University of Virginia Library

SCENE, Virginius's House.
Favonia at work with her Women.
A Song written by a Lady.
What 's Beauty? Bright Favonia, tell.
The Mistress of it knows it well.
'Tis not Colour, 'tis not Feature,
Easie Fashion, nor good Nature:
Good Teeth, and Hair, a smiling Grace,
Can't give Perfection to a Face:
Not yielding Lips, or wishing Eyes:
But she is handsom who denies.

A Song in Answer written by a Gentleman.
What Beauty is, let Strephon tell,
Who oft has try'd it, knows it well:
Not all the Wonders of a Face,
Where Nature triumphs in each Grace,
Not Snowy Breasts, thro' which is seen
The purple Flood that boils within,
Not Lips, when Wit with ease beguiles,
Whilst playsom Cupids dance in Smiles,
Not Youth, not Shape, not Air, not Eyes,
She only charms me who complies.

Virginius enters to 'em.
Vir.
Among your Women in your Huswifry!
Fye, 'tis a Profanation of the Day,
Sacred, and set apart from common use,
And dedicated to the publick Joy.

Fav.
The publick Joy, my Lord!

Vir.
The general Joy:
In which I have secur'd a part for thee,
A liberal share for my Favonia.

Fav.
May I secure my private Peace at home:
And for the publick, let the Joy, and Grief,
Fall to their different Fates, who rise and fall.
The State does not concern a Woman's Care:
Yet, Sir, I thank you for remembring me.

Vir.
Dost thou! Well, there's something ev'n in that;
There is a kind of Gratitude in Thanks,
Tho' it be barren, and bring forth but Words.

Fav.
I do not understand—

Vir.
Thou dost not; true:
And that's the very root of my Complaint,
That any thing relating to my Love
Shou'd still be strange, not understood by thee.

Fav.
My Lord—

Vir.
O! thou art cold in my reception,
Thou can'st not think thy self, but thou art cold.
I wou'd have met my Welcome in thy Arms,
My eager Welcome in thy longing Arms,
That shou'd have crush'd me inward to thy Heart,
Into thy Heart, if it were possible,
Throbbing and beating with the Pulse of Love:
That, that had been a Welcome fit for me;
And a just Recompence of all my Pains.

Fav.
Indeed, my Lord, I owe you every thing,
In recompence of what you have done for me:
But for your welcome, that you bring along
With you; 'tis yours, as you are Master here:
And if I have not serv'd it up to you,
As does become the Duty of my place,
With that frank Cheerfulness to give content,
Let me not answer for my Nature's Faults.

Vir.
Nay, now thou art too serious.

Fav.
I am unhappy in the want of all
Those necessary, natural Arts to please.

Vir.
Thou art above the little reach of Arts,
And can'st want nothing, but the Will, to please.

Fav.
What is there that I can invite you to,
That you do not dispose of?

Vir.
Nothing, nothing:
Thou art all mine; and let me tell my Heart,
That hourly grows more covetous of thy Love,
And therefore busie to torment it self,
Its Fears are vain, and thou art wholy mine.

Fav.
I own your Title, and you are the Lord
Of every thing that does belong to me.

Vir.
Why, what wou'd I have more? There's nothing more.
I do confess that I am happier
Than I deserve to be; much happier:
I commit many Faults, but none to thee.
O! cou'd thy gentleness of Soul infuse
Its Spirit into my Breast, to temper mine;
How shou'd I then be blest! But who can tell?
Perhaps 'tis better order'd as it is.
Indifference wou'd never suit my Fate.
My Passions are unruly, and sometimes
Break loose on my best Friends: But then you shou'd
Consider 'em as the effects of Love:
As the effects! Nay, they are Love it self
For Love it self is all the Passions,
At least to me: Whether it be Desire,
Or Hope, or Fear, or Anger, or Revenge,
In all its different Motions, still 'tis Love.
Love, Love! The great Incendiary here!
His Torch sets all this little World on Fire:
And let it burn, to purifie my flame:
For Life and Love shall both burn out together.

Servant enters to him.
Serv.
Sir, you are stay'd for.

Vir.
So, so, well, I come.
I have forgot my self, my business too,
With looking on thee. Can'st thou tell me, Love,
What 'twas I came about?

Fav.
Business, you say.

Vir.
I fancy'd I had mighty business here:
But now I find 'twas but a fond pretence
To come and visit thee.

Fav.
You're always kind.

Vir.
The hurry and the struggle of the Day,
You were Inform'd in by my Messengers:

Fav.
They hourly brought me the particulars.
And there are somethings done, which I could wish—

Vir.
Things which I thought I cou'd not have allow'd:
And, but to raise thy Fortune, never wou'd—

Fav.
Pray heav'n they do not overturn it quite.

Vir.
But they must pass with others in the Crowd.
There will be mischief in confusion:
I had forgot: Thou art a Stranger still
To the sad News: Thy Rival is no more.

Fav.
My Rival!

Vir.
Yes, thy Rival in my heart:
You had it all between you, Wife and Friend:
Junius, that Friend is dead.

Fav.
Dead! Is he dead?

Vir.
He fell at Cannæ: Had he been alive,
And still a Roman in his interest;
I never cou'd have been a Foe to Rome.
I have an hour of grief to Dedicate—
But this is not the time. I'm call'd upon.
Hanibal comes, the glorious Hannibal.
His entry will be most Magnificent,
And will reward your Curiosity.
I will provide you Place, and send for you.

[Exit.
Favonia alone.
Fav.
What? what is there that I can want on Earth,
To fill the measure of my happiness?
Why am I not contented with my Lot?
So kind a Husband falls not to the fate
Of every Wife: All that he says, and does,
All his designs are working still for me:
And yet I cannot thank him, as I ought.
Not but I ever had a dutious Sense—
But that is not the payment of the Heart.
He asks my Love, and not my Gratitude.
And why is that deny'd? O! Junius!
But thou art dead, and I may name thee now.
I made it Criminal to pronounce his Name,
Avoiding every way all news of him,
Endeavouring to forget him, if I cou'd.
But Oh! the torment, and the rack of Soul!
To keep our thoughts for ever on the bent
Upon themselves, still labouring to forget,
What, by the labour, we remember more.
Why didst thou come between him, and my Heart?
Why rather did my Husband place thee there,
By bringing thee into the Family?
I saw no danger, till it was too late.
But what have I not done, and suffer'd too,
To drive thee thence, to make Virginius room?
I have maintain'd an everlasting War
Within this Breast, still fighting on his side:
Have summon'd all my succours to my Aid;
My Native Powers, and the Confederate Force
Of Reason, Duty, Virtue; nay brought down
The Woman's last Reserve of all, my Fame:
Weak Aids, alas! against the Tyrant Love.
But he's depos'd, and Death has set me free:
A greater Tyrant gives me Liberty.

[Exit.