  Title: Gycia A Tragedy in Five Acts Author: Lewis Morris Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Transcriber's Note: By the same Author.NEW AND CHEAPER EDITIONS.Vol. I.—SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. With Portrait. Eleventh Edition, price 5s. Vol. II.—THE EPIC OF HADES. With an Autotype Illustration. Twentieth Edition, price 5s. Vol. III.—GWEN and THE ODE OF LIFE. With Frontispiece. Sixth Edition, price 5s. FIFTH EDITION.SONGS UNSUNG. Cloth extra, bevelled boards, price 5s. AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OFTHE EPIC OF HADES. With Sixteen Autotype Illustrations after the drawings of the late George R. Chapman. 4to, cloth extra, gilt leaves, price 21s. A PRESENTATION EDITION OFTHE EPIC OF HADES. With Portrait. 4to, cloth extra, gilt leaves, price 10s. 6d. THE LEWIS MORRIS BIRTHDAY BOOK. Edited by S. S. Copeman. 32mo, with Frontispiece, cloth extra, gilt edges, 2s.; cloth limp, price 1s. 6d. For Notices of the Press, see end of this Volume. London: Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. GYCIAA TRAGEDYIN FIVE ACTSbyLEWIS MORRISM.A.; HONORARY FELLOW OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORDKNIGHT OF THE REDEEMER OF GREECE, ETC., ETC.SECOND EDITIONLONDONKEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE1886(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)
PREFACE.The following Drama was written with a view to Stage representation, and it is therefore rather as an Acting Play than as a Dramatic Poem that it should be judged by its readers. It follows as closely as possible the striking story recorded by Constantine Porphyrogenitus in his work, "De Administratione Imperii." Nor has the writer had occasion (except in the death of the heroine) to modify the powerful historical situations and incidents to which it is right to say his attention was first directed by his friend the well-known scholar and critic, Mr. W. Watkiss Lloyd. The date of the story is circa 970 a.d. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.PEOPLE OF BOSPHORUS.The King of Bosphorus. Asander, Prince of Bosphorus. Lysimachus, a statesman. Megacles, a chamberlain from the Imperial Court of Constantinople. Three Courtiers, accompanying Asander and accomplices in the plot. Soldiers, etc. PEOPLE OF CHERSON.Lamachus, Archon of the Republic of Cherson. Zetho, his successor. Theodorus, a young noble (brother to Irene), in love with Gycia. Bardanes, first Senator. Ambassador to Bosphorus. The Senators of Cherson. Two Labourers. Gycia, daughter of Lamachus. Irene, a lady—her friend, in love with Asander. Melissa, an elderly lady in waiting on Gycia. Child, daughter of the Gaoler. Citizens, etc. GYCIA.ACT I.Scene I.—Bosphorus. The King's palace. The King, in anxious thought. To him Lysimachus, afterwards AsanderEnter Lysimachus. Lys. What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent By such a load of care? King. Lysimachus, The load of empire lies a weary weight, On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile, And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene, Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest— None better in my realm—through what wild waves, Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus, Laden with all our love, reels madly on To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North, Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor Dallies within his closed seraglios, Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome, While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood, Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South, Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye, Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy Of her republican guile in every check And buffet envious Fortune deals our State, Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow, My son Asander's youth may prove too weak To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee, Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm May break the mesh of Fate? Lys. Indeed, my liege, Too well I know our need, and long have tossed Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find Some remedy, but that which I have found Shows worse than the disease. King. Nay, speak; what is it? I know how wise thy thought. Lys. My liege, it chances The Archon Lamachus is old and spent. He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia, The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth In early maidenhood. The girl is fair As is a morn in springtide; and her father A king in all but name, such reverence His citizens accord him. Were it not well The Prince Asander should contract himself In marriage to this girl, and take the strength Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust The invading savage backward? King. Nay, my lord; No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe Of all the blighting locust swarms of war, Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers. Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time, In the brave days of good Sauromatus, These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin; Or, with the failing force of CÆsar leagued, By subtle devilish enginery of war, Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them, Byzantium were our prey, and all its might, And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee, I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet, I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost, Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown, The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it; Ruin were better far. Lys. My liege, I bear No greater favour to these insolent townsmen Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them From my first youth—who saw my father slain, Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel, But unawares, struck by some villanous engine, Which, armed with inextinguishable fire, Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother, The stripling who to me was as a son, Taken in some sally, languished till he died, Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know There is no other way than that Asander Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch The bleeding wounds of the State. King. Lysimachus, I am old; my will is weak, my body bent, Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason. But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet Bespeak Asander coming. What an air Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings A light of hope again! Enter Asander from the chase. Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus, Bringing unwonted loads of carking care, O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not; There is no cloud of care I yet have known— And I am now a man, and have my cares— Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase, The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues, Or joy of some bold enterprise of war, When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains, Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break, As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave; My youth is strong enough for any burden Fortune can set on me. King. Couldst thou, Asander, Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee Wed without love? Asan. What, father, is that all? I do not know this tertian fever, love, Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh, This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier To a hysterical girl. Wed without love? One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not. And if it were indeed to serve the State, Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow, Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father, Who is this paragon that thou designest Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate With some great lady from the Imperial Court, Part tigress and all wanton. I care not; Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not. Tell me, good father. King. Wouldst thou wed, Asander, If 'twere to save the State, a Greek from Cherson? Asan. From Cherson? Nay, my liege; that were too much. A girl from out that cockatrice's den— Take such a one to wife? I would liefer take A viper to my breast! Nay, nay, you jest, My father, for you hate this low-born crew, Grown gross by huckstering ways and sordid craft— Ay, more than I. King. It is no jest, my son. Our good Lysimachus will tell thee all Our need and whence it comes. Lys. My gracious Prince, Thus stands the case, no otherwise. Our foes Press closer year by year, our widespread plains Are ravaged, and our bare, unpeopled fields Breed scantier levies; while the treasury Stands empty, and we have not means to buy The force that might resist them. Nought but ruin, Speedy, inevitable, can await Our failing Bosphorus' unaided strength, Unless some potent rich ally should join Our weakness to her might. None other is there To which to look but Cherson; and I know, From trusty friends among them, that even now, Perchance this very day, an embassy Comes to us with design that we should sink Our old traditional hate in the new bonds Which Hymen binds together. For the girl Gycia, the daughter of old Lamachus, Their foremost man, there comes but one report— That she is fair as good. Asan. My lord, I pray you, Waste not good breath. If I must sell myself, It matters not if she be fair or foul, Angel or doubly damned; hating the race, Men, maidens, young and old, I would blight my life To save my country. King. Thanks, my dearest son. There spake a patriot indeed. Servant. My liege, An embassy from Cherson for the King. Enter Ambassador, with retinue. Ambas. Sirs, I bring you a message from Lamachus, the Archon of Cherson. Lys. Sirs, forsooth! Know ye not the dignity of princes, or does your republican rudeness bar you from all courtesy? I do not count myself equal to the King, nor, therefore, should you. King. Nay, good Lysimachus, let him proceed. Ambas. If I am blunt of speech, I beg your forgiveness. I bring to you a letter from the citizen Lamachus, which I shall read, if it be your pleasure. King. Read on. Ambas. "To the King of Bosphorus, Lamachus sends greeting. We are both old. Let us forget the former enmities of our States, and make an alliance which shall protect us against the storm of barbarian invasion which CÆsar is too weak to ward off. Thou hast a son, and I a daughter. Thy son is, from all report, a brave youth and worthy. My daughter is the paragon of her sex. I have wealth and possessions and respect as great as if I were a sceptred King. The youth and the maid are of fitting age. Let us join their hands together, and with them those of our States, and grow strong enough to defy the barbarians, and Rome also." Asan. My liege, I am willing for this marriage. Let it be. King. My son, we have not yet heard all. Read on, sir. Ambas. "There is one condition which not my will, but the jealousy of our people enforces, viz. that the Prince Asander, if he weds my daughter, shall thenceforth forswear his country, nor seek to return to it on pain of death. I pray thee, pardon the rudeness of my countrymen; but they are Greeks, and judge their freedom more than their lives." Asan. Insolent hounds! This is too much. I will have none of them. Take back that message. King. Thou art right, my son. I could not bear to lose thee, not to win A thousand Chersons. Let us fight alone, And see what fortune sends us. Lys. Good my liege, Be not too hasty. (To Ambassador) Sir, the King has heard The message which you bring, and presently Will send a fitting answer. [Exit Ambassador. Nay, my liege, I beg your patience. That these fellows