Chapter 17

_Discovers_ Philip _chain’d to a Post, and over against him the_ Cardinal _and_ Alonzo _in Chains_.

_Phil_. Oh, all ye cruel Powers! is’t not enough I am depriv’d of Empire, and of Honour? Have my bright Name stol’n from me, with my Crown! Divested of all Power! all Liberty! And here am chain’d like the sad Andromede, To wait Destruction from the dreadful Monster! Is not all this enough, without being damn’d, To have thee, Cardinal, in my full view? If I cou’d reach my Eyes, I’d be reveng’d On the officious and accursed Lights, For guiding so much torment to my Soul.

_Card_. My much wrong’d Prince! you need not wish to kill By ways more certain, than by upbraiding me With my too credulous, shameful past misdeeds.

_Phil_. If that wou’d kill, I’d weary out my Tongue With an eternal repetition of thy Treachery;-- Nay, and it shou’d forget all other Language, But Traitor! Cardinal! which I wou’d repeat, Till I had made my self as raging mad, As the wild Sea, when all the Winds are up; And in that Storm, I might forget my Grief.

_Card_. Wou’d I cou’d take the killing Object from your Eyes.

_Phil_. Oh _Alonzo_, to add to my Distraction, Must I find thee a sharer in my Fate?

_Alon_. It is my Duty, Sir, to die with you.-- But, Sir, my Princess Has here--a more than equal claim to Grief; And Fear for her dear Safety will deprive me Of this poor Life, that shou’d have been your Sacrifice.

_Enter_ Zarrack _with a Dagger; gazes on_ Philip.

_Phil_. Kind Murderer, welcome! quickly free my Soul, And I will kiss the sooty Hand that wounds me.

_Zar_. Oh, I see you can be humble.

_Phil_. Humble! I’ll be as gentle as a Love-sick Youth, When his dear Conqu’ress sighs a Hope into him, If thou wilt kill me!--Pity me and kill me.

_Zar_. I hope to see your own Hand do that Office.

_Phil_. Oh, thou wert brave indeed, If thou wou’dst lend me but the use of one.

_Zar_. You’ll want a Dagger then.

_Phil_. By Heaven, no, I’d run it down my Throat, Or strike my pointed Fingers through my Breast.

_Zar_. Ha, ha, ha, what pity ‘tis you want a Hand.

_Enter_ Osmin.

_Phil. Osmin_, sure thou wilt be so kind to kill me! Thou hadst a Soul was humane.

_Osm_. Indeed I will not, Sir, you are my King. [_Unbinds him_.

_Phil_. What mean’st thou?

_Osm_. To set you free, my Prince.

_Phil_. Thou art some Angel sure, in that dark Cloud.

_Zar_. What mean’st thou, Traitor?

_Osm_. Wait till your Eyes inform you.

_Card_. Good Gods! what mean’st thou?

_Osm_. Sir, arm your Hand with this. [_Gives_ Phil. _a Sword, goes to undo_ Alonzo.

_Zar_. Thou art half-damn’d for this! I’ll to my Prince--

_Phil_. I’ll stop you on your way--lie there--your Tongue [_Kills him_. Shall tell no Tales to day--Now, Cardinal--but hold, I scorn to strike thee whilst thou art unarm’d, Yet so thou didst to me; For which I have not leisure now to kill thee. --Here, take thy Liberty;--nay, do not thank me; By Heaven, I do not mean it as a Grace.

_Osm_. My Lord, take this-- [_To_ Alon. _and the_ Card. And this--to arm your Highness.

_Alon_. Thou dost amaze me!

_Osm_. Keep in your Wonder with your Doubts, my Lord.

_Phil_. We cannot doubt, whilst we’re thus fortify’d-- [_Looks on his Sword_. Come, _Osmin_, let us fall upon the Guards.

_Osm_. There are no Guards, great Sir, but what are yours; And see--your Friends I’ve brought to serve ye too.

[_Opens a back Door. _Enter_ Leonora _and Women_, Ordonio, Sebastian, Antonio, _etc_.

_Phil_. My dearest Sister safe!

_Leon_. Whilst in your Presence, Sir, and you thus arm’d.

_Osm_. The Moor approaches,--now be ready all.

_Phil_. That Name I never heard with Joy till now; Let him come on, and arm’d with all his Powers, Thus singly I defy him. [_Draws_.

_Enter_ Abdelazer. [Osmin _secures the Doors_.

_Abd_. Hah! betray’d! and by my Slaves! by _Osmin_ too!

