When shall we scape from the delays of Rome?  

And when, slow Venice, will thy succours come?

How often too have we in vain

sought ayd fron long consulting Spain?

The German eagle does no more

about our barren island sore.

Thy region, famisht Rhodes, she does forsake

and cruelly at home her quarrie make.

The furious French, and fiercer English fail.

We watch from steeples and the peer

what flaggs remoter vessels bear;

but no glad voice cries out, a sail! a sail!

Brave duke! I find we are to blame

in playing slowly honour's game,

whilst lingring famine wasts our strenght,

and tires afflicted life with length.

The Council does it rashness call

when we propose to hazard all

the parcells we have left in one bold cast:

but their discretion makes our torments last.

When less'ning hope flyes from our ken,

and still despair shews grest and near,

discretion seems to valour then

a formal shape to cover fear.

Courage, when it at once adventures all,

and dares with human aids dispence,

resembles that high confidence

which priests may faith and heav'nly-valour call.

Those who in latter dangers of fierce warr

to distant hope and long consults are given,

depend too proudly on their own wise care,

and seem to trust themselves much more than heav'n.

Let then the elder of our Rhodian knights

discourse of slow designs in antient fights;

let them sit long in council to contrive

how they may longest keep lean fools alive:

whilst (Marshal) thou, the Admiral, and I

(grown weary of this tedious strife

which but prolongs imprison'd life)

since we are freely born will freely dye.

From sev'ral ports wee'l sally out

with all the bolder youth our seas have bred. ~

And we at land through storms of warr have led,

then meet at Mustapha's redoubt.

And this last race of honour being run,

wee'l meet agen, farr, farr, above the sun.

Already fame her trumpet sounds,  

which more provokes and warms

our courage than the smart of wounds.

Away! to arms! to arms!...

What from the camp, when no assault is near,  

fierce duke, does thee to slaughter call?

Or what bold fleet does now at sea appear,

to hale and boord our admiral?

We give, Great Master, this alarm

not to forewarn your chiefs of harm,

to whom assaults from land or sea

would now but too much welcome be.

We want great dangers, and of mischiefs know

no greater ill but that they come too slow.

Why should we thus, with arts great care

of empire, against nature warr?

Nature, with sleep and food, would make life last,

but artfull empire makes us watch and fast.

If valour virtue be, why should we lack

the means to make it move?

Which progress would improve;

but cannot march when famine keeps it back?

When gen'ral dearth

afflict the earth,

then even our loudest warriours calmly pine.

High courage (though with sourness still

it yields to yoacks of human will)

yet gracefully does bow to pow'r divine.

But when but mortal foes

imperiously impose

a martial lent

where strength is spent;

that famine, doubly horrid, wears the face

both of a lingring death, and of disgrace.

For thosa, whose valour makes them quickly dye,

prevent the fast to shun the infamy.

Whom have I heard? 'Tis time all pow'r should cease

when men high born, and higher bred,

(who have out-done what most have read)

grow like the gowrd, impatient of distress.

Is there no room for hope in any breast?

Not, since she does appear

boldly a dweller where

she first was intertain'd but as a guest.

She may in sieges be receiv'd,

be courted too, and much believ'd,

and thus continue after wants begin;

but is trhust out when famine enters in.

You have been tir'd in vain with passiviness;

but where, when active, can you meet success?

With all the strength of all our forts  

wee'l sally out from all the ports,

and with a hot and hot alarm

still keep the Turkish tents so warm

that Solyman shall in a feaver lye.

His bassas, marking what we do,  

shall find that we were taught by you

to manage life, and teach them how to dye.

Valour's designs are many heights above

all pleasures fancy'd in the dreams of love.

But whilst, voluptuously, you thus devise

delightfull ways to end those miseries

which over-charge your own impatient mind,

where shall the softer sex their safety find?

When you with num'rous foes lye dead,

(I mean asleep in honour's bed)

they then may subject be

to all the wild and fouler force

of rudest victory,

where noise shall deafen all remorse.

If still concern'd to watch and arm  

that we may keep from harm

all who defenceless are

and seldome safe in warr,

when, Admiral, shall we

from weariness be free?

The Rhodians by your gen'ral sally may  

get high renown,

though you at last must bravely lose the day,

and they their town.

Then when by anger'd Solyman 'tis sway'd,

on whom shall climbing infants smile for aid?

Or who shall lift and rescue falling age,

when it can only frown at Turkish rage?

The living thus advise you to esteem

and keep your life that it may succour them:

but though you are inclin'd to hear death plead

as strongly to invite you to dead,

whilst glory does beyond compassion move,

yet stay till your Ianthe speaks for love!

Ianthe's name is such a double charm,

as strait does arm me, and as soon unarm.

Valour, as farr as ever valour went,

dares go, not stopping at the sultan's tent,

to free Ianthe when to Rhodes confin'd:

but halts, when it considers I

admist ten thousand Turks may dye,

yet leave her then to many more behind.

Since life is to be kept, what must be done?

All those attempts of valour we must shun

which may the sultan vex; and, since bereft

of food, there is no help but treatry left.

Rhodes, when the world shall thy submission know,

honour, thy antient friend, will court thy foe.

Honour begins to blush, and hide his face:

for those who treat sheath all their swords,

to try by length of fencing words

how farr they may consent to meet disgrace.

As noble minds with shame their wants confess;

so Rhodes will bashfully declare distress.

Our guards will turn confed'rates with the crowd,  

whose mis'ries now insult and make them loud.

Their leaders strive with praises to appease,

and soften the mis-led with promises.

These us'd with awe to wait  

far from your palace gate;

but, like lean birds in frosts, their hunger now

makes them approach us and familiar grow.

They have so long being dying, that 'tis fit

they death's great privilege should have,

which does in all a parity admit:

no rooms of state are in the grave.

The people's various minds  

(which are like sudden winds,

such as from hilly-coasts still changing blow)

were lately as a secret kept

in many whispers of so soft a breath,

and in a calm so deeply low,

as if all life had soundly slept;

but now, as if they meant to waken death,

they rashly rise, and loud in tumults' grow.

They see our strength is hourly less,  

whilst Solyman's does still increase.

Thus, being to their last expectance driven,

Ianthe, now they cry!

whose name they raise so high

and often that it fills the vault of heaven.

If Solyman does much her looks esteem,

looks captive him, and may enfranchise them.

By many pris'ners, since our siege began,

they have been told, how potent Solyman,

in all assaults, severely did command

that you and she

should still be free

from all attempts of every Turkish hand.

It rudeness were in me, not to confess

that Solyman has civil been,

and did much christian honour winn

when he Ianthe rescu'd from distress.

They were from many more advertis'd too,

that he hath passports sent for her and you:

which makes them hope the pow'r divine

does by some blessed cause design

Ianthe to procure their liberty;

or if by heaven 'tis not intirely me'nt

that powerfull beauties' force should set them free,

yet they would have her strait in treaty sent

to gain some rest for those,

who of their restless foes

continual wounds and fasts are weary grown.

Whose mighty hearts conceiv'd before,

that they were built to suffer more

assaults and battries than our rocky town.

Those who, with giant-stature, shocks receiv'd,

now down to dwarfish size and weakness fall.

Who once no more of harm from shot believ'd

than that an arrow hurts a wounded wall.

She treat? What pleasant, but what frantick dreams,

rise from the people's feaver of extremes?

I will allay their rage, or try

how farr Ianthe will comply.

Why, wise Villerius, had you power to sway  

that Rhodian valour, which did yours obey?

Was not that pow'r deriv'd from awfull heav'n

which to your valour hath your wisdome given?

And that directs you to the seasons' meet

for deeds of warr, and when 'tis fit to treat.

Ere we to Solyman can sue,

Ianthe, we must treat with you.

The people find that they havo no defence

but in your beauty and your eloquence.

To your requests great Solyman may yield.

Can hope on such a weak foundation build?

In you the famish't people's hopes are fed.

Can your discerning eyes

(which may inform the wise)

be by vain hope, their blind conductor, led?

When winds in tempests rise

pilots may shut their eyes.

And, though their practice knows their way,

must be content a while to stray.

