9.-Orestes delivering his Embassy to Pyrrhus.-Philips. Orest. BEFORE I speak the message of the Greeks, Permit me, Sir, to glory in the title son. Of their ambassador; since I behold Have you so soon forgot the mighty Hector? The name of their ambassador, I hop'd A race of heroes, join in close debate To plot an infant's death ?-What right has Greece To ask his life? Must I, must I alone, Of all her sceptred warriors, be denied To treat my captive as I please? Know, prince, When Troy lay smoking on the ground, and each Proud victor shar'd the harvest of the war, Andromache, and this her son, were mine; Were mine by lot; and who shall wrest them from me? Ulysses bore away old Priam's queen; Cassandra was your own great father's prize: Did I concern myself in what they won? Orest. But, Sir, we fear for you and for ourselves. Troy may again revive, and a new Hector Rise in Astyanax. Then think betimesPyr. Let dastard souls be timorously wise; But tell them, Pyrrhus knows not how to form Far fancied ills, and dangers out of sight. Orest. Sir, call to mind the unrivall'd strength of Troy; What vengeance can we fear from such a Troy? He should have fallen among the slaughter'd heaps Pleaded their weakness; when the heat of conquest, Like a cool murderer, bathe my hands in blood- Has had its fill. What has escap'd from Troy Orest. I need not tell you, Sir, Astyanax Was doom'd to death in Troy; nor mention how The Greeks do now but urge their former sentence: The father draws their vengeance on the son: Has drench'd his sword: the father, whom the Greeks Pyr. No! let them come; since I was born to wage Eternal wars. Let them now turn their arms On him who conquer'd for them: let them come, "Twas thus they recompenc'd my godlike sire; Thus was Achilles thank'd. But, prince, remember, Their black ingratitude then cost them dear. Tragedy of the Distressed Mother. 10.-Glenalvon and Norval.-Home. Glen. His port I love: he's in a proper mood Norv. The setting sun [Aside. With yellow radiance lighten'd all the vale; Glen. Thou talk'st it well: no leader of our host In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war. Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name, Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir: your martial deeds Have rank'd you with the great. But mark me, Norval; Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth Above his veterans of famous service. Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. Noro. Sir, I have been accustom'd all my days Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, Glen. I did not mean To gall your pride, which now I see is great. Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper. If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men, Glen. Yes! if you presume To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes, Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me? Norv. Didst thou not hear? Glen. Unwillingly I did: a nobler foe Had not been question'd thus; but such as thee Glen. Norval. Norv. So I am And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes? Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy; At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth? Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie; and false as hell Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph. Noro. If I were chain'd, unarm'd, or bed-rid old, Perhaps I should revile; but, as I am, I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval [mand Norv. Villain, no more. Draw and defend thy life. I did design But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. Norv. Another voice than thine [ing! Norv. Now you may scoffin safety. [Sheathes his sword. Lord Ran. Speak not thus, Taunting each other; but unfold to me The cause of quarrel: then I judge betwixt you. Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much, Th' opprobrious words, that I from him have borne. Lord Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice. The ancient foe of Caledonia's land Now waves his banner-o'er her frighted fields. The private quarrel. Glen. I agree to this. Norv. And I. Glen. Norval, [Exit RANDOLPH. Let not our variance mar the social hour; Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph. Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow, |