_Phil_. Now, thou damn’d Villain! true-born Soul of Hell! Not one of thy infernal Kin shall save thee.

_Abd_. Base Coward Prince! Whom the admiring World mistakes for Brave; When all thy boasted Valour, fierce and hot As was thy Mother in her height of Lust, Can with the aid of all these--treacherous Swords, Take but a single Life; but such a Life, As amongst all their Store the envying Gods Have not another such to breathe in Man.

_Phil_. Vaunt on, thou monstrous Instrument of Hell! For I’m so pleas’d to have thee in my Power, That I can hear thee number up thy Sins, And yet be calm, whilst thou art near Damnation.

_Abd_. Thou ly’st, thou canst not keep thy Temper in; For hadst thou so much Bravery of Mind, Thou’dst fight me singly; which thou dar’st not do.

_Phil_. Not dare! By Heaven, if thou wert twenty Villains more, And I had all thy Weight of Sins about me, I durst thus venture on;--forbear, _Alonzo_.

_Alon_. I will not, Sir.

_Phil_. I was indeed too rash; ‘tis such a Villain, As shou’d receive his Death from nought but Slaves.

_Abd_. Thou’st Reason, Prince! nor can they wound my Body More than I’ve done thy Fame; for my first step To my Revenge, I whor’d the Queen thy Mother.

_Phil_. Death! though this I knew before, yet the hard Word Runs harshly thro my Heart;-- If thou hadst murder’d fifty Royal _Ferdinands_, And with inglorious Chains as many Years Had loaded all my Limbs, ‘t had been more pardonable Than this eternal Stain upon my Name: --Oh, thou hast breath’d thy worst of Venom now.

_Abd_. My next advance was poisoning of thy Father.

_Phil_. My Father poison’d! and by thee, thou Dog! Oh, that thou hadst a thousand Lives to lose, Or that the World depended on thy single one, That I might make a Victim Worthy to offer up to his wrong’d Ghost.-- But stay, there’s something of thy Count of Sins untold, That I must know; not that I doubt, by Heaven, That I am _Philip’s_ Son--

_Abd_. Not for thy Ease, but to declare my Malice, Know, Prince, I made thy amorous Mother Proclaim thee Bastard, when I miss’d of killing rhee.

_Phil_. Gods! let me contain my Rage!

_Abd_. I made her too betray the credulous Cardinal, And having then no farther use of her, Satiated with her Lust, I set _Roderigo_ on to murder her. Thy Death had next succeeded; and thy Crown I wou’d have laid at _Leonora’s_ Feet.

_Alon_. How! durst you love the Princess?

_Abd_. Fool, durst! had I been born a Slave, I durst with this same Soul do any thing: Yes, and the last Sense that will remain about me, Will be my Passion for that charming Maid, Whom I’d enjoy’d e’er now, but for thy Treachery. [_To_ Osmin.

_Phil_. Deflour’d my Sister! Heaven punish me eternally, If thou out-liv’st the Minute thou’st declar’d it.

_Abd_. I will, in spite of all that thou canst do. --Stand off, fool-hardy Youth, if thou’dst be safe, And do not draw thy certain Ruin on, Or think that e’er this Hand was arm’d in vain.

_Phil_. Poor angry Slave, how I contemn thee now!

_Abd_. As humble Huntsmen do the generous Lion; Now thou darst see me lash my Sides, and roar, And bite my Snare in vain; who with one Look (Had I been free) hadst shrunk into the Earth, For shelter from my Rage: And like that noble Beast, though thus betray’d, I’ve yet an awful Fierceness in my Looks, Which makes thee fear t’approach; and ‘tis at distance That thou dar’st kill me; for come but in my reach, And with one Grasp I wou’d confound thy Hopes.

_Phil_. I’ll let thee see how vain thy Boastings are, And unassisted, by one single Rage, Thus--make an easy Passage to thy Heart.

[_Runs on him, all the rest do the like in the same Minute_. Abd. _aims at the_ Prince, _and kills_ Osmin, _and falls dead himself_.

--Die with thy Sins unpardon’d, and forgotten--

[_Shout within_.

_Alon_. Great Sir, your Throne and Kingdom want you now; Your People rude with Joy, do fill each Street, And long to see their King--whom Heaven preserve.

_All_. Long live _Philip_, King of _Spain_--

_Phil_. I thank ye all;--and now, my dear _Alonzo_, Receive the Recompence of all thy Sufferings, Whilst I create thee Duke of _Salamancha_.