Though Solyman should softer grow,

and to my tears compassion show,

what shape of comfort can appear to me,

when all your outward warr shall cease,

if then my lord renew his jealousie

and strait destroy my inward peace?

The Rhodian knights shall all in council sit;

and with perswasions, by the publick voice,

your lord shall woo till you to that submit

which is the people's will, and not your choice.

No arguments, by forms of senate made,

can magisterial jealousie perswade;

it takes no counsel, nor will be in awe

of reason's force, necessity, or law.

Call thy experience back,  

which safety coasted every shore;

and let thy reason lack

no wings to make it higher soar;

for all those aids will much too weak appear,

with all that gath'ring fancy can supply,

when she hath travell'd round about the sphere,

to give us strength to govern jealousie.

Will you believe that fair Ianthe can

consent to go, and treat with Solyman,

vainly in hope to move him to remorse?

'Twill not be said by me

that she consents, when she

does yield to what the people would inforce.

Their strength they now will in our weakness find,

whom in their plenty we can sway,

but in their wants must them obey,

and wink when they the cords of pow'r unbind.

'Tis likely then that she must yield to go.

Who can resist, if they will have it so?

Where e're she moves she will last innocent.

Heav'ns spotless lights are not by motion spent.

Alphonso's love cannot so sickly be

as to express relapse of jealousie.

Examine jealousie and it will prove

to be the carefull tenderness of love.

It can no sooner than celestial fire

be either quench't, or of it self expire.

No signs are seen of embers that remain

for windy passion to provoke.

Talk not of signs; celestial fires contain

no matter which appears in smoak.

Be heedfull, Admiral; the private peace

of lovers so renown'd requires your care:

their league, renew'd of late, will, if it cease,

as much perplex us as the Rhodian warr.

How vainly must I keep mine eyes awake,  

who now, Alphonso, am enjoyn'd to take,

for publick good, a private care of thee,

when I shall rather need thy care of me?

Love, in Ianthe's shape, pass't through my eyes

and tarries in my breast. But if the wise

Villerius does high jealousie approve

as virtue, and because it springs from love,

my love, I hope, will so much virtue be

as shall, at least, take place of jealousie.

For all will more respect

the cause than the effect.

What I discern of love, seems virtue yet,

and whilst that face appears I'le cherish it.

Their murmurs with their hunger will increase:  

their noises are effects of emptiness.

Murmurs, like winds, will louder prove

when they with larger freedome move.

Winds which in hollow caverns dwell,  

do first their force in murmurs waste;

then soon, in many a sighing blast,

get out, and up in tempests swell.

Your practis'd strength no publique burden fears,  

nor stoops when it the weight of empire bears.

Pow'r is an arch which ev'ry common hand

does help to raise to a magnifique height;

and it requires their aid when it does stand

with firmer strength beneath increasing weight.

'Tis noble to endure and not resent

the bruises of afflictions' heavy hand.

But can we not this embassy prevent?

Ianthe needs must go. Those who withstand

the tide of flood, which is the people's will,

fall back when thay in vain would onward row:

we strength and way preserve by lying still.

And sure, since tides ebb longer than they flow,

patience, which waits their ebbs, regains

lost time, and does prevent our pains.

Can we of saving and of gaining boast

in that by which Ianthe may be lost?

She wholly honour is, and, when bereft

of any part of that, has nothing left.

For honour is the soul, which by the art

of schools is all contain'd in ev'ry part.

The guiltless cannot honour lose, and she

can never more than virtue guilty be.

The talking world may persecute her name.

Her honour bleeds not, when they wound her fame.

Honour's the soul which nought but guilt can wound;

fame is the trumpet which the people found.

The trumpet where still variously they blow,

and seeking ecchos, sound both high and low.

Can no expedient stop their will?

The practice grows above our skill.

Last night, in secret, I a pris'ner sent

to Mustapha, with deep acknowledgement

for fair Ianthe's former libertie,

and passports, offer'd since, to set her free.

My letters have no ill acceptance met;

but his reply forbids all means to treat,

unless Ianthe, who has oft refus'd

that pass, which honour might have safely us'd,

appear before great Solyman, and sue

to save those lives which famine must subdue.

Sad fate! Were all those drowsie sirrups here

which art prescribes to madness, or to fear,

to jealousie, or carefull statesmen's eyes,

to waking tyrants, or their watchfull spies,

they could not make me sleep when she is sent

to lie love's lieger in the sultan's tent.

What sodain pleasure makes the crowd rejoyce?  

What comfort can thus raise the publique voice?

'Tis fit that with the people's insolence,

when in their sorrows rude, we should dispence,

since they are seldome civil in their joys:

their gladness is but an uncivil noise.

They seldome are in tune, and their tunes last

but like their loves rash sparkles struck in haste.

Still brief, as the concordance of a shout.

What is so short as musick of the rout?

Though short, yet 'tis as hearty as 'tis loud.

Dissembling is an art abobe the crowd.

Whom do they dignifie with this applause?

Of this, grave prince, Ianthe is the cause.  

I from the temple led her now,  

where she for Rhodes pay'd many a vow,

and did for ev'ry Rhodian mourn

with sorrows gracefully devout:

but they pay'd back at our return

more vows to her than she laid out.

If they such gratutude express  

for your kind pray'rs in their distress,

Ianthe, think, what the besieg'd will do

when the besieger is o'recome by you?

Though Rhodes by kings has quite forsaken bin

without, whilst all forsake their chiefs within,

yet who can tell but heav'n has now design'd

your shining beauty and your brighter mind

to lead us from the darkness of this warr,

where the besieg'd, forgotten pris'ners are:

where glorious minds have been so much obscur'd

that fame has hardly known

what they have boldly done,

and with a greater boldness have endur'd.

If heav'n of innocence unmindfull were,

Ianthe then might many dangers fear.

Your hazards, and what Rhodes does hazard too,

are less then mine when I adventure you;

who doubtfull perills run

that we may try to shun

such certain loss as nought can else prevent.

Revolted jealousie! can he consent?

If Rhodes were not concern'd at all

in what I am desir'd to undertake

I should it less than duty call

to seek the sultan for Alphonso's sake.

The sultan has with forward haste  

climb'd to the top of high renown;

and sure, he cannot now as fast,

by breaking trust, run beckward down.

We should not any with suspition wound  

whom none detect, much less believe that those

in whom by trial we much virtue found

can quickly all their stock of virtue lose.

How sweetly she, like infant-innocence,

run harmlessly to harm?

High honour will unarm

it self to furnish others with defence.

Her mind, ascending still o're human heights,

has all the valour of our Rhodian knights.

What more remains but pray'rs to recommend

your safety to the heav'nly pow'rs,

you being theirs much more than ours.

I'l to the sultan for your passport send.

That may disgrace the trust which we should give,

and lessen the effects we should receive.

Let such use forms so low  

as not by trial know

how high the honour is of Solyman,

who never will descend

till he in valleys end

that race which he on lofty hills began.

His pow'r does every day increase,

and can his honour then grow less?

Bright power does like the sun

tow'rds chief perfection run,

when it does high and higher rise.

From both the best effects proceed,

when they from heights their glories spread,

and when they dazzle gazing eyes.

How far, Ianthe, will these thoughts extend?  

Vain question, honour has no journey's end!

Her honor's such, as he who limits it

must draw a line to bound an infinite.

Since fate has long resolv'd that you must go,

and you a pass decline, what can we do?

The great example which the sultan gave

of virtue, when he did my honour save,

and yours, Alphonso, too in me,

when I was then his enemy,

shall bring me now a suppliant to his tent,

without his plighted word or passport sent.

So great a test of our entire belief

of clemency, in so renown'd a chief,

is now the greatest present we can make:

his passport is the least that we can take.

Ianthe, I am learning not to prize

those dangers, which your virtue can despise.

My love is better taught,

for with the pangs of thought,

I must that safety much suspect,

which she too nobly does neglect.

You hear them, Admiral!  

Agen the people call,

our hast provoking by a shout.

Go hang a flag of treaty out,

high on Saint Nich'las fort!

Then clear the western port

to make renown'd Ianthe way!

Heark! they grow loud!