make Their friendship difficult is true; but think How great the value of it, and remember How easy 'tis to promise and break faith With insolent dogs like these. This Lamachus Is older than your grace, and feebler far. He will not live for ever, and, he gone, Will not the Prince Asander be as great, The husband of his daughter and his heir, As he is now, and sway the power of Cherson For our own ends, and cast to all the winds This foul enforcÈd compact, and o'erturn This commonwealth of curs? I will stake my life That three years shall not pass ere he is King Of Cherson in possession, and at once Of Bosphorus next heir. "The tongue hath sworn, the mind remains unsworn," So says their poet. Asan. I'll have none of it. I am not all Greek, but part Cimmerian, And scorn to break my word. Let us face ruin, father, not deceit. King. My noble son, I love thee. Lys. Good my liege, And thou, my Lord Asander, ponder it. Consider our poor country's gaping wounds, And what a remedy lies to our hands. I will die willingly if I devise not A scheme to bend these upstarts to your will. [Exeunt omnes. Scene II.—Outside the palace.Megacles and Courtiers. Meg. Well, my lords, and so it is all settled. We must all be on board in half an hour. His Altitude the Prince sails at once for Cherson, and with a view to his immediate marriage. Was ever such a rash step heard of? Not twenty-four hours to get ready the marriage equipment of a Prince of Bosphorus. Well, well, I dare say they would be glad enough to take him with no rag to his back. I dare say these rascally republicans would know no better if he were to be married in his everyday suit. 1st Court. I' faith, I should never have dreamt it. Asander, who is the boldest huntsman and the bravest soldier, and the best of good fellows, to go and tie himself to the apron-strings of a Greek girl, a tradesman's daughter from Cherson, of all places on earth! Pah! it makes me sick! 2nd Court. But I hear she is beautiful as Artemis, and——Well, we are all young or have been, and beauty is a strong loadstone to such metal as the Prince's. 3rd Court. Nay, he has never set eyes on her; and, for that matter, the Lady Irene was handsome enough in all conscience, and a jovial young gentlewoman to boot. Ye gods! do you mind how she sighed for him and pursued him? It was a sight to please the goddess Aphrodite herself. But then, our good Asander, who had only to lift up his little finger, was so cold and positively forbidding, that I once came upon the poor lady crying her eyes out in a passion of mortified feeling. 1st Court. Ay, she was from this outlandish Cherson, was not she? Aphrodite was a Greek woman also, remember. 2nd Court. So she was. I had quite forgotten where the lady came from. Well, if she is there now, and cannot get her Prince, and would like a gay, tolerably well-favoured young fellow for a lover, I suppose she need go no further than the present company. Meg. My lords, I pray you leave these frivolities, and let us come to serious matters. Think, I beg you, in what a painful position I am placed. I am to go, without proper notice, as Master of the Ceremonies of the Court of Bosphorus, to conduct an important Court-ceremonial with a pack of scurvy knaves, who, I will be bound, hardly know the difference between an Illustrious and a Respectable, or a Respectable and an Honourable. I must do my best to arrange all decently and in order, and as near as may be to the Imperial model, and all these matters I have to devise on shipboard, tossed about on that villanous Euxine, with a smell of pitch everywhere, and sea-sickness in my stomach. And when I get to Cherson, if ever I do get there alive, I have not the faintest idea whom I am to consult with—whether there is a Count of the Palace or anybody, in fact. I dare say there is nobody; I am sure there is nobody. A marriage of the heir apparent is a very serious affair, let me tell you. What a comfort it is that I have got the last edition of that precious work of the divine Theodosius on Dignities! If it were not for that, I should go mad. 1st Court. My good Megacles, I warn you the Prince cares as little for etiquette as he does for love-making. Meg. Very likely, and that makes my position so difficult. Just reflect for a moment. When we go ashore at Cherson, I suppose we shall be received by the authorities? 2nd Court. Surely, good Megacles. Meg. Then, how many steps should Prince Asander take to meet his father-in-law Lamachus—eh? And how many steps should Lamachus take? You never gave the matter a thought? Of course not. And these are questions to be settled on the spot, and scores like them. 3rd Court. I dare say it won't matter at all, or very little. Meg. Matter very little, indeed! very little, forsooth! Why, in the name of all the saints, do not alliances fall through for less? Are not bloody wars fought for less? Do I not remember the sad plight of the Grand Chamberlain, when the Illustrious Leo, the Pro-Consul of Macedonia, had a meeting at Court with the Respectable the Vice-Prefect of Pannonia? Now, the Pro-Consul should have taken four steps forward, as being the most noble, the Vice-Prefect five. But, the Vice-Prefect being a tall man, and the Pro-Consul a short one, the Grand Chamberlain did not sufficiently measure their distances; and so when they had taken but four steps each, there were the two Dignitaries bolt upright, face to face, glaring at each other, and no room to take the fraction of a foot pace more. 1st Court. Faith, a very laughable situation, good Megacles. Was it hard to settle? Meg. I should think it was hard to settle. No one could interfere; the Book of Ceremonies was sent for, and was silent. There was nothing for it but that the Emperor, after half an hour, broke up the Court in confusion, and those two remained where they were till it was quite dark, and then they got away, no one knows how. But what came of it? For fifteen years there was war and bloodshed between the provinces, and but for the invasion of the Goths, there would be to this day. Matter little, indeed! Why, you foolish youngster, ceremony is everything in life. To understand Precedence aright is to know the secrets of nature. The order of Precedence is the order of Creation. It is, in fact, a very cosmogony. Oh, a noble science! a noble science! 