_Alon_. Thus low I take the Bounty from your Hands. [_Kneels_.

_Leon_. Rise, Sir, my Brother now has made us equal.

_Card_. And shall this joyful Day, that has restor’d you To all the Glories of your Birth and Merits, That has restor’d all _Spain_ the greatest Treasure That ever happy Monarchy possess’d, Leave only me unhappy, when, Sir, my Crime Was only too much Faith?--Thus low I fall, [_Kneels_. And from that Store of Mercy Heaven has given you, Implore you wou’d dispense a little here.

_Phil_. Rise, (though with much ado) I will forgive you.

_Leon_. Come, my dear Brother, to that glorious business, Our Birth and Fortunes call us, let us haste, For here methinks we are in danger still.

_Phil_. So after Storms, the joyful Mariner Beholds the distant wish’d-for Shore afar, And longs to bring the rich-fraight Vessel in, Fearing to trust the faithless Seas again.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by little Mrs. _Ariell_.

_With late Success being blest, I’m come agen; You see what Kindness can do, Gentlemen, Which when once shewn, our Sex cannot refrain. Yet spite of such a Censure I’ll proceed, And for our Poetess will intercede: Before, a Poet’s wheedling Words prevail’d, Whose melting Speech my tender Heart assail’d, And I the flatt’ring Scribler’s Cause maintain’d; So by my means the Fop Applauses gain’d. ’.was wisely done to chuse m’ his Advocate, Since I have prov’d to be his better Fate; For what I lik’d, I thought you could not hate. Respect for you, Gallants, made me comply, Though I confess he did my Passion try, And I am too good-natur’d to deny. But now not Pity, but my Sex’s Cause, Whose Beauty does, like Monarchs, give you Laws, Should now command, being join’d with Wit, Applause. Yet since our Beauty’s Power’s not absolute, She’ll not the Privilege of your Sex dispute, But does by me submit.--Yet since you’ve been For my sake kind, repeat it once agen. Your Kindness, Gallants, I shall soon repay, If you’ll but favour my Design to Day: Your last Applauses, like refreshing Showers, Made me spring up and bud like early Flow’rs; Since then I’m grown at least an Inch in height, And shall e’er long be full-blown for Delight_.

Written by a Friend.

THE YOUNG KING; OR, THE MISTAKE.

ARGUMENT.

Orsames, heir to the Dacian throne, has been kept in a castle from His infancy, never having seen any human being save his old tutor, Geron, owing to an Oracle which foretold great cruelties and mischiefs If he should be allowed to wear the crown. The Queen of Dacia designs Her daughter Cleomena as her successor, and with this intent gives her An Amazonian education. The Dacians and Scythians are at war, but Thersander, The Scythian prince, has joined the Dacians under the name Of Clemanthis, inasmuch as he loves the princess, who in her turn Becomes enamoured of him. He is recognized but not betrayed by Urania, a Scythian lady who, her lover Amintas having been previously captured, allows herself to be taken prisoner and presented to Cleomena. Amintas is confined in the old castle where Urania, visiting him, is accidently seen by Orsames. He is, however, persuaded by Geron that it is an apparition. Amintas is freed by Urania, who has gained Cleomena’s friendship. Honorius, the Dacian general, offers Thersander his daughter Olympia, and the young Scythian is obliged to feign acceptance. Cleomena hears Honorius telling the Queen his design and goes off enraged, only to see Thersander seemingly courting Olympia. She raves and threatens to kill him, but eventually parts with disdain, bidding him quit the place. Orsames is now brought from the castle during his sleep, crowned, seated on the throne and treated in every respect as King. His power is acknowledged, the Queen kneels before him, and Olympia entering, he falls violently in love with her. At a supposed contradiction he orders one courtier to instant execution and another to be cast into the sea. Immediately after, during a banquet, a narcotic is mingled with his wine and he is conveyed back to the castle whilst under its influence, leaving the Queen fearful that her experiment is of no avail as he has displayed so tyrannical and cruel a nature.

A battle between the Dacians and Scythians follows, in which the Latter are victorious owing to Thersander having, under his own name, Returned to their camp. The Dacian chiefs then challenge him to single Combat. He crosses over once again as Clemanthis and the lot falls upon himself. He thereupon dresses Amintas in the clothes of Clemanthis and arranges that in a pretended duel with him himself shall gain the upper hand. Meanwhile two rival princes to the hand of Cleomena post assassins in the wood to kill Thersander, and these, deceived by the garb of Clemanthis, mistake Amintas for the prince, and leaving him half dead on the ground and covered with blood and wounds, take their flight, imagining they have fully carried out their masters’ wishes. Amintas is just able to gasp the name ‘Thersander’, and Cleomena promptly concludes that Thersander has slain Clemanthis. She then herself assumes the attire of Clemanthis and goes out to the duel. She is wounded, her sex discovered, and she is borne from the field, whilst Thersander remains plunged in despair.