That tide, the crowd,

will not for lovers' leisure stay.

That storm by suddenness prevails,

and makes us lower all our sails.

To Mustapha I'l strait a herald send,

that Solyman may melt when he shall know,

how much we on his mighty mind depend

by trusting more than Rhodes to such a foe.

How long, Ianthe, should I grieve  

if I perceiv'd you could believe

that I the Rhodians can so much esteem,

as to adventure you to rescue them?

Yet I for Rhodes would frankly hazard all

that I could mine, and not Ianthe's call.

But now I yield to let you go

a pledge of treaty to the foe,

in hope that saving Rhodes you may

prepare to Cicily your way.

Were Rhodes subdu'd, Ianthe being there,

Ianthe should the only loss appear.

Much from us both is to the Rhodians due,

but when I sue for Rhodes, it is for you.

Ianthe, we must part! you shall rely

on hope, whilst I in parting learn to dye.

Take back that hope! your dealing is not fair,

to give me hope, and leave your self despair.

I will but dream of death, and then

as virtuously as dying men

let me to scape from future punishment

come to a clear confession, and repent.

I cannot any story fear

which of Alphonso I shall hear,

unless his foes in malice tell it wrong.

Ianthe, my confession is not long,

for since it tells what folly did commit

against your honour, shame will shorten it.

Lend me a little of that shame,

for I perceive I grow to blame

in practising to guess what it can be.

It is my late ignoble jealousie.

Though parting now seems death, yet but forgive

that crime, and after parting I may live.

And as I know again great sorrow show,

though I repented well for it before,

so let your pardon with my sorrows grow;

you much forgave me, but forgive me more.

Away! away! How soon will this augment

the troubled people's fears,

when they shall see me by Alphonso sent

to treat for Rhodes in tears?

What in your absence shall I do

worthy of fame, though not of you?

By patience, not by action now,

your virtue must successfull grow.

In throngs the longing people wait  

your comming at the palace gate.

Let me attend you to peer.

But we must leave our sorrows here.

Let not a Rhodian witness be

of any grief in you or me;

for Rhodes, by seeing us at parting mourn,

will look for weeping clouds at my return.

None (glorious sultan) can your conquest doubt,  

when Rhodes has hung a flagg of treaty out.

Thy courage, haughty Rhodes,

(when I account the odds

thou hast oppos'd, by long and vain defence)

is but a braver kind of impudence.

Thou knew'st my strength, but thou didst better know

how much I priz'd the brav'ry's of a foe.

Their sallies were by stealth, and faint of late.

Can flowing valour stay at standing flood?

No, it will quickly from the mark abate.

And then soon shew the dead low ebb of blood.

When those who did such mighty deeds before,

shall less, but by a little, do,

it shews to me and you,

old Pirrhus, that they mean to do no more.

By treaty they but boldly begg a peace.

Shall I command that all battries cease?

You may, then draw our out-guards to the line.

And I'l prevent yhe springing of the mine.

Villerius send his homage to your feeet:  

and, to declare how low

the pride of Rhodes can bow,

Ianthe will be here to kneel and treat.

What more can fortune in your favour do?

Beauty, which conquers victors, yields to you.

What wandring star does lead her forth? Can she

who scorn'd a passport for her liberty,

vouchsafe to come, and treat without it now?

The first did glory, this respect may show.

Pow'r's best religion she

perhaps does civilly believe

to be establish'd, and reform'd in me,

which counsels monarchs to forgive.

A second morn begins to break from Rhodes;  

and now that threatning skie grows clear,

which was o're cast with smoke of cannon-clouds,

the fair Ianthe does appear.

Pirrhus, our forces from the trenches lead,

and open as our flying ensigns spread.

And, Mustapha, let her reception be

as great as is the faith she has in me.

I keep high int'rest hid in this command,

which you with safety may

implicity obey,

but not without your danger understand...

Your try'd obedience I shall much engage,

join'd to the prudence of your practis'd age.

We are content with age, because we live

so long beneath your sway.

Age makes us fit t'obey

commands which none but Solyman can give.

Of spacious empire, what can I enjoy?  

Gaining at last but what I first destroy.

'Tis fatal (Rhodes) to thee,

and troublesome to me

that I was born to govern swarms

of vassals boldly bred to arms:

for whose accurs'd diversion, I must still

provide new towns to sack, new foes to kill.

Excuse that pow'r, which by my slaves is aw'd:

for I shall find my peace

destroy'd at home, unless

I seek for them destructive warr abroad.

Th'ambassadors of Persia, are they come?  

They seek your favour and attend their doom.

The vizier bashaw, did you bid him wait?

Sultana, he does here expect his fate.

You take up all our sultan's bosome now;

have we no place, but that which you allow?

Your beautious gratness does your ear incline

to rumors of those crimes which are not mine.

My foes are prosp'rous in their diligence,

and turn ev'n my submission to offence.

Rustan, your glories rise, and swell too fast.

You must shrink back, and shall repent your haste.

Th'Egyptian presents which you pleas'd t'assign

as a reward to th'eunuch Salladine,

are part of those allotments Haly had.

Let a division be to Haly made.

Th'Armenian cities have their tribute paid,

and all Georgian Princes sue for ay'd.

Those cities, Mustapha, deserve our care.

Pirrhus, send succours to the Georgian warr.

Th'embassador which did the jewels bring

from the Hungarian Queen, does audience crave.

Pirrhus, be tender of her infant king.

Who dares destroy that throne which I would save?

Sultana, humbly at your feet I fall,

do not your sultan's will, my counsel call.

Rustan! go mourn! But you may long repent:

my busie pow'r wants leisure to relent.

Think me not wicked, till I doubt to find

some small compassion in so great a mind.

These are court-monsters, corm'rants of the crown:

they feed on favour till th'are over-grown,

then sawcily believe, we monarchs wives

were made but to dress't

for a continu'd feast,

to hear soft sounds, and play away our lives.

They think our fullness is to vain so soon

as if our sexe's governess, the moon,

had plac'd us, but for sport on fortune's lapp;

they with bold pencils, by the changing shape

of our frail beauty, have our fortune drawn,

and judge our breasts transparent as our lawn;

our hearts as loose, and soft, and slight

as are our summer vests of silk;

our brains, like to our feathers light;

our blood, as sweet as is our milk:

and think, when fav'rites rise, we are to fall

meekly as doves, whose livers have no gall.

But they shall find, I'm no European queen,

who in a throne does sit but to be seen;

and lives in peace with such state-thieves as these

who robb us of our business for our ease.

Majestick sultan! at your feet we fall:  

our duty 'tis and just

to say, you have encompass'd us with all

that we can private trust

or publique honours call.

In fields our weak retiring age you grace

with forward action; and in court,

where all your maghty chiefs resort,

even they to us, as kings to them, give place.

The cords by which we are oblig'd are strong.

You all have loyal been, and loyal long.

To shew I this retain in full belief,

I'le doubly trust you with my shame and grief.

A grief which takes up all my breast:  

yet finds the room so narrow too

that being straightned there it takes no rest,

but must get out to trouble you.

That grief begets a shame which would disgrace

my pow'r, if it were publisht in my face.

Your outward calm does well

your inward storm disguise.

But long dead calms fore-tell

that tempests are to rise.

My Roxolana, by ambitious strife,

to get unjust succession for her son,

has put in doubt

or blotted out

all the heroique story of my life,

and will lose back the battails I have wonn.

Ere ill advice shall lead her far, shee'l skorn  

her guide, and, faster than she went, return.

Those who advis'd her ill, in that did do

much more than we dare hear except from you.

O Mustapha! is it too much for me

to think, I justly may possessor be

of one soft bosom, where releas'd from care,

I should securely rest from toils of warr?

But now, when daily tir'd with watchfull life,

(with various turns in doubtfull fight,

and length of talking councils) I at night

in vain seek sleep with a tempestuous wife.

Wink at my shame, that I, whose banners brave

the world, should thus to beauty be a slave.

This cloud will quickly pass

from Roxolana's face.

The weather then will change from foul to fair.

Tempests are short, and serve to clear the air.

Since I have told my sickness, it is fit

you hear what cure I have prescrib'd to it.

