University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Enter Pan guarded with Satyrs, with him Apollo.
Pan.
Rough as I am, and in my Nature wild,
Bred up in Rural Caves 'mongst Savages
That know no Worth, nor understand no Reason;
Yet shall Apollo in his Welcome find,
That Pan, tho' doom'd to Rustical Society,
Knows how to value such Excess of Merit,
Tho' he wants Words t'express it.

Apollo.
In Acts of Friendship there's small need of Words,
And therefore Pan may fairly have Excuse.
Had foolish Midas when he prais'd thy Pipe,
Extoll'd thy Courtesie and honest Nature,
Apollo had been baffled ev'n in both.

Pan.
My Father, tho' the God of Eloquence,
Yet could not spare me a Child's Portion, therefore
Take my well Meaning for my Compliment.
By Syrinx, whom I love at my Heart's Root,
Once more I swear Apollo is most welcome.

Ap.
Once more my Thanks to Pan; but hush, no Murmurs,
For if my Eyes deceive me not here comes
The swift-wing'd Pursuivant of Jove.

Enter Mercury.
Pan.
'Tis he—how fares my Father Hermes?

Ap.
Welcome, kind Mercury.

Merc.
Health to Apollo, and Off-spring Pan,
To whom I carry most surprizing News:
For at the bottom of yon rising Hill,
Close by a silver Brook that girdles in
A Thicket, crown'd with Jasamin and Roses;
I saw his Souls best Part the lovely Syrinx,
Weary with hunting stretch'd at her full length
Lie sighing loud, discovering Worlds of Beauties,
Unveil'd and careless to the Amorous Winds.

Pan.
Perhaps she's wounded, and may now be dead,
Oh dreadful Sound! Away, I'll seek her instantly,
[To his Guards.
And all my choicest Drugs I'll carry with me:
'Mongst which I've some that can e'en Life retrieve
From th'Jaws of Fate, others that can destroy,
Just at a moment, and some of that strange Nature,
They in a Mortal swoon'd and deadly Sleep,
Can seize on all the Offices of Life,
Whole Years, nay Ages, tell me, good Progenitor,
Was she not wounded?

Merc.
Faith, Boy, I hope she was not, but can't swear.

Pan.
I goe, I fly, excuse my eager haste, since Love's the Cause.

Ap.
He's gone, and now my dear Ambassador,
What Comfort for thy Friend?

[Exit Pan.
Merc.
What you could wish—Which made me send away
This Scandal of my Blood, this God
Of Sheep-hooks—
Prepare your self, the Nymph is coming hither.

Ap.
Who, Daphne?

Merc.
She.

Ap.
Prithee don't flatter me, nor use thy Humour
Of lying to thy Friend.

Merc.
'Tis true, by Cynthia.
I must confess you'll have a plaguy Task on't:
For all my Tricks and Wheedles 'twould not do,
Nor could my Tears, my Sighs or Languishing,
Which at some certain times ne'er us'd to fail me,
Move her one jot—till at last a happy Lye
(I thank Jove for the Gift) ingag'd her hither.

Ap.
Prithee what was it?

Merc.
I told her a young Mountain-Boar was lodg'd
Close by this Covert; she, greedy of the Game,
Forsakes the rest o'th' Nymphs that now are Chasing—
And yonder see she comes; 'tis fit I leave you.
Now, Prince, your Wit, and on this Truth rely,
No Woman yields so soon as she that's Coy.
[Exit Merc.

Enter Daphne, with a Javelin.
Daph.
Sad lonely Groves, and Sun-defying Woods,
The dark Recesses of the Sylvian Gods,
Thickets where never Mortal Foot e'er trod,
Where candied Snow in heaps remains unthaw'd,
I've with unusual Patience wandred round,
Yet nothing worth my Javelin have found.
Sure Hermes with a Lye abus'd my Ear,
Hah! do I dream? or is Apollo there?
'Tis he; and now I'm sure I am betray'd,
He comes, but I'll to Cynthia cry for Aid.
Away, and let me go.

[She is going, and Apollo interposes.
Ap.
Not till I speak.
If I should lose you this my Heart will break.

