Go, charge the just refusal on thyself.

DYMAS.

What Philip authorizes me to wish,

You, Sir, may disappoint: But, to take on me The load of the refusal

DEMETRIUS.

Is no more

Than Dymas owes his honour, if he'd shun
The natural surmise, that he concurr'd
In brewing this foul treason.

DYMAS.

Sir, the king

Knows what he does; and if he seeks my glory

DEMETRIUS.

In a degree destructive of his own,

'Tis yours to disappoint, him or renounce

Your duty to your king.

DYMAS.

You'll better tell

DEMETRIUS.

Yes, better tell the king, he wounds his honour, By lifting up a minion from the dust,

And mating him with princes. Use your power Against yourself: Yes, use it, like a man,

In serving him who gave it. Thus you'll make Indulgence, justice, and absolve your master, Though kings delight in raising what they love, Less owe they to themselves, than to the throne; Nor must they prostitute its majesty,

To swell a subject's pride, howe'er deserving.

DYMAS.

What the king grants me

DEMETRIUS.

Talk not of a grant:

What a king ought not, that he cannot give;

And what is more than meet from princes' bounty,
Is plunder, not a grant. Think you, his honour
A perquisite belonging to your place,

As favourite paramount? Preserve the king
From doing wrong, though wrong is done for you;
And shew, 'tis not in favour to corrupt thee.

DYMAS.

I sought not, Sir, this honour.

DEMETRIUS.

But would take it.

True majesty's the very soul of king;
And rectitude's the soul of majesty:
If mining minions sap that rectitude,
The king may live, but majesty expires:
And he that lessens majesty, impairs
That just obedience public good requires ;
Doubly a traitor, to the Crown, and State.

DYMAS.

Must I refuse what Philip's pleas'd to give?

DEMETRIUS.

Can a king give thee more than is his Own?
Know, a king's dignity is public wealth;
On that subsists the nation's fame, and power.
Shall fawning sycophants, to plump themselves,
Eat up their master, and dethrone his glory?
What are such wretches? What, but vapours foul,
From fens and bogs, by royal beams exhal'd,

That radiance intercepting, which should chear
The land at large? Hence subjects hearts grow cold,
And frozen loyalty forgets to flow:

But, then 'tis slipp'ry standing for the minion:
Stains on his ermin, to their royal master'
Such miscreants are; not jewels in his crown.
If you persist, Sir-But, of words, no more!
To me, to threat, is harder than to do!

DYMAS.

Let me embrace this genuine son of Empire.
When the debates divide the doubtful land,
Should I not know the prince most fit to reign?
I've try'd you, as an eagle tries her young,
And find, your dauntless eye is fix'd on glory.
I'll to the king, and your commands obey.-

We must give young men opiates in a fever. [Aside.
Yes, boy, I will obey thee, to thy ruin.

Erixene shall strike thee dead for this. [Exit Dymas.

DEMETRIUS.

These Statesmen nothing woo, but Gold and Power.
I'm a bold advocate for other love;
Though, at their bar, indicted for a fool.
When reason, like the skilful charioteer,
Can break the fiery passions to the bit,
And, spite of their licentious sallies, keep
The radiant track of glory; passions, then,
Are aids and ornaments. Triumphant reason,
Firm in her seat, and swift in her career,
Enjoys their violence, and, smiling, thanks
Their formidable flame, for high renown.

Take then my soul, fair maid! 'tis wholly thine;
And thence I feel an energy divine.

When objects, worthy praise, our hearts approve,
Each virtue grows on consecrated love:
And, sure, soft passion claims to be forgiv'n,

When love of beauty is the love of heav'n.

ACT IV.

Enter ERIXENE and DELIA.

ERIXENE.

"TIS plain! 'tis plain! this marriage gains her father. He join❜d to Rome the crown. Thy words were true: He woos the diadem; that diadem which I

Despis'd for him. O, how unlike our loves!
But it is well; he gives me my revenge.
Wed Dymas' daughter! What a fall is there?
Not the world's empire could repair his glory,

DELIA.

Madam, you can't be mov'd too much!—But why More now than at the first?

ERIXENE.

At first I doubted:

For who, that lov'd like me, could have believ'd?
I disbeliev'd what Pericles reported;

And thought it Perseus' art to wound our loves.
But when the good Antigonus, sworn friend
To false Demetrius, when his word confirm'd it,
Then passion took me, as the northern blast
An autumn leaf. O gods! the dreadful whirl!
But, while I speak, he's with her: Laughs and plays;
Mingles his dalliance with insulting mirth;
To this new goddess offers up my tears;