Those lovers' knots I cannot strait untwine,

which, sure, were made to last

since they were once ty'd fast

with strings of Roxolana's heart and mine.

How can she vast possession more improve?

Has she not all in having all your love?

I have design'd a way to check her pride.

It is not yet forgot,

that even the gordian knot

at last was cut, which could not be unty'd.

Does not the fair Ianthe wait

without, in hope to mitigate,

by soft'ning looks, the Rhodians' fate?

Let that new moon appear,

and try her influence here.

What lab'rynth does our sultan mean to tread?  

Shall straying love the world great leader lead?

When warlick cities (fair embassadress)  

begin to treat, they cover their distress.

In shewing you, the artfull Rhodians know

they hide distress and all their triumphs show.

From with'ring Rhodes you fresher beauty bring,

and sweeter than the bosom of the spring.

Cities (propitious sultan) when they treat,

conceal their wants, and strength may counterfeit:

but sure the Rhodians would not get esteem,

by ought pretended in my self or them.

If I could any beauty wear

where Roxolana fills the sphear

yet I bring griefs to cloud it here.

Your Rhodes has hung a flagg of treaty out.

You can as little then my sorrows doubt

as I can fear that any humble grief

may sue to Solyman and want relief.

You oft the proffer'd freedome did refuse,

which now you seek, and would have others use.

I then did make my want of merit known,

and thought that gift too much for me alone;

and as 'twas fit

to reckon it

more favour than Ianthe should receive,

so it did then appear

that single favours were

too little for great Solyman to give.

Much is to every beauty due:  

then how much more to all

those divers forms we beauty call,

and all are reconcil'd in you?

But those who here for peace by treaty look,  

must meet with that which beauty least can brook,

delay of court, which makes the blood so cold

that youngest agents here look pale and old.

Here you must tedious forms of pow'r obey. ~

Your bus'ness will all night require your stay.

Bus'ness, abroad at night? sure bus'ness then

only becomes the confidence of men.

Those who the greatest wand'rers are,  

wild birds, that in the day

frequent no certain way,

and know no limits in the air,

will still at night discreetly come

and take their civil rest at home.

Is the protection of my pow'r so slight,  

that in my camp you are affraid of night?

Stay in the camp at night, and Rhodes so near,

honour my guide, and griev'd Alphonso there?

Treaties are long, my bassas old and slow,

with whom you must debate before you go.

Let not your cause by any absence fail.

Your beautious presence may on age prevail.

Alas, I came not to capitulate,

and shew a love of speech by long debate:

She kneels.

but to implore from Solyman what he

to Rhodes may quickly grant,

and never feel a want

of that which by dispatch would doubled be.

Ianthe, rise! your grief may pitty move;

but gracefull grief,

whilst it does seek relief,

may pitty lead to dang'rous ways of love.

Why heav'n, was I mistaken when I thought

that I the coursest shape had brought

and the most wither'd too that sorrow wears?

If you would wither'd seem, restrain your tears.

The morning dew makes roses blow

and sweeter smell and fresher show.

Take heed, Ianthe, you may be too blame.

Did you not trust me when you hither came?

Will you my honour now too late suspect,

when only that can yours protect?

If of your virtue my extreme belief

may virtuous favour gain,

my tears I will restrain.

It is my faith shall save me, not my grief.

Conduct her strait to Roxolana's tent,

and tell my haughty empress I have sent

such a mysterious present as will prove

a riddle both to honour and to love.

Dwells not Alphonso in Ianthe's breast,  

as prince of that fair palace, not a guest?

Can it be virtue in a Rhodian knight

to seek possession of anothe right?

Yet how can I his title there destroy

by loving that which he may still enjoy?

My passion will no less than virtue prove,

whilst it does much Ianthe's virtue love,

if in her absence I her safety fear,

'tis virtuous kindness then to wish her here.

But of her dangers I in vain

shall with my watchfull fears complain

till he grow fearfull too, whose fears must be

rais'd to the husband's virtue, jealousie. ~

Does he not seem  

as if in dream,

his course by storm were on the ocean lost?

He now draws cards to shun a rocky coast.

The foolish world does jealouisie mistake:

'tis civil care, which kindness does improve.

Perhaps the jealous are too much awake,

but others dully sleep o're those they love.

He must be jealous made, for that kind fear,

when known, will quickly bring and stay her here.

What can thy silence now portend,

when the assembled people send

their thankfullness to heav'n in one loud voice?

The hungry, wounded, and the sick rejoice.

Our quires in long procession sing,

the bells of all our temples ring,

our enemies

begin to rise,

and from our walls are to their camp retir'd

to see Ianthe there in triumph shown.

Their cannon in a loud salute are fir'd,

and eccho'd too by louder of our own.

Who is so dully bred,

or rather who so dead

whom fair Ianthe's triumph cannot move?

From th'ocean's bosom it will call

a sinking admiral

who flies to stormy seas from storms of love.

Our foes (Great Master) wear the looks of friends.  

A Zanjack from the camp attends

behind the out-let of the peer,

and he demands your private ear.

Would you had met Ianthe there!  

Since well receiv'd, you wish her here too soon.

The morning led her out

and we may doubt

how her dispatch could bring her back ere noon.

Her high reception was but justly due,

who with such noble confidence,

could with her sexe's fears dispence,

and trusting Solyman could part from you.

By that we may discern her rising mind

o're all the pinnacles of female kind.

Strangely she shun'd what custom does afford,

the pledges of his pass and plighted word.

Not knowing guilt, she knows no fear,

and still must strange in all appear,

as well as singular in this;

the crowd of common gazers fill

their eyes with objects low and ill,

but she a high and good example is.

Ianthe's lawrels hourly will increase!  

I have receiv'd some secret signs of peace

from Mustapha, whose trusted messenger

has brought me counsel how to counsel her.

She must a while make such appliances

as may the haughty Roxolana please,

to whom she now by Solyman is sent,

and does remain our lieger in her tent.

In Turkish dialects, that word, remain,

may many summs of tedious hours contain:

and in a Rhodian lover's swift accompt,

to what a debt will that sad reck'ning mount?

To night, Alphonso, you must sleep alone.

But time is swift, a night is quickly gone.

For lovers' nights are like their slumbers, short. ~

I must dispatch this Zanjack to the court.

The quiet bed of lovers is the grave,

for we in death, no sence of absence have.

Rhodes in her view, her tent within your sight!  

And yet to be divided a whole night!

A single night would many ages seem,

were I not sure that we shall meet in dream.

She must no more such dang'rous visits make,

me-thinks I grow malicious for your sake,

and rather wish Rhodes should of freedome fail,

than that Ianthe's power should now prevail.

Your words mysterious grow.

Alphonso, no.

For if whilst thus you for her absence mourn

her pow'r should much appear,

she'l want excuse,

unless she use

a little of that power, for her return

to day, and nightly resting here.

The hardned steel of Solyman is such,

as with the edge does all the world command,

and yet that edge is softned with the touch

of Roxolana's gentle hand.

And as his hardness yields, when she is near,

so many Ianthe's softness govern her.

The day sufficient seems for all address,

and is at court the season of access;

deprive not Roxolana of her right;

let th'empress lye with Solyman at night.

And as that privilege to her is due,

so should Ianthe sleep at Rhodes with you.

I'le write! The Zanjack for my letter stays;

love walks his round, and leads me in a maze.

Love does Alphonso in a circle lead;  

and none can trace the wayes which I must tread.

Lovers, in searching love's records, will find

but very few like me,

that still would virtuous be,

whilst to another's wife I like a lover woo,

I use all art

that form her husband she may never part,

and yet even then would make him jealous too.

Think, Haly, think, what I should swiftly do?  

A Rhodian lady, and a beauty too,

in my pavillon lodg'd? It serves to prove

his setled hatred and his wandring love.

Who did he send to plant this canker here?

Old Bassa Mustapha.

Bid him appear.

Hope, thou grow'st weak, and thou hast been too strong.  

Like night, thou com'st too soon, and stay'st too long.

Hence! smiling hope! with growing infants' play:

if I dismiss thee not, I know

thou of thy self wilt go,

and canst no longer than my beauty stay.

