The Works of Aphra Behn Volume Ii Part 11

_Flor_. Why dost thou dress thy Eyes in such unusual wonder?

There's nothing here that is a stranger to thee, Or what is not intirely thine own.

_Abd_. Mine!

_Flor_. Thou canst not doubt it.

_Abd_. No,--and for a proof that thou art so,--take this Dagger.

_Flor_. Alas, Sir!--what to do?

_Abd_. To stab a Heart, _Florella_, a Heart that loves thee.

_Flor_. Heaven forbid!

_Abd_. No matter what Heaven will, I say it must--

_Flor_. What must?

_Abd_. That Dagger must enter the Heart of him That loves thee best, _Florella_;--guess the Man.

_Flor_. What means my Moor?

Wouldst thou have me kill thy self?

_Abd_. Yes--when I love thee better than the King.

_Flor_. Ah, Sir! what mean you?

_Abd_. To have you kill this King, When next he does pursue thee with his Love-- What, do you weep?-- By Heaven, they shall be b.l.o.o.d.y Tears then.

_Flor_. I shall deserve them--when I suffer Love That is not fit to hear;--but for the King, That which he pays me, is so innocent--

_Abd_. So innocent! d.a.m.n thy dissembling Tongue; Did I not see, with what fierce wis.h.i.+ng Eyes He gazed upon thy Face, whilst yours as wantonly Returned, and understood the amorous Language?

_Flor_. Admit it true, that such his Pa.s.sions were, As (Heaven's my witness) I've no cause to fear; Have not I Virtue to resist his Flame, Without a pointed Steel?

_Abd_. Your Virtue!--Curse on the weak Defence; Your Virtue's equal to his Innocence.

Here, take this Dagger, and if this Night he visit thee, When he least thinks on't--send it to his Heart.

_Flor_. If you suspect me, do not leave me, Sir.

_Abd_. Oh--I'm dispatch'd away--to leave you free-- About a wonderful Affair--mean time, I know you will be visited--but as you wish to live, At my return let me behold him dead.-- Be sure you do't--'tis for thy Honour's safety-- I love thee so, that I can take no rest, Till thou hast kill'd thy Image in his Breast.

--Adieu, my dear _Florella_.

[Exit_.

_Flor_. Murder my King! the Man that loves me too-- What Fiend, what Fury such an act wou'd do?

My trembling Hand wou'd not the Weapon bear, And I should sooner strike it here--than there.

[_Pointing to her Breast_.

No! though of all I am, this Hand alone Is what thou canst command, as being thy own; Yet this has plighted no such cruel Vow; No Duty binds me to obey thee 'now.

To save my King's, my Life I will expose, No Martyr dies in a more glorious Cause.

[_Exit_.

SCENE II. _The Queen's Apartments_.

_Enter the_ Queen _in an undress alone, with a Light_.

_Qu_. Thou grateful Night, to whom all happy Lovers Make their devout and humble Invocations; Thou Court of Silence, where the G.o.d of Love, Lays by the awful Terror of a Deity, And every harmful Dart, and deals around His kind Desires; whilst thou, blest Friend to Joys, Draw'st all thy Curtains, made of gloomy Shades, To veil the Blushes of soft yielding Maids; Beneath thy Covert grant the Love-sick King, May find admittance to _Florella's_ Arms; And being there, keep back the busy Day; Maintain thy Empire till my Moor returns; Where in her Lodgings he shall find his Wife, Amidst her amorous Dalliance with my Son.-- My watchful Spies are waiting for the Knowledge; Which when to me imparted, I'll improve, Till my Revenge be equal to my Love.

_Enter_ Elvira.

--_Elvira_, in thy Looks I read Success; What hast thou learnt?

_Elv_. Madam, the King is gone as you imagin'd, To fair _Florella's_ Lodging.

_Qu_. But art thou sure he gain'd Admittance?

_Elv_. Yes, Madam; But what Welcome he has found, to me's unknown; But I believe it must be great, and kind.

_Qu_. I am of thy Opinion.-- But now, _Elvira_, for a well-laid Plot, To ruin this _Florella_;--though she be innocent, Yet she must die; so hard a Destiny My Pa.s.sion for her Husband does decree: But 'tis the way I stop at.-- His Jealousy already I have rais'd; That's not enough, his Honour must be touch'd.

This Meeting twixt the King and fair _Florella_, Must then be render'd publick; 'Tis the Disgrace, not Action, must incense him-- Go you to Don _Alonzo's_ Lodging strait, Whilst I prepare my Story for his Ear.-- [Exit Elvira.

a.s.sist me all that's ill in Woman-kind, And furnish me with Sighs, and feigned Tears, That may express a Grief for this Discovery.-- My Son, be like thy Mother, hot and bold; And like the n.o.ble Ravisher of Rome, Court her with Daggers, when thy Tongue grows faint, Till thou hast made a Conquest o'er her Virtue.

_Enter_ Alonzo, Elvira.

--Oh, _Alonzo_, I have strange News to tell thee!

_Alon_. It must be strange indeed, that makes my Queen Dress her fair Eyes in Sorrow.

_Qu_. It is a Dress that thou wilt be in love with, When thou shalt hear my Story.-- You had a Sister once.

_Alon_. Had!

_Qu_. Yes, had,--whilst she was like thy self, all Virtue; Till her bewitching Eyes kindled such Flames, As will undo us all.

_Alon_. My Sister, Madam! sure it cannot be:-- What Eyes? what Flames?--inform me strait.

_Qu. Alonzo_, thou art honest, just and brave: And should I tell thee more,-- (Knowing thy Loyalty's above all Nature) It would oblige thee to commit an Outrage, Which baser Spirits will call Cruelty.

_Alon_. G.o.ds, Madam! do not praise my Virtue thus, Which is so poor, it scarce affords me patience To attend the end of what you wou'd deliver-- Come, Madam, say my Sister--is a Wh.o.r.e.

I know 'tis so you mean; and being so, Where shall I kneel for Justice?

Since he that shou'd afford it me, Has made her Criminal.-- Pardon me, Madam, 'tis the King I mean.

_Qu_. I grieve to own, all thy prophetick Fears Are true, _Alonzo_, 'tis indeed the King.

_Alon_. Then I'm disarm'd, For Heaven can only punish him.

_Qu_. But, _Alonzo_, Whilst that religious Patience dwells about thee, All Spain must suffer, nay, Ages that shall ensue Shall curse thy Name, and Family; From whom a Race of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds shall proceed, To wear that Crown.

_Alon_. No, Madam, not for mine, My Sister's in my power, her Honour's mine; I can command her Life, though not my King's.

Her Mother is a Saint, and shou'd she now Look down from Heaven upon a Deed so foul, I think even there she wou'd invent a Curse, To thunder on her Head.-- But, Madam, whence was this Intelligence?