University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

BIRTHA and THULA.
Thula.
Yes—you are chang'd of late, my gentle Mistress,
Your Actions, nay your very Looks are chang'd.
No more you love to wake the sleeping Strings
Into the sprightly Life of Harmony,
Nor teach the Lute to dye away in Softness.
No more you dip the Pencil, and diffuse
A Blush or Smile upon the breathing Canvass,
Nor trace a Flow'r along the snowy Lawn,
Created by your Hand, the Pink or Violet.
The purple Morn no more beholds you busy
In culling Herbs to ease unhealthy Mortals.
No more your wonted Songs provoke the Lark,
The morning Lark, or Ev'ning Philomel,
To answer you with less melodious Sweetness.
Nay ev'n Devotion grows more languid in you;
Your Bosom swells, but not with holy Ardour,
And when your Eyes shou'd drink in Beams from Heav'n,
They steal a Glance and melt on Gondibert.
Your very Sighs, which us'd to rise like Incence,
Grateful to Heav'n, and fragrant as the Morn,
Now steem with Love, but not celestial Love:
The Gods with Pity view your War of Passions,
And as you mourn the Altars seem to tremble.

Birtha.
I dare commit the Secret to thy Ear,
Tho' nothing but these Groves were trusted by me
With the dear Truth; for oft to Them I whisper,
In lowest Murmurs, which escape the Echoes,
That Love and Gondibert possess my Soul.
Yes, Thula, yes, that gallant, Godlike Stranger
Beats in my Pulse and trembles in my Heart.
And is He not deserving of my Love?
Tell me, dear Thula, is He not deserving?
So graceful is his Port, so sweet his Nature,
So high in Glory, and so great in War,
And yet so young, so passionately Loving,
And glowing in his Vows; my yielding Heart,
Without a Flutter, fled into his Bosom,
Nor once, once wishes to return again.

Thula.
Believe me, Madam, tho' his Vows be glowing,
It is the Art of those Deceivers, Men,
With Oaths and Murmurs, soft as billing Doves,
To sigh believing Maidens into Ruin.
They'll pray, and weep as if they dy'd with Love,
Besiege us with a Storm of burning Passion,
Till we, too fondly, give our Treasure up,
The Treasure of our Innocence and Beauty.
Awhile they wanton with unbounded Freedom,
And seem to pour away their Souls in Pleasure;
But soon their Passion ebbs to cold, cold loathing;
Then leave the helpless, poor, forsaken Kind-One
To Grief, to Shame, and triumph in our Ruin.

Birtha.
By all the Powr's of Virtue, Love, and Honour,
Now I cou'd chide Thee for this base Mistrusting.
He's pure as Chastity, as Pity kind:
My Gondibert! How can that godlike Youth,
So full of Truth, of Tenderness and Goodness,
Design the Ruin of the Maid that loves Him,?
Or Falshood lodge in such a gallant Breast?

Thula.
Beneath the smiling Herbage of the Spring
The Adder may be couch'd, nor once betray
His spotted Skin, till—

Birtha.
Hold, nor wound his Virtue.

Thula.
Nay I believe your Gondibert as good,
Tender, and true as any of his Sex;
But still He's Man, and then-He may deceive you.

Birtha.
Hold, hold thy Peace: He's something more than Man.
He looks a Deity: and lo! He comes
Like radiant Truth! Suspicions fly before Him;
Blush, Thula, blush—for, know to thy Confusion,
To-morrow's dawning Light shall see Us One.