I'le open all the doors to let thee out:

and then call in thy next successor, doubt.

Come, doubt, and bring thy lean companion, care.

And, when you both are lodg'd, bring in despair.

Our op'ning buds, and falling blossoms, all  

that we can fresh and fragrant call,

that spring can promise, and the summer pay,

be strew'd in Roxolana's way.

On nature's fairest carpets let her tread;

and there, through calms of peace, long may she lead

that pow'r which we have follow'd farr,

and painfully, through storms of warr.

Blessing are cheap, and those you can afford:

yet you are kinder than your frowning lord.

I dare accuse him; but it is too late. ~

(weeps)

What means that pretty property of state,

which is from Rhodes for midnight treaties sent?

Private caballs of lovers in my tent?

Your valour, Mustapha, serv'd to convay

love's fresh supplies. You soldiers can make way.

Was it not greatly done to bring her here?

Duty in that did over-rule my fear.

It was the mighty Solyman's command.

Thou fatal fool! how canst thou think

to find a basis where thou firm mayest stand

on those rough waters where I sink?

If Roxolana were not rank'd above

mankind, she straight would fall

before that pow'r which all

the valiant follow, and the virtuous love.

I grow immortal, for I life disdain:

which ill with thy dislike of dying suits.

Yet thou, for safety, fear'st great pow'r in vain,

who here art but a subject to my mutes. ~

Peruse the dreaded will of anger'd pow'r,  

toucht with the signet of the emperour:

it does enjoyn Ianthe's safety here:

she must be sought with love, and serv'd with fear.

This disobey'd, your mutes, who still make haste

to cruelty, may rest for want of breath.

'Tis order'd they shall suddenly be past

their making signs, and shall be dumb with death.

This dreadfull doom from Solyman I give.

But if his will, which is our law,

be met with an obedient awe,

the empress then may long in triumph live.

Begon! thy duty is officious fear.

If I am soft enough to grieve,

it is to see the sultan leave

the warring world, and end his conquest here. ~

Crawl to my sultan still, officious grow!

Ebb with his love, and with his anger flow.

Preserve with temper your imperial mind;  

and, till you can express

your wrath with god success,

by angring others to your self be kind. ~

If thou canst weep, thou canst endure to bleed:

men who compassion feel have valour too:

I shall thy courage more than pitty need:

dar'st thou contrive as much as I dare do?

I'le on, as far as weary life can go.

Then I shall want no aid to my design:

wee'l digg below them, and blow up their mine.

Can Roxolana such a rival bear?  

She has her fits of courage and of fear.

As she does high against your anger grow,

so, trusting strait your love, she stoops as low.

Her chamber-tempests I have known too well:

she quickly can with winds of passion swell,

and then as quickly has the woman's pow'r

of laying tempests with a weeping showr.

What looks does the detain'd Ianthe shew?

She still is calm in all her fears.

And seems so lovely in her tears,

as when the morning's face is whasht in dew.

The world salutes you sultan! Ev'ry pow'r  

does shrink before your throne; and ev'ry how'r

a flying packet or an agent brings

from Asia, Afrique, and European kings. ~

With packets to old Zanger go;

who, free'd from action, can with sleep dispence;

and having little now to do,

may read dull volumes of intelligence.

These writing-princes covet to seem wise

in packets, and by formal embassies:

they would with symphonies of civil words

(sweet sounds of court) charm rudeness from our swords:

teach us to lay our gauntlets by,

that they unarm'd, and harmlessly,

from farthest realms, by proxy, might shake hands;

and, off'ring useless friendshiep, save their lands.

He came disguis'd, who brought your letter here,  

and sought such privacy as argu'd fear.

But (sov'raign Master) yours did seem to be

convey'd by one less pain'd with secresie,

who does for answer stay.

Mine came from Mustapha.

It would import a promising increase

of our conditions by approaching peace.

But does request us to consent

that fair Ianthe may yet longer stay

in pow'rfull Roxolana's tent;

and that request we understand

as a command

which, though we would not grant, we must obey.

Mine by a christian slave was brought,

who from the eunuch Bassa, Haly, came;

and was by Roxolana wrote:

see the sultana's signet and her name.

She writes ~ but oh! why have I breath

to tell, how much 'tis worse than death

not to be dead

ere I agen this letter read?

Oh my prophetick fear!

She writes, that if I hold my honour dear,

or if Ianthe does that honour prize,

I should with all the art

of love, confirm her heart,

and strait from Solyman divert her eyes.

Who knows what end this dire beginning bodes?

And here she likewise says,

he to Ianthe lays

a closer siege than ere he did to Rhodes.

Ianthe, I will still my love pursue;

be kind to thee, and to Alphonso true:

but love's small policies great honour now

will hardly to my rival-ship allow:

those little arts, bold duke, I must lay by

and urge thy courage more than jealousie.

Where is thou honour now, fam'd eastern lord?

Why sought we not his passport or his word?

How durst Ianthe have so little fear

as to believe

that in the camp she could receive

freedome from him who did besiege her here?

Whilst in her own dispose she here remain'd

I of the brav'ry of her trust complain'd:

her gen'rous faith too meanly was deceiv'd,

and must not be upbraided but reliev'd.

To rescue Rhodes she did her self forsake;

and Rhodes shall nobly pay that virtue back.

Great Master! what shall poor Alphonso do?

Since all he has Ianthe's is;

and now in this

must owe Ianthe and her fame to you.

If any virtue can in valour be,  

or any valour in a Rhodian knight,

or any lover can have loyalty,

or any warriour can in love delight,

if absence makes not mighty love grow less,

or gentle lovers can compassion feel,

if loyal beauty, when in deep distress,

can melt our hearts, and harden all our steel:

then let us here in sacred vows combine.

My vow is seal'd ~

and mine. ~

And mine. ~

And trebly mine. ~

Behold us, fame, then stay thy flight,  

and hover o're our towers to night.

Fresh wings together with the morning take;

as early as afflicted lovers' wake.

Then tell the world that we have join'd our swords

but 'tis for griev'd Ianthe, not for Rhodes.

Now we shall prosper, who were weary grown

in Rhodes, and never could successfull prove

when empire led us forth to seek renown,

for honour should no leader have but love.

Thou dost from beauty, Solyman,  

as much refrain as nature can,

who, making beauty, meant it should be lov'd.

But how can I my station keep

till you, Ianthe, art by death remov'd?

To dye, when thou art young,

is but too soon to fall asleep

and lye asleep too long.

Your dreadfull will what power can here command  

but pitty? Oh let pitty stay your hand! ~

Sultan, I will not weep, because my tears

cannot suffice to quench thy love's false flame:

nor will I to a paleness bleed,

to show my love's true fears,

because I rather need

more blood to help to blush away thy shame.

How far are all his former virtues gone?

Turn back the progress of forgetfull time:

the many favours by your sultan done

should now excuse him for one purpos'd crime.

Haly, consult! Can I do ill

if many foul adult'ries I prevent,

when I but one fair mistress kill?

Be not too early here with punishment.

Your sultan now

does only show

the grudgings of a lover's feavrish fit.

You find his inclinations strange,

but, being new, they soon may change;

and they have reacht but to intention yet.

Long before deeds heav'n calls intention sin.

'Tis good to end what he would ill begin.

Do not relinquish yet your first design.

Before you darken all her light

examine, by your judging sight,

if in your sphear she can unblemisht shine.

You ment to prove her virtue and first try

how well she here could as a rival live,

ere as a judg'd adultress she should dye:

in pard'ning her you Solyman forgive.

And can you add to your lov'd greatness more

when able to forgive the greatest pow'r?

Tell me agen Alphonso's short reply

when I by letter wak'd his jealouisie,

and counsel'd him to write and to advise

his wife to lock her breast, and shut her eyes?

With silence first he did his sorrows bear;

then anger rais'd him, till he fell with fear:

at last, said she was now past counsel grown,

or else could take no better than her own.

His thoughts a double vizard wear,

and only lead me tu suspence,

it seems he does her dangers fear,

and fain would trust her innocence.

Wake her! I will pursue my first design. ~

I go to draw the curtain of a shrine. ~

Awake! Behold the pow'rfull empress here.

