 | Ariadne : or The Triumph of Bacchus |  |
Scene I.
A most pleasant and beautiful Bower belonging to the Apartment of Bacchus, adorn'd with glorious Images of all the Deities, Loves and Graces, and illustrated with Dorick Pillars, encompass'd round with Vine Branches, Roses, Jessamin, Eglantine, and Foliages of other Flowers.Enter Ariadne and Cellania.
Cell.
Salute the Morn, fair Ariadne,
With Joy, and thank me for my Tidings;
Glory and perfect Love attending,
Descend, and Homage pay to Beauty;
Let those bright Eyes, whose dazling Lustre
Can captivate a Heart Immortal,
Convert their liquid Pearl to Rubies,
Sparkling with Hopes of Bliss approaching,
Bacchus adores.
Ariad.
Leave, leave, Cellania,
And let me think—
Cell.
Of awful Bacchus,
All other Thoughts are of no Moment.
Ariad.
Did I not give up Fame and Fortune?
Nay, give him Life? Oh base Ingrate!
Or what's a worser Name, vile Theseus!
Cell.
Plunge, oh ye watry Powers, the perjur'd!
But sacred Bacchus loves ye.
Ariad.
Loves me!
Why is there such a thing in Nature?
Cell.
Some Signs of such a thing.
212
And faithful!
Cell.
'Mongst Gods, but Men grown wiser slight it,
The Lover chang'd, now change the Humour,
Our Tears like Mens Amours should vary,
Air.
Grief abates when Joy grows stronger,
Vain 'tis to dissemble longer,
Whining, puling, sighing, crying,
Beauty spoiling, self denying,
Sobbing, blowing, groaning, squeaking,
Lying frequently as speaking.
Grief abates, &c.
Vain 'tis to dissemble longer,
Whining, puling, sighing, crying,
Beauty spoiling, self denying,
Sobbing, blowing, groaning, squeaking,
Lying frequently as speaking.
Grief abates, &c.
Enter Abdalla attended by an Indian King, bearing a Crown of Stars upon a Cushion.
Abdal.
To Ariadne, most ador'd of Mortals,
From the Cælestial and renown'd Bimater,
I bring this starry Crown, a Sacred Symbol,
Prov'd to the height of his most glorious Passion;
Oh take it! with that Joy becomes your Fortune,
And grateful Duty to the mighty Sender.
Cell.
In Lethargie, what Remora benumbs ye?
Can ye not see the Gift—Had Blindness seiz'd ye?
Gold sure could clear your Eyes.
Ariad.
The wondrous Graces
Thrown hourly on me by immortal Bacchus,
Outdo returns of Gratitude.
Abdal.
The Temple,
Adorning yonder Hill to Clouds aspiring,
With holy Priests that such Affairs are skill'd in,
Will teach that Virtue; there the God expects ye,
Happy in hope to make ye yet still greater:
A glorious Wife.
Cell.
A Wife, and such a Present!
Can you be musing still, still cold?—Oh Heavens!
Had I such Graces!—What are my Stars a doing?
Ariad.
A Crown's a glorious thing.
Cel.
She smiles, that's something:
A Golden Circle must cure all ill Humours:
Besides, a Wife too; that's no idle Matter.
Ariad.
Bright Immortality,—A Constellation.
Cell.
So now she thinks apace.
Ariad.
Oh happy Station!
Cell.
Beyond ambitious Thought.
Abdall.
Look here, sweet Charmer.
[Shews the Crown.
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Is it not fine?
Do's it not shine.
How will it grace too, when 'tis thine?
'Tis for a Crown the Warriour fights, the Politician plots,
The first profusely sheds his Blood, the last is plagu'd with Thoughts.
'Tis this that fires the jarring World, to Man the greatest Joy,
And this and a kind Husband too, what Woman can deny!
Is it not fine, &c?
Do's it not shine.
How will it grace too, when 'tis thine?
'Tis for a Crown the Warriour fights, the Politician plots,
The first profusely sheds his Blood, the last is plagu'd with Thoughts.
'Tis this that fires the jarring World, to Man the greatest Joy,
And this and a kind Husband too, what Woman can deny!
Is it not fine, &c?
Ariad.
My labouring Thoughts I find are all in hurry,
I am not dreaming sure, this must be real;
Yonder's the Temple!
Cell.
Haste, haste, quickly thither,
And swift as Time,—fly to the great Inviter.
Ariad.
It must be so, the Attraction's so prevailing,
From that inchanting Crown there's no defending;
Sorrow adieu, thou gloomy Inmate.
[Takes the Crown.
Abdal.
Viva.
Ariad.
And welcome Comfort, with angelick Semblance.
Fate's Decree must be fulfill'd,
Every Woman's born to yield;
If with Gold they charm the Eye,
Can we, can we, then deny?
If they give us darling Sway,
Will we, will we, then delay.
Oh, no, no,—Fie, no, no!
Wiser is our Sex than so.
Fate's Decree, &c.
[Gives her Hand to Abdalla, he leads her out, Cellania follows.
| Ariadne : or The Triumph of Bacchus | |