Daph.
Still am I plagu'd with the old whining Tale,
Can no Denial, nor no Scorn prevail?
Nay then this Weapon in my just Defence,
Shall free me from this strange Impertinence,
I'll kill ye.

[Offers her Javelin at him.
Ap.
That which your sparkling Eyes half did before,
Your Javelin now can hardly hurt me more.

Daph.
My Eyes, Oh Falshood, senseless, poor and dull!
I swear the God of Wit is grown a Fool.

Ap.
Reflect, fair Creature, then what Charms you have,
The Wit's a Fool, the Conqueror, a Slave.

Daph.
Still do oppose thus then without Remorse,
What you deny me I'm resolv'd to force.

[Rushes on him with the Javelin, and wounds him; he disarms her.
Ap.
Barbarous, Ingrate; must Blood then quench my Flame?
Instead of Kindness is my Life your Aim?
Kindness, Oh Heav'n! how doubly fool'd is he,
That Kindness hopes from Woman's Cruelty,
When stubborn Humour feeds her Tyranny.
Beauty and Love by Jove were first design'd,
The choicest Blessings he could give Mankind,
Lovers with Ease did the dear Treasure gain,
But now coy Rigour grieves 'em with such Pain,
The Joy scarce countervails when they obtain.

Daph.
Then for a Joy so little worth their Pains,
Why have so many Idiots lost their Brains?
Nay, why will you, so late a Deity,
Descend so low poorly to sue to me?
To me that ever shall thus Coy appear,
He little thinks I have a Love elsewhere.
Begone, for shame—no blustring will avail,

Apol.
Love when abus'd has Privilege to rail.
Your Sex ungovern'd Passions hourly rule,
And Natural Error makes ye Love a Fool.
Wit is a Monster that provokes your Rage,
And is as little welcome as Old-Age.
Honest Deceit you can disgust each hour,
But Noise and Nonsense ravenously devour.
To all your Mischiefs Vertue is the Guide,
Vertue that feeds the Wolf of your curs'd Pride.
Your Sexes awful Cheat, for who e'er knew
A Woman proudly chaste, good-natur'd too?
Nay, you shall stay.

Daph.
Now you shall prevail.
I'll stay 'gainst Mankind in my turn to rail,
Man that ne'r thinks he has a happy day,
Unless he finds some Woman to betray:
Man that then eagerly pursues the Chace,
And swears and lies till he grows black in th'Face.
How many Tricks to plot our future Pain,
Are every day contriv'd amongst the Men?
What Taylors are there damn'd to frame a Dress,
To make a Coxcomb taking to damn us.
How many Oaths in Volly when they wooe,
And yet how sure we are not one are true;
And if a Maid is fated to the Curse,
To change her State for better, or for worse;
She must the Nuptial Bed with Virtue Crown,
Tho' he the Leavings brings of the whole Town,
And straight dislikes because she is his own.
Then with vile Sinner, tiring out his Life,
Kicks and makes Mouths at th'very Name of Wife.
This, this is Man, this is that precious he,
In Morrals learn'd—

Apoll.
Rarely, tho' this may be.
What are the Vices you have nam'd to me?
Consider and repent.

Daph.
Repent, for what?

Apoll.
For injur'd Love, and this ungrateful Fault,
Atone for sheding thus my guiltless Blood.
Make me Amends.

Daph.
I cannot if would:
You are of a Sex I hate, cou'd you change Shape,
Tho' with a Bear, a Hedg-Hog, or an Ape,
As Nature's Products all—these love I can;
In these there is no Mischief, but for Man,
Soft Passion in my Breast, no Room can find,
And nothing that's on Earth, can change my Mind.

[Exit hastily.
Apoll.
Behold, fond Lovers, by coy Dames deny'd,
Behold, the Quintessence of Female Pride:
See here, the fleeting Bliss, for which you toil,
Burn out your Lamps, and wast your precious Oil.
In Woman the grand Disturbance of the Mind,
In either Station, whither Coy, or Kind.
Then hate her—Ah, how Vain is grave Advice,
Pleading 'gainst Nature, and its best of Joys;
For tho' in th'Rapture, the sweet Blessing is
So very short, that he that reaps the Bliss,
Can hardly say 'tis this.
Yet Men much more that happy Moment prize,
Than Fame or Wealth, than Crowns or Monarchies.
[Ex. Apoll.