Heav'n has the greatest pow'r;  

heav'n seeks our love, and kindly comforts fear.

This is my fatal how'r.

Though beautious when she slept,

yet now would I had kept

her safely sleeping still.

She, waking, turns my envy into shame,

and does it so reclaim

that I am conquer'd who came here to kill.

What dangers should I fear?

her brow grows smooth and clear:

yet so much greatness cannot want disguise.

The great live all within,

and are but seldome seen

looking abroad through casements of their eyes.

Have courage, fair Sicilian, and come near. ~

My distance shew my duty more than fear.

I have a present for you, and 'tis such

as comes from one who does believe

it is for you too little to receive;

and I, perhaps, may think it is too much.

Who dares be bountifull to low distress?

Who to Ianthe can a present make

when Rhodes besieg'd has all she would possess,

and all the world does ruin'd Rhodes forsake?

The present will not make the giver poor;

and, though 'tis single now, it quickly can

be multipli'd; you shall have many more.

It is this kiss ~ it comes from Solyman.

You did your creature courage give,

and made me hope that I had leave to live,

when you from dutious distance call'd me near:

but now I soon shall courage lack:

I am amaz'd, and must go back:

amazement is the uggli'st shape of fear.

Are christian ladies so reserv'd and shy?

Our sacred law does give  

them precepts how to live.

And nature tells them they must dye.

'Tis well they to their husbands are so true.

But speak, Ianthe, are they all like you?

I hope they are, and better too,

or, if they are not, will be so.

They have been strangely injur'd then.

But rumour does mistake.

Some say they visits make,

and they are visited by men.

What custom does avow

our laws in time allow;

and those who never guilty be

suspect not others' liberty.

This would in Asia wonderfull appear:  

but time may introduce that fashion here.

Come nearer! Is your husband kind and true?

If good to good I may compare

(excepting greatness) I would dare

to say, he is as Solyman to you.

As he to me? How strong is innocence?

Prevailing till 'tis free to give offence.

Indeed, Alphonso has a large renown,

which does so daily spread,

as it the world may lead,

and should not be contracted in a town.

As we in all agree,

so he will prove like me

a lowly servant to your rising fame.

But is he kind to you, and free from blame?

Civil by day, and loyal too at night?

By nature, not by skill,

he is as cheerfull still

and as unblemisht as unshaded light.

These christian-turtles live too happily.

I wish, for breed, they would to Asia fly. ~

You must not at such distance stand;

draw near, and give me your fair hand. ~

I have another present for you now,

and such a present as I know

you will much better than the first allow,

though Solyman will not esteeem it so.

'Tis from my self ~ of friendship such a seal. ~

(Kisses her)

As you to Solyman must ne'r reveal. ~

And that I may be more assur'd,

by this agen you are conjur'd. ~

Presents so good and great as these

I should receive upon my knees.

I will not, lest I may revive your fear,

relate the cause of your confinement here.

But know, I must

your virtue trust,

which, proving loyal, you are safe in mine.

The light of angels still about you shine!

The dang'rous secrets of th'imperial bed

(takes Ianthe aside)

are darker than the riddles of the throne.

The glass, in which their characters are read,

we eunuchs grin'd, and 'tis but seldome shown.

I shall with close and wary eyes

retire from all your mysteries.

And when occasion shall my honour trust,

you'l find I have some courage, and am just.

Perhaps, Ianthe, you may shortly hear

of clouds, which threatning me, may urge your fear.

Be virtuous still! 'tis true my sultan frowns, ~

(She weeps)

but let him winn more battails, take more towns,

and be all day the fore-most in the fight,

yet he shall find that I will rule at night.

(looks in)

The guards increase, and many mutes appear,

lifting their lights, to shew the sultan near.

My new seal'd frienship I must now lay by

a while, and seem your jealous enemy.

Be to your self, and to Alphonso true.

As he to me, and virtue is to you.

(steps at distance)

Has night lost all her dark dominion here?  

High hopes disturb your sleep,

but I suspect you keep

Ianthe waking not with hope but fear.

Too well, and much too soon I know

whom you are pleas'd to grace:

however, since it must be so,

you'l find I can give place.

You had a place, too near me, and too high.

If but a little you remove

from place of empire or of love,

you soon become but as a stander-by.

One step descending from a shining throne,

you to the darkest depth fall swiftly down.

If I sat nearer to you than 'twas fit

for empires, heraulds to admit,

(I being born below, and you above)

pray call in death, and I'le, even then, bring love.

To these all places equal be,

for love and death know no degree.

I cannot passion's riddles understand.

You still have present death at your command;

but former love you have laid by,

which, being gone, you know that I can dye. ~

(Weeps)

I better know that you have cause to weep.

(Turns to Ianthe)

Ianthe, all is calm within your breast,

retire into the quiet shade of sleep,

and let not watchfull fear divert your rest.

Let all the nations of my camp suffice,

as guards, to keep you from my enemies,

(for of your own

you can have none)

whilst I but as love's sent'nel on you wait,

arm'd with his bow, at your pavilion gate.

Heav'n put it in your mighty mind

quickly to be,

more than to me,

to all the valiant Rhodians kind.

And may you grieve to think how many mourn

till you shall end their griefs at my return.

You shall not languish with delay.

But this is bus'ness for the day.

'Tis now so late at night that all love's spies,

parents, and husbands too,

the watchfull and the watcht seal up their eyes,

and lovers cease to woo.

You alter ev'ry year the world's known face;  

whilst cities you remove, and nations chace.

These great mutations (which, with shril

and ceaseless sounds, fame's trumpet fill,

and shall seem wonders in her brazen books)

much less amaze me than your alter'd looks;

where I can read your love's more fatal change.

You make my frowns, yet seem to think them strange.

You seek a stranger, and abandon me.

Strange coasts are welcome after storms at sea.

That various mind will wander very farr,

which, more than home, a forein land preferrs.

The wise, for quietness, when civil warr

does rage at home, turn private travailers.

Your love's long frost has made my bosom cold.

Let not the cause be in your story told.

A colder heart death's hand has never felt:

but 'tis such ice as you may break, or melt. ~

(She weeps)

I never shall complain

when you are wet with rain,

which softer passion, does thus gently pow'r.

What more in season is than such a show'r?

You still, through little clouds, would lovely show,

were all your April-weather calm as now.

But March resembles more your haughty mind,

froward and loud oftner than calmly kind.

Weather which may not inconvenient prove

to country lovers, born but to make love,

who grieve not when they mutual kindness doubt,

but with indiff'rence meet a frown or smile,

as having frequent leisure to fall out,

and their divided breasts to reconcile.

The world had less sad bus'ness known, if you

had been ordain'd for so much leisure too.

Monarchs, who onward still with conquest move,

can only for their short diversion love.

When a black cloud in beauties' sky appears,

they cannot wait till time the tempest clears.

Whilst they, to save a sullen mistress, stay,

the world's dominion may be cast away.

Why is dominion priz'd above

wise nature's great concernment, love?

Of heav'n what have we found, which we do more

and sooner, than exceeding pow'r adore?

The wond'rous things which that chief pow'r has done,

are to those early spies, our senses, shown,

and must at length to reason be assur'd:

yet how, or what, heav'n love is much obscur'd.

And our uncertain love

(perhaps not bread above,

but in low regions, like the wandring winds)

shews diff'rent sexes more than equal minds.

Your love, indeed, is prone to change,

and like the wandring wind does range.

The gale awhile tow'rds Cyprus blew;

it turn'd to Creet, and stronger grew;

then, on the Lycian shore, it favour'd me:

but now, Ianthe seeks in Sicily.

In progresses of warr and love

victors with equal haste must move,

and in attempts of either make no stay:

they can but visit, conquer, and away.

Love's most victorious and most cruel foe!

Forsake me, and to meaner conquests go!

To warrs, where you may sack and over-run,

till your success has all the world undone.

Advance those trophies which you ought to hide;

for wherefore are they rais'd

but to have slaughter prais'd,

and courage, which is but applauded pride?

In so much rain I knew a gust would come:

I'le shun the rising storm and give it room.