1st Court. Right, good Megacles, to magnify your office. Bravery is nothing; goodness is nothing; beauty is a foolish dream. Give us Ceremony, Ceremony, more Ceremony; it is the salt of life. Meg. A very intelligent youth. But here comes the King. Enter the King, Asander, and Lysimachus. Asan. My liege, I do your will, Though with a heavy heart. Farewell, my father. If I must bid farewell to this dear City, Which nourished me from childhood, 'tis to save it, Not otherwise, and thou my sire and King. From thee I do not part, and oftentimes, If the saints will, I yet shall welcome thee, When all our foes are routed and our troubles Fled like some passing storm-cloud, to my hearth, And set thy heir upon thy knees, a Prince Of Bosphorus and Cherson. King. Good, my son. I pray God keep you, for I dimly fear, So dark a presage doth obscure my mind, That we shall meet no more. Lys. My honoured liege, These are the figments of a mind which grief Hath part disordered. Thou shalt see thy son, Trust me for it; I swear it. One thing more Remains. I know what 'tis to be a youth As yet untouched by love; I know what charm Lies in the magic of a woman's eyes For a young virgin heart. I pray you, sir, Swear to me by the saints, that, come what may, For no allurement which thy new life brings thee, The love of wife or child, wilt thou forget Our Bosphorus, but still wilt hold her weal Above all other objects of thy love In good or adverse fortune. Asan. Nay, my lord, There is no need for oaths; yet will I swear it, Here on this soldier's cross. [Makes a cross with the hilt of his sword. Farewell, my father, I mar my manhood, staying. King. Farewell, son. Let my old eyes fix on thee till thou goest Beneath the farthest verge. Good Megacles, And you brave gentlemen, be faithful all To me and to your Prince. Lys. My Lord Asander, Remember! END OF ACT I.ACT II.Scene I.—Lamachus' palace, Cherson.Gycia and Irene. Gycia. Sweetest Irene, What joy it is to see thee once again After so long an absence! We had grown Together on one stalk so long, since first Our girlish lives began to burst to flower, That it was hard to part us. But methinks That something of the rose from off thy cheek Has faded, and its rounded outline fair Seems grown a little thinner. Gycia. Thou strange girl, to put on Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou hast fallen In love, as girls say—though what it may be To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods, Having much else to think of. Ire. Prithee, dear, Speak not of this. Gycia. Ah! then I know 'tis true. Confess what manner of thing love is. Ire. Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping), Gycia; Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love? Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell By day and night on one fixed madding thought, Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget All that it loved before, faith, duty, country, Friendship, affection—everything but love. Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it, Be happier than I. Gycia. My poor Irene! Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love. I do repent that I have tortured thee By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear, I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish To unburden to me thy unhappy heart, If haply I might bring thy love to thee. Thou shalt his name divulge and quality, And I will do my best. Ire. Never, dear Gycia. Forget my weakness; 'twas a passing folly, I love a man who loves me not again, And that is very hell. I would die sooner Than breathe his name to thee. Farewell, dear lady! Thou canst not aid me. [Exit Irene. Gycia. Hapless girl! Praise Heaven That I am fancy-free! Enter Lamachus. Lama. My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect? I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old The weary jealousies, the bloody feuds, Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City Have raged ere I was born—nay, ere my grandsire First saw the light of heaven. Both our States Are crippled by this brainless enmity. And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens Destruction to our Cities, whom, united, We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness, Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run, To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late Politic envoys to our former foe, And now—i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem That I have lost my state-craft—comes a message. The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus, Touches our shores to-day, and presently Will be with us. Gycia. Oh, father, is it wise? Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb; The tyrant with the peaceful commonwealth; Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war? What union can there be 'twixt our fair city And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature To bid these opposite elements combine— The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you, Send them away, with honour if you please, And soothing words and gifts—only, I pray you, Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us, And his false retinue of slaves. Lama. My daughter, Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must, And with all hospitable care and honour, Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them A fitting welcome. Gycia. Pardon me, my father, That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will. [Going. Lama. Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love? Gycia. Ay, thee, dear father. Lama. Nay, I know it well. But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart? Gycia. None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life Seems blighted by this curse of love—for one Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother, The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest, Lets all the world go by him and grows pale For love, and pines, and wherefore?—For thy daughter, Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father, I love not thus, and shall not. Lama. Well, well, girl, Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice, But if thou couldst by loving bind together Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples; Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife, And link them in unbroken harmony;— Were this no glory for a woman, this No worthy price of her heart? Gycia. Tell me, I pray, What mean you by this riddle? Lama. Prince Asander Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take A gracious dower of peace and amity. He does not ask thee to forsake thy home, But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together Are full of praise of him: virgin in love, A brave youth in the field, as we have proved In many a mortal fight; a face and form Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart Might turn to him, and find thy happiness In that which makes me happy. I am old And failing, and I fain would see thee blest Before I die, and at thy knees an heir To all my riches, and the State of Cherson From anxious cares delivered, and through thee. Gycia. Father, we are of the Athenian race, Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven, First in the files of time. And though our mother, Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome, What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain; An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight Of its own power; an Empire where the Senate Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps The bravery of old, and still maintains The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world. Surely, my father, 'tis a glorious spring Drawn from the heaven-kissed summits whence we come; And shall we, then, defile our noble blood By mixture with this upstart tyranny Which fouls the Hellenic pureness of its source In countless bastard channels? If our State Ask of its children sacrifice, 'tis well. It shall be given; only I prithee, father, Seek not that I should with barbaric blood Taint the pure stream, which flows from Pericles. Let me abide unwedded, if I may, A Greek girl as before. Lama. Daughter, thy choice Is free as air to accept or to reject This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson, Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care That nought that fits a Grecian State be wanting To do him honour. Gycia. Sir, it shall be done. Scene II.—Outside the palace of Lamachus.Megacles and Courtiers. Meg. Well, my lords, and so this is the palace. A grand palace, forsooth, and a fine reception to match! Why, these people are worse than barbarians. They are worse than the sea, and that was inhospitable enough. The saints be praised that that is over, at any rate. Oh, the intolerable scent of pitch, and the tossing and the heaving! Heaven spare me such an ordeal again! I thought I should have died of the smells. And here, can it be? Is it possible that there is a distinct odour of—pah! what? Oils, as I am a Christian, and close to the very palace of the Archon! What a detestable people! Some civet, good friends, some civet! 1st Court. Here it is, good Megacles. You did not hope, surely, to find republicans as sweet as those who live cleanly under a King? But here are some of their precious citizens at last. Enter Citizens hurriedly. 1st Citizen. I pray you, forgive us, gentlemen. We thought the Prince would take the land at the other quay, and had prepared our welcome accordingly. Meg. Who are these men? 1st Court. They are honourable citizens of Cherson. Meg. Citizens! They will not do for me. The Count of the Palace should be here with the Grand Chamberlain to meet my Master. 1st Cit. Your Master? Oh! then you are a serving man, as it would seem. Well, my good man, when comes your Master? Meg. Oh, the impertinent scoundrel! Do you know, sir, who I am? 1st Cit. Probably the Prince's attendant, his lackey, or possibly his steward. I neither know nor care. Meg. Oh, you barbarian! Where is the Count of the Palace, I say? 1st Cit. Now, citizen, cease this nonsense. We have not, thank Heaven, any such foolish effeminate functionary. Meg. No Count of the Palace? Heavens! what a crew! Well, if there is none, where are your leading nobles? where the Respectable and Illustrious? You are certainly not Illustrious nor Respectable; you probably are not even Honourable, or if you are you don't look it. 1st Cit. What, you wretched popinjay of a serving man! You dare address a Greek citizen in that way? Take that, and that! [Beats him. 1st Court. Draw, gentlemen! These are ruffians! [They fight. Enter Asander. Asan. Put up your swords, gentlemen. Why, fellows, what is this? Is this your hospitality to your guests? 1st Cit. Nay, sir; but this servant of yours has been most insolent, and has abused and insulted our State and its manners. He told us that we were not men of honour; and some of us, sir, are young, and have hot blood, and, as Greek citizens of Cherson, will not bear insults. Asan. Insolent upstarts, you are not worthy of our swords! Come, my Lord Megacles, heed them not. Here is their master. Enter Lamachus and Senators. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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