian Angel took th' Alarm,At the approach of somewhat mortal to me:But say, my Friend, what hear'st thou of Arpasia?For there my Thoughts, my every Care is center'd.
Str.Tho' on that purpose still I bent my Search,Yet nothing certain could I gain, but this,That in the Pillage of the Sultan's Tent,Some Women were made Pris'ners, who this morningWere to be offer'd to the Emperors View;Their Names, and Qualities, tho' oft enquiring,I could not learn.
Mon.Then must my Soul still labourBeneath Uncertainty, and anxious doubt,The Mind's worst State. The Tyrant's Ruin gives meBut a half-ease.
Str.'Twas said, not far from henceThe Captives were to wait the Emperor's passage.
Mon.Hast me to find the place. Oh! my Arpasia!Shall we not meet? Why hangs my Heart thus heavyLike Death within my Bosom? Oh! 'tis well,The Joy of meeting pays the pangs of Absence,Else who could bear it? When thy lov'd Sight shall bless my Eyes again,Then I will own, I ought not to complain,Since that sweet Hour is worth whole Years of Pain.[Exeunt Moneses, and Stratocles.