Love's foes are ever hasty in retreat;

you can march off; but 'tis for fear

lest you should hear

those mournings which your cruelties beget.

The fear is wise which you upbraid;

for, whilst thus terrible you grow,

I must confess, I am affraid,

and not asham'd of being so.

Go where you cover greater fear

than that which you dissemble here:

where you breed ill your mis-begotten fame

when charging armies and assaulting towns,

you ravish nations with as little shame

as now you shew in your injurious frowns.

If we grow fearfull at the face of warr,

you, justly, may our terrour blame,

since, by your darings, we might learn to dare.

Would you as well could teach us shame.

Your fears appear, even in your darings, great;

you would not else sound cheerfull trumpets when

the charge begins, whilst drumms with clamour beat,

to raise the courage of your mighty men.

With warr's loud musick showts are mingled too;

which boastingly such cruel deeds proclaim

as beasts, through thickest furrs, would blush to do.

Your wives may breed up wolves to teach you shame.

'Tis not still dang'rous when you angry grow:

for, Roxolana, you can anger show

to those whom you, perhaps, can never hate.

This passion is; but you have crimes of state.

Call nature to be judge! What have I done?

You have a husband lost to save a son.

Sultan, that son is yours as much as mine.

He has some lustre got in fight;

but yet, beyond the dawning light

of his new glory, Mustapha does shine,

who is the pledge of my Circasian wife,

and from my blood as great a share of life

may challenge as your son. Has he not worn

a victor's wreath? He is my eldest born.

Because her son the empire shall enjoy,

must therefore strangling mutes my son destroy?

Since eldest born you may him empire give:

but mine, as well as he were born to live.

They may, as yours, though by a second wife,

inherit that which nature gave them, life.

Whilst any life I shew by any breath,

who dares approach them in the shape of death?

When you to heav'n's high palace shall remove,

to meet much more compassion there

than you have ever felt, and far more love

than ere your heart requited here;

will not your bassas then presume to do

what custom warrants and our priesthood too?

Those are the secret nerves of empire's force.

Empire grows often high

by rules of cruelty,

but seldome prospers when it feels remorse.

Accursed empire! got and bred by art!

Let nature govern, or at least

divide our mutual interest:

yield yours to death, and keep alive my part.

Beauty, retire! Thou dost my pitty move!

Believe my pitty, and then trust my love! ~

Look, Pirrhus, look! what means that sudden light,  

which casts a paleness o're the face of night?

the flame shews dreadfull, and ascends still higher!

The Rhodian Master's palace is on fire!

A greater from Saint George's tower does shine!

Chance it would seem, but does import design!

Their flagg of treaty they have taken in!  

Dare they this ending warr again begin?

They feed their flames to light their forces out!

And now, seem sallying from the French redoubt!

Old Orchan takes already the alarm!

Need they make fires to keep their courage warm?

The English now advance!

Let them proceed!

Their cross is bloody, and they come to bleed.

Set all the turn-pikes open, let them in!

Those island gamesters may,

(who desperately for honour play)

behold fair stakes, and try what they can winn.

Burn, palace, burn! Thy flame more beautious grows  

whilst higher it ascends.

That now must serve to light us to our foes

which long has lodg'd our friends.

It serves not only as a light

to guide us in so bleck a night,

but to our enemies will terrour give.

Who (seeing we so much destroy,

what we in triumph did enjoy,

that now we know not where to live)

will strait conclude that boldly we dare dye.

And those who to themselves lov'd life deny

want seldome pow'r to aid their will

when they would others kill.

Speak both of killing and of saving too.  

The utmost that our valour now can do

is when, by many bassas, pris'ners ta'ne,

we freedome for distrest Ianthe gain.

A jewel too sufficient to redeem

great Solyman were he in chains with them.

Here spread our front! Our rear is all come forth.

We lead two thousand Rhodian knights,

all skill'd in various fights:

fame's role contains no names of higher worth.

In whispers give command

to make a stand!

Stand!

Divide our knights, and all their martial train!

Let me by storm the sultan's quarter gain.

My lot directs my wing to Mustapha.

To Pirrhus, o'er his trench, I'le force my way.

Our honour bids us give a brave defeat,

whilst prudence leaves reserves for a retreat.

All lovers are concern'd in what we do.

Love's crown depends on you, on you, and you.

Love's bow is not so fatal as my sword.

As mine.

And mine.

More horse! more horse, to shake their ranks!  

Bid Orchan haste to gaul their flanks.

Few Rhodian knights, making their several stands,

out-strike assemblies of our many hands.

Morat and valiant Zangiban are slain.  

But Orchan does their yielded ground regain.

Our crescents shine not in the shade of night.

But now the crescent of the sky appears,

our valour rises with her lucky light,

and all our fighters blush away their fears.

More pikes! and pass the French! fall in! fall in!  

That we may gain the day ere day begin.

Advance with all our guards! This doubtfull strife

less grieves me than our odds

of number against Rhodes,

by which we honour lose to rescue life.

Send back! send back! to quench our fatal fire!  

Ere morning does avance we must retire;

justly asham'd to let the day's great light

shew what a little we have done to night.

We have been shipwrackt ina midnight storm,

who hither came (Great Master) to perform

such deeds as might have given us cause to boast.

We found the night too black,

and now no use can make

of day but to discern that we are lost.

Can thy great courage mention our defeat

whilst any life is left to make retreat?

It is just a rebuke.

Where is the duke?

Long tir'd with valour's toils, and in his breast

o're charg'd with lover's griefs, he sought for rest.

To Fame's eternal temple he is gone.

And I may fear

is enter'd there,

where death does keep the narrow gate,

and lets in none

but those whom painfull honour brings,

many, without, in vain for entrance wait,

with warrants seal'd by mighty kings.

Villerius never yet by Turkish swords

was cut so deep as by thy wounding words.

Is that great youth, the prince of lovers, slain?

Who knows how much of life he doas retain?

Twice I reliev'd him from the double force

of Zangibans old foot, and Orchan's horse.

My strength was overpow'rd; and he still bent

to follow honour to the sultan's tent.

Alphonso's story has this sodain end:

Ianthe may a longer fate attend.

Of life's chief hope we are bereft.  

Go rally all whom death has left:

let our remaining knights make good the peer.

Our hearts will serve to beat,

unheard, a stoln retreat.

But shall we leave Ianthe captive here?

I'le to our temple force our way,

and there for her redemption pray:

her freedome now depends on our return.

In temples we shall nothing gain

from heav'n, whilst we of loss complain:

wee'l for our crimes, not for our losses, mourn.

Let us no more the Rhodians' flight pursue;  

who since below our anger, need our care.

Compassion is to vanquisht valour due

which was not cruel in successfull warr.

Our sultan does his pow'r from heav'n derive,

'tis rais'd above the reach of human force:

it could not else with soft compassion thrive:

for few are gain'd or mended by remorse.

The world is wicked grown, and wicked men

(since jealous still of those whom they have harm'd)

are but enabled to offend agen,

when they are pardon'd and left arm'd.

The Rhodians will no more in arms appear:  

they now are lost before they lose their town.

They may their standards hide and ensigns tear,

for what's the body when the soul is gone?

The prison'r whom in doubtfull fight we took

(who long maintain'd the strife,

for freedome more than life)

is young Alphonso, the Sicilian duke.

Fortune could never find, if she had eyes,

a present for me which I more would prize.

Your bosom-slave (the creature which your pow'r  

has made in all the world the greatest wife)

did all this dang'rous night kneel and implore

that heav'n would give you length of happy life,

in measure to your breadth of spreading fame,

and to the heighth of Ottamans high name.

Tell Roxolana I esteem her love

so much that I her anger fear;

and whilst with passion I the one approve,

the other I with temper bear.

She charged me not to undertake t'express

with how much grief her eyes did melt

when she this night your dangers felt,

nor how much joy she shew'd at your success.

She hears that you have pris'ner took

the bold Sicilian duke,

and begs he may be strait at her dispose,

that you may try how she can use your foes.

This furious Rhodian sally could not be

provokt but by his jealousie of me.

He wanted honour who could yours suspect.

The rash, by jealousie, themselves detect.

