ROXANA, first Wife of Alexander,
SYSIGAMBIS, Mother of the Royal Family,
PARISATIS, in love with Lysimachus,
STATIRA, married to Alexander,

SCENE, Babylon.

Mr. Booth.

Mr. Clarke.

Mr. Thompson.

Mr. Whitfield.

Mr. Fox.

Mr. L'Estrange.

Women.

Mrs. Hunter.

Mrs. Booth.

Miss Dayes.

Mrs. Hartley.

THE RIVAL QUEENS.

ACT I. SCENE I.

The Gardens of Semiramis. Enter HEPHESTION and LYSIMACHUS fighting, CLYTUs parting them.

Clytus.

WHAT! are ye madmen? This a time for quarrel ?
Put up I say or by the gods that form'd me
He who refuses makes a foe of Clytus.

Lys. I have his sword.

Clyt. But must not have his life.

Lys. Must not, old Clytus!

Clyt. Hair-brain'd boy you must not.

Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war, Thou far-fam'd guard of Alexander's life,

Curse on this weak unexecuting arm!

Lend it, old Clytus. to redeem my fame;

Lysimachus is brave, nd else will scorn me. Lys. There, take thy sword; and since thou 'rt bent on death,

Know 't is thy glory that thou dy'st by me.

Clyt. Stay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion hold; I bar you both. My body interpos'd,

Now let me see which of you dares to strike.

By Jove you 'ave stirr❜d the old man !—that rash arm That first advances moves against the gods

And our great king, whose deputy I stand.

Lys. Some prop’rer time must terminate our quarrel. Heph. And cure the bleeding wounds my honour bears.

Clyt. Some prop'rer time ! 't is false-no hour is proper;

No time should see a brave man do amiss.

Say what's the noble cause of all this madness,
What vast ambition blows the dang'rous fire!
Why, a vain, smiling, whining, coz'ning, woman!
By all my triumphs in the heat of youth,

When towns were 'sack'd and beauties prostrate lay,]
When my blood boil'd, and nature work'd me high,
Clytus ne'er bow'd his body to such shame;
I knew 'em, and despis'd their cobweb arts-
The whole sex is not worth a soldier's thought.
Lys. Our cause of quarrel may to thee seem light,
But know a less hath set the word in arms.

Clyt. Yes, Troy they tell us by a woman fell;
Curse on the sex, they are the bane of virtue!
Death! I'd rather this right arm were lost
Than that the king should hear of your imprudence-
What, on a day thus set apart for triumph!

Lys. We were indeed to blame.

Clyt. This memorable day,

When our hot master, whose impatient soul
Outrides the sun, and sighs for other worlds
To spread his conquests and diffuse his glory,
Now bids the trumpet for a while be silent,
And plays with monarchs whom he us❜d to drive;
Shall we by broils awake him into rage,

And rouse the lion that hath ceased to roar?

Lys. Clytus, thou 'rt right-put up thy sword, Hephestion:

Had passion not eclips'd the light of reason
Untold we might this consequence have seen.

Heph. Why has not reason power to conquer love? Why are we thus enslav'd?

Clyt. Because unmann'd,

Because ye follow Alexander's steps.

Heav'ns that a face should thus bewitch his soul
And ruin all that's great and godlike in it !
Talk be my bane-yet the old man must talk.
Not so he lov'd when he at Issus fought
And join'd in mighty combat with Darius,
Whom from his chariot, flaming all with gems,
He hurl'd to earth and catch'd th' imperial crown.
'Twas not the shaft of love perform'd that feat;
He knew no Cupids then. Now mark the change;
A brace of rival queens embroil the court,

And while each hand is thus employ'd in beauty
Where has he room for glory?

Heph. In his heart.

Clyt. Well said young Minion!-I indeed forgot To whom I spoke-But Sysigambis comes:

C

Now is your time, for with her comes an idol
That claims homage.-I'll attend the king.

[Exit.

Enter SYSIGAMBIS with a Letter, and PARISATIS. Sys. Why will ye wound me with your fond com. plaints,

And urge a suit that I can never grant ?

You know my child, 't is Alexander's will ;
Here he demands you for his lov'd Hephestion;
To disobey him might inflame his wrath,
And plunge our house in ruins yet unknown.

Par. To sooth this god and charm him into temper Is there no victim, none but Parisatis?

Must I be doom'd to wretchedness and woe
That others may enjoy the conq'ror's smiles?
Oh! if you ever lov'd my royal father-

And sure you did, your gushing tears proclaim it—
If still his name be dear, have pity on me!
He would not thus have forc'd me to despair;
Indeed he would not-Had I begg’d him thus
He would have heard me ere my heart was broke.
Sys. When will my suff'rings end? oh when, ye
gods!

For sixty rolling years my soul has stood

The dread vicissitudes of fate unmov'd;

I thought 'em your decrees, and therefore yielded : But this last trial, as it springs from folly,

Exceeds my suff'rance, and I must complain.

Lys. When Sysigambis mourns, no common woe Can be the cause—'t is misery indeed.

Yet pardon, mighty queen! a wretched prince