Meanwhile Orsames in his prison forces Geron to tell him the truth as to his adventure, whilst outside the populace are clamouring for him as king. Cleomena, disguised as a shepherd-boy, carries a letter to Thersander, and stabs him as he reads it. The Scythian king has her thrown into a dungeon, but Thersander obtains her release. Amintas meanwhile has been cured of his wounds by a Druid leech. Thersander is visited by Cleomena and reveals to her his identity with Clemanthis. They are at length united, and this event, with the arrival of Orsames, Who has been placed on the throne by the Dacians, joins the two countries in a lasting peace. It is explained that the Oracle is satisfied by his previous reign of a night.

SOURCE.

The plot of _The Young King_, which, as the _Biograpbia Dramatitca_ well remarks, ‘is very far from being a bad one’, is taken from the eighth part of La Calprenède’s famous romance, _Cléopatre_. The adventures of Alcamenes (Thersander) and Menalippa (Cleomena) are therein related for the benefit of Cleopatra and Artemisa, temporarily imprisoned on shipboard. The narrative, which occupies some hundred pages, is n good example of those prolix detached episodes and histories peculiar to this school, which by their perpetual crossing and intertwining render the consecutive reading of a heroic romance so confused and difficult a task. Yet in this particular instance the tale is extraordinarily well told and highly interesting. Mrs. Behn has altered the names for the better. Barzanes in the novel becomes Honorius in the play; Euardes, Ismenes; Phrataphernes, Artabazes; Beliza, Semiris; whilst La Calprenède dubs the Scythian king, Arontes and the queen of Dacia, Amalthea.

_Cléopatre_, commenced in 1646, was eventually completed in twelve volumes. There is an English translation of the eighth part by James Webb (8vo, 1658), which he terms _Hymen’s Praeludia, or, Love’s Masterpiece_, and dedicates with much flowery verbiage to his aunt, Jane, Viscountess Clanebuy. A translation of the whole romance, by Robert Loveday, was published folio, 1668.

The story, however, is not original even in La Calprenède, being taken with changed names from _Il Calsandro_ smascherato di Giovanni Ambrogio Marini (Part 1, Fiorenza, 1646; Part 2, Bologna, 1651), a French version of which, by Georges de Scudéri, appeared in 1668.

Some critics have seen a resemblance between the character of the young prince Orsames and that of Hippolito, ‘one that never saw woman,’ in Dryden and Davenant’s alteration of _The Tempest_ (1667).[1] But the likeness is merely superficial. Mrs. Behn has undoubtedly taken the whole episode of Orsames directly from Calderon’s great philosophic and symbolical comedia, _La Vida es Sueño_ (1633).[2] That Mrs. Behn had a good knowledge of Spanish is certain, and she has copied with the closest fidelity minute but telling details of her original. Calderon himself probably derived his plot from Rojas’ _Viaje Entretenido_. Basilio, King of Poland, to thwart the fulfilling of a horoscope, imprisons his son Segismundo from infancy in a lonely tower. The youth is, however, as a test of his character, one night whilst under the influence of a soporofic conveyed from his prison and wakes to find himself in a sumptuous apartment amidst crowds of adulating courtiers. He shows himself, however, a very despot, and throws an officious servant, who warns him to proffer greater respect to the infanta Estella, his cousin, clean out of window; he nearly kills his tutor Clotaldo, who interrupts his violent wooing; and, in fine, is seen to be wholly unfit to reign. A potion is deftly administered, and once more, asleep, he is carried back to the castle. The populace, however, rise and set him on the throne, and eventually the astrological forecast comes true; but at the same time he proves himself a worthy sovereign. All these details are to be found in _The Young King_, as well as Calderon’s scene where Rosaura, in pursuit of her lover, accidently encounters Segismundo in his prison.