His jealouisie shall meet with punishment.

Convay him strait to Roxolana's tent.

But, Haly, know, the fair Ianthe must  

be safe and free, who did my honour trust.

You want no mutes, nor can they want good skill

to torture or dispatch those whom they kill.

But since this duke's renown did spread and rise

(who in attempt at night

has often scap'd my sight)

take care that I may see him ere he dyes.

How fares my rival, the Sicilian flower?  

As wet with tears as roses in a show'r.

I brought you presents when I saw you last.

Presents? If you have more,

like those you brought before,

they come too late, unless they make great haste.

Are you departing without taking leave?

I would not you, nor can your guards deceive.

You'l pay a farewell to a civil court?

Souls make their parting ceremonies short.

The present which the sultan sent before

(who means to vex your bashfulness no more)

was to your lips, and that you did refuse:

but this is to your ear. I bring you news.

I hear, my lord and Rhodes have been too blame.

It seems you keep intelligence with fame,

or with some frighted eunuch, her swift post,

who often has from camps to cities brought

the dreadfull news of battails lost

before the field was fought.

Then I may hope this is a false alarm,

and Rhodes has neither done nor taken harm.

You may believe Alphonso is not slain.

Blest angel, speak! Nor is he pris'ner ta'ne?

He is a pris'ner, and is given to me.

Angels are kind, I know you'l set him free.

He has some wounds, plac'd nobly in his breast.

You soon take back the comfort you have given.

They are not deep, and are securely drest.

Now you are good agen! O heal them, heav'n!

In heav'n, Ianthe, he may mercy find,

he must go thiter, and leave you behind.

I hope I shall discern your looks less strange,

and your expressions not so full of change. ~

Weep'st thou for him, whose sawcy jealousie

durst think the sultan could be false to me?

Though his offence makes him unfit to live,

I hope it is no crime in me to grieve.

Soft fool! bred up in narrow western courts,

which are by subjects storm'd like paper-ports,

Italian courts, fair inns for forein posts

where little princes are but civil hosts,

think'st thou that she, who does wide empire sway,

can breed such storms as lovers' show'rs allay?

Can half the world be govern'd by a mind

that shews domestick pitty, and grows kind?

Where are those virtuous vows you lately seal'd?

I did enjoy they should not be reveal'd.

But could you mean they should be broken too?

Those seals were counterfeit, and pass

for nothing, since my sealing was

but to a christian when I seal'd to you.

Seal'd by your pretious lipps? What is so sure

as that which makes the sultan's heart secure?

You to religion many temples rere;

justice may find one lodging in your breast.

Religion is but publique fashion here,

and justice is but private interest.

Nature our sex does to revenge incite,

and int'rest counsels us to keep our own.

Were you not sent to rule with me at night?

Love is as shy of partners as the throne.

Haly, prepare the pris'ner; he must dye.

If any has offended, it is I. ~  

O think! think upward on the thrones above.

Disdain not mercy, since they mercy love.

If mercy were not mingled with their pow'r,

this wretched world could not subsist an how'r.

Excuse his innocence; and seize my life!

Can you mistake the husband for the wife?

Are christian wives so true, and wondrous kind?

Ianthe, you can never change my mind,

for I did ever mean to keep my vow,

which I renew, and seal it faster now. ~

(Kisses her)

The sultan franckly gave thy lord to me,

and I freely render him to thee.

To all the world be all your virtues known

more than the triumphs of the sultan's throne.

Send in her lord, to calm her troubled breast.

Now his departing life may stay;  

but he has wounds. Yet she did say

thay were not deep, and are securaly drest.

Fate holds your dice; and here expect the cast.  

Your chance, if it be bad, will soon be past.

My doom contains not much diversity.  

To live, to dye, to be a slave, or free?

Death summs up all! by dying we remove

from all the frowns of pow'r, and grief of love.

Death does to heav'n the virtuous lead,  

which I enjoy ere I am dead.

For it is heav'n to me where e're thou art,

and those who meet in heav'n shall never part.

Stay, stay, Alphonso! you proceed too fast,

for I am chang'd since you beheld me last.

In Rhodes I wholly did myself resign

to serve your pow'r, but you are now in mine.

And that you may perceive how soon I can

melt the obdurate heart of Solyman,

let this confirm your restless jealouisie:

you came in bound, and thus I make you free. ~

(Unbinds him)

By this, Ianthe, you express no more

dominion o're me than you had before.

In Rhodes I was a subject to your will:

your smiles preserv'd me, and your frowns did kill.

I know your tongue too well, which should deceive

one who had study'd all the art

of love rather than her whose heart

too simply would your very looks believe.

But now you know, that though you are unbound,

yet still your walk is on the sultan's ground.

Ianthe, you are chang'd indeed

if, cruelly, you thus proceed.

In tracing human story we shall find

the cruel more successfull than the kind.

Whilst you are here submitted to my sway,

it safe discretion were to make you pay

for all those sighs and tears my heart and eyes

have lost to make you lose your jealousies.

But I was bred in nature's simple school,

and am but love's great fool,

with whom you rudely play,

and strike me hard, then stroke the pain away. ~

How are wounds? I hope you find them slight.

They scarce will need the rip'ning of a night:

unless, severe Ianthe, you

by chiding me, their pains renew.

Was it not jealousie which brought you here?

It was my love, conducted by my fear.

Fear of your safety, not of virtue, made

the Rhodians, by surprize, this camp invade.

In hope, by bringing home great pris'ners, we

might set the Rhodians' greater mistress free.

The safety of Ianthe was not worth

that courage which mis-led the Rhodians' fort.

The world's contagion, vice, could ne'r infect

the sultan's heart: but when you did suspect

his favours were too great for me to take,

you then, Alphonso, did unkindly make

my merit small; as if you knew

there was to that but little due.

Or if he wicked were,

what danger could you fear?

Since virtue's force all viciou's pow'r controles.

Lucrece a ponyard found, and Porcia coals.

How low to your high virtue shall I fall?

What chance attended in this fatal night

the Master, Marshal, and the Admiral?

I lost them in the thickest mist of fight.

Yet did from Haly this short comfort get

that they to Rhodes have made a brave retreat,

as love's great champions we must them adore.

Be well Alphonso, I will chide no more.

Haly, I did declare that I would see  

the jealous pris'ner ere he dy'd.

Look there! you are oby'd, yet pardon me

who, ere you pardon'd him, did make him free.

In this I have your virtue try'd.

If Roxolana thus revengeless proves

to him whom such a beautious rival loves,

it does denote she rivals can endure,

yet think she still is of my heart secure.

Duke, this example of her trust may be

a cure for your distrustfull thoughts of me.

You may imbark for the Sicilian coast,

and there possess your wife when Rhodes is lost.

Since freedome, which is more than life, you give

to him, who durst not ask you leave to live,

I cannot doubt your bounty when I crave

that, granting freedome, you will honour save.

My honour I shall lose, unless I share

in Rhodes, the Rhodians' worst effects of warr.

To Sicily let chaste Ianthe steer,

and sing long stories of your virtue there:

whilst, by your mercy sent, to Rhodes I go,

to be in Rhodes your suppliant, not your foe.

Alphonso, I have honour too;

which calls me back to Rhodes with you.

Were this, through tenderness, by you deny'd

for soft concerns of life,

yet gracious Solyman will ne'r divide

the husband from the wife.

Both may to Rhodes return: but it is just

that you, who nobly did my honour trust,

(without my pass, or plighted word)

should more by your advent'rous visit get

than empires int'rest would afford,

or you expected when you came to trest.

Go back, Ianthe; make your own

conditions boldly for the town.

I am content it should recorded be,

that, when I vanquisht Rhodes, you conquer'd me.

Not fame's free voice, nor lasting numbers can

disperse, or keep, enough of Solyman.

From lovers' beds, and thrones of monarchs, fly

thou ever waking madness, jealousie.

And still, to nature's darling, love

(that all the world may happy prove)

let giant-virtue be the watchfull guard,

honour, the cautious guide, and sure reward:

honour, adorn'd in such a poets' song

as may prescribe to fame

what loyal lovers' name

shall farr be spread, and shall continue long.