Entor Pan with Satyrs and Shepherds
Pan.
She comes unlook'd for, to this happy Place,
Love brings her hither, to prevent my Labour,
Let us retire, and when I give the Sign,
Be ready with your Skill to entertain her.

[Exeunt.
Enter Syrinx.
She loves him, oh, she loves, sound it ye Winds,
Even to the utmost Confines of the Globe;
Proclaim aloud that Cinthia Loves Endimion,
And he ill Fated Youth does doat on her:
Whilest I am left regardless, and refus'd,
Nay, tho' I've forfeited a Virgin's Blush;
And with pale Cheeks, and Eyes all bath'd with Tears,
Heart-breaking Sighs, she silent breaths her Passion,
And Words unfitting any thing but Love,
Have told him my sad Story but in vain;
To Cynthia he Aspires, Cynthia the Fair,
The Great, the Haughty—but she shall not have him;
No, I'll oppose their Pleasure tho' I die;
This I think the Covert of God Pan;
Whom I've observ'd to be as fond of me,
As I am of Endimion, and tho' I hate him,
Yet I for once, and meerly for my Ends,
Will work upon his Temper; he has a Drug
Given him by Proserpine, and Envious Pluto,
Of such strange Force, and deadly Nature,
That it can cast one into such a Sleep,
That nothing can awake. This is Revenge,
I'll wheedle out of him, to give Endymion;
So shall he be incapable of loving,
And she of being belov'd—But see he comes.

Enter Pan with Shepherds and Shepherdesses, and Satyrs; he sits down by Syrinx.
Here the rest of the Satyrs enter and Dance, which done, Pan whispers a Satyr, who goes and fetches the Drugs.
Pan.
Not only this but every dread Command,
Gives the Drugs to Syrinx.
Pan shall with Joy obey, if you will pardon
My rude unpolish'd Phrase, and letting Service
Attone for my Defects in Conversation.

Syr.
Be well assur'd I will.

Pan.
The Dainties of the Spring, shall please your Eye,
Summer and Autumn too, delight your Taste;
I'll bring the lovely Maid, where clustering Grapes,
Full as thy Lip, swelling with spritely Juice,
Shall give their willing Bunches to thy Hand;
Tall Chesnuts, and the Filbert-Trees in Rows,
Waiting thy Pull, shall bow their Summer Treasure,
And in their turn, the bleeding Mulberry;
Juicy Pomgranate, and luscious Plum,
Shall pay thee Tribute, nor shall this be all,
For to indulge the Appetite, my Flocks,
At my Command, shall cast their Kids and Lambs;
And when at Night, cloy'd with luxurious Feeding:
Thy Beauteous Eye-Lids fall, in Groves of Jessamine:
In Beds of Roses laid, my airy Quire,
Sweet Nightingales like Flutes, the Thrush and Ozel,
As shriller Flajolletts, with warbling Linnets,
In Consort joyn'd, shall sing thee to thy Rest.

Syr.
Oh—heavenly, why this wou'd charm a Virgin,
Were she as Cold as Northern Isicles.

Pan.
Will you then love me? pray forgive my Bluntness.

Syr.
Hope well, this is no place for Promises,
And now to let me see, how your Observance
Equals your Love, leave me alone, and instantly.

Pan.
I'm gone, your Breath can drive me round the World,
And in an Instant stop the swift Career.
[Exit Pan.

Syr.
Go, oh thy foolish Dotage be thy Plague,
It ne'er shall trouble me; here is the Drug,
The fatal Instrument of Female Malice:
And now methinks the Mischief broods within me,
And all my Veins swell with the just Revenge:
To love, and not be lov'd, what Curse is like it?
Poverty, Sickness, Slavery or Exile,
Famine or Plague, Tortures or Lunacy,
are Ease to hopeless Love—oh, I'll not endure it,
But in my Love's Defence, let fly at all,
Since I cannot possess, no other shall.

[Exit.