The story itself is, of course, world-wide with a thousand variants. Oriental in origin, it is familiar to all readers of the Thousand and One Nights, when Abou Hassan is drugged by Haroun al Raschid, and for one day allowed to play the caliph with power complete and unconfined. The same trick is said to have been tried upon a drunkard at Bruges by Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, during his marriage festivities, 1440. Christopher Sly, well drubbed by Marian Hacket and bawling for a pot of small ale, will at once occur to every mind. Richard Edwardes has the same story in his _Collection of Tales_ (1570); the old _Ballad of the Frolicsome Duke_ sings it; Sir Richard Barckley repeats it in his _Discourse of the Felicitie of Man_ (1598); and Burton found a niche for it in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_ (1621). Simon Goulart included it in the _Tresor d’histoires admirables et memorables_ (circa 1600), whence it was Englished by Grimeston (1607). In fact it is a common property of all times and all nations.

Although Mrs. Behn confessedly does not attain (nor was such her intention) the deep philosophy and exquisite melody of the great Spanish poet, she has produced a first-rate specimen of the romance drama, rococo perhaps, and with quaint ornaments, but none the less full of life, incident and interest.

FOOTNOTES:

1. This version of Shakespeare, and particularly the part of Hippolito, belong to Davenant, for, as Dryden says in the preface, Sir William ‘to put the last hand to it, design’d the counterpart to Shakespeare’s plot, namely that of a man who had never seen a woman.’.

2. _Life is a Dream_. English translation by John Oxenford, Monthly Magazine, Vol. XCVI; by Archbishop Trench, 1856; by Denis Florence Mac-Carthy, 1873; by FitzGerald (a private edition), ‘Such Stuff as Dreams are Made Of’. It has also been excellently edited by Norman Maccoll, _Select Plays from Calderon_ (1888).

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

The earliest sketch of _The Young King; or, The Mistake_ was written by Mrs. Behn whilst she was still a young girl at Surinam. Upon her return to England the rhyming play had made its appearance, and soon heroic tragedy was carrying all before it on the London stage. Influenced no doubt by this tremendous vogue, she turned to her early MS. and proceeded to put her work, founded on one of the most famous of the heroic romances, into the fashionable couplets. Traces of this may be found in the scene between Cleomena and Urania, i, II; in Orsames’ speech, iv, III, and elsewhere. Whilst she was busy, however, _The Rehearsal_ was produced at the King’s Theatre, 8 December, 1671, and for the moment gave a severe blow to the drama it parodied. Accordingly, Mrs. Behn with no little acumen put her tragi-comedy on one side until the first irresistible influence of Buckingham’s burlesque had waned ever so slightly, and then, when her dramatic reputation was firmly established by the triumphant success of _The Rover_, the applause that had been given to _Sir Patient Fancy_ and half-a-dozen more of her plays, she bethought of her earlier efforts, and after subjecting _The Toung King_ to a thorough revision, in which, however, it retained marked traces of its original characteristics, she had it produced at the Duke’s Theatre in the spring of 1679. Mr. Gosse goes so far as to say that she had previously offered it to the theatres and publishers, but could find neither manager nor printer who would accept it. This, which he deduces from her dedication to Philaster, seems to me unwarrantable, and is not borne out by the play itself, which, baroque as it may appear to us, is certainly equal to, and indeed far better, than the rank and file of Restoration tragi-comedy. There is no record of its performance, and it never kept the boards. But although we have no direct evidence of its success, on the other hand it would be rash to suggest it was in any sense a failure. Indeed, since two editions were published we may safely assert its popularity. The actors’ names are not preserved, but Mrs. Mary Lee doubtless created Cleomena; Mrs. Barry, Urania; Betterton, Thersander; and Smith, Orsames.

TO PHILASTER.

’.is the glory of the Great and Good to be the Refuge of the Distress’d; their Virtues create ‘em troubles; and he that has the God like Talent to oblige, is never free from Impunity, you, Philaster, have a Thousand ways merited my Esteem and Veneration; and I beg you wou’d now permit the effects of it, which cou’d not forbear, though unpermitted, to dedicate this youthful sally of my Pen, this first Essay of my Infant-Poetry to your Self: ‘Tis a Virgin-Muse, harmless and unadorn’d, unpractis’d in the Arts to please; and if by chance you find any thing agreeable, ‘tis natural and unskill’d Innocence. Three thousand Leagues of spacious Ocean she has measured, visited many and distant Shores, and found a welcome every where; but in all that vast tract of Sea and Land cou’d never meet with one whose Person and Merits cou’d oblige her to yield her ungarded self into his protection: A thousand Charms of Wit, good Nature, and Beauty at first approach she found in _Philaster_; and since she knew she cou’d not appear upon the too-critical English Stage without making choice of some Noble Patronage, she waited long, look’d round the judging World, and fix’t on you. She fear’d the reproach of being an American, whose Country rarely produces Beauties of this kind: The Muses seldom inhabit there; or if they do, they visit and away; but for variety a Dowdy Lass may please: Her youth too should attone for all her faults besides; and her being a Stranger will beget civility, and you that are by nature kind and generous, tender and soft to all that’s new and gay, will not, I hope refuse her the Sanctuary I am so sensible she will have need of in this loose Age of Censure. You have goodness enough to excuse all her weaknesses, and Wit enough to defend ‘em; and that’s sufficient to render her Estimable to all the World that knows the generous and excellent Philaster; whilst this occasion to celebrate you under this Name, is both a Pleasure and Honour to. ASTERA.

THE YOUNG KING; or, The Mistake.

PROLOGUE.

_Beauty like Wit, can only charm when new; Is there no Merit then in being true? Wit rather should an Estimation hold With Wine, which is still best for being old. Judgment in both, with vast Expence and Thought, You from their native Soil, from Paris brought: The Drops that from that sacred Sodom fall, You like industrious Spiders suck up all. Well might the French a Conquest here design, Were but their Swords as dangerous as their Wine. Their Education yet is worse than both; They make our Virgins Nuns, unman our Youth. We that don’t know ‘em, think ‘em Monsters too; And will, because we judge of them by you. You’ll say this once was so, but now you’re grown So wise t’invent new Follies of your own: Their slavish Imitations you disdain; A Pox of Fops that purchase Fame with Pain: You’re no such Fools as first to mount a Wall, Or for your King and Country venture all. With such like grinning Honour ‘twas perchance, Your dull Forefathers first did conquer France. Whilst they have sent us, in Revenge for these, Their Women, Wine, Religion, and Disease. Yet for Religion, it’s not much will down, In this ungirt, unblest, and mutinous Town. Nay, I dare swear, not one of you in seven, E’er had the Impudence to hope for Heaven. In this you’re modest-- But as to Wit, most aim before their time, And he that cannot spell, sets up for Rhyme: They’re Sparks who are of Noise and Nonsense full, At fifteen witty, and at twenty dull; That in the Pit can huff, and talk hard Words, And briskly draw Bamboo instead of Swords: But never yet Rencounter cou’d compare To our late vigorous Tartarian War: Cudgel the Weapon was, the Pit the Field; Fierce was the Hero, and too brave to yield. But stoutest Hearts must bow; and being well can’d, He crys, Hold, hold, you have the Victory gained. All laughing call-- Turn out the Rascal, the eternal Blockhead; --Zounds, crys Tartarian, I am out of Pocket: Half Crown my Play, Sixpence my Orange cast; Equip me that, do you the Conquest boast. For which to lie at ease, a Gathering’s made, And out they turn the Brother of the Blade. --This is the Fruit of Idleness and Ease: Heaven bless the King that keeps the Land in Peace, Or he’ll be sweetly served by such as these_.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

DACIANS.

_Queen of Dacia_. _Orsames_, her Son, kept from his Infancy in a Castle on a Lake, ignorant of his Quality, and of all the World besides; never having seen any human thing save only his old Tutor. _Cleomena_, his Sister, bred up in War, and design’d to reign instead of _Orsames_; the Oracle having foretold the bloody Cruelties should be committed during his short Reign, if ever suffered to wear the Crown. _Honorius_, General of the Army, and Uncle to _Orsames_ and _Cleomena_. _Olympia_, his Daughter, young and beautiful. _Ismenes_ and | Two Rival Princes in love with _Cleomena_. _Artabazes_, | _Geron_, the old Tutor to _Orsames_. _Pimante_, a Fop Courtier. _Arates_, a Courtier. _Semeris_, Woman to _Cleomena_. _Vallentio_, a Colonel of the Army. _Gorel_, a Citizen. Keeper of the Castle. A Druid.

SCYTHIANS.

_King of Scythia_. _Thersander_, his Son, under the Name of _Clemanthis_, when on the _Dacian_ side. _Amintas_, a young Nobleman, belov’d by _Thersander_, and Lover of _Urania_. _Lysander_, Page to _Thersander_. _Urania_, in love with _Amintas_. _Lyces_, a Shepherdess. Pages and Attendants, Courtiers (men and women), Officers, Guards, Soldiers, Huntsmen, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, Assassins, and all a Rabble of the Mobile.

SCENE, the Court of _Dacia_, between the two Armies just before the Town.