University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Enter Cynthia.
All things around me with content are blest,
And Peace is every where, but in my Breast.
The toyling Swain, more happy than a King,
In wishes bounded, chearfully does sing.
The Beasts in Plenty feed, the Birds on Trees,
Caroll their Loves, and in the smiling Seas
The little Fishes, dancing, seem to say,
Nature is pleas'd, and gives us leave to play.
The gawdy Sun, revels o'er all the Fields,
And to his Favorite Flowers, fresh Odors yields:
Who in return of his indulgent Sway,
Unmask to kiss the Bridegroom of the Day:
A general Joy fills all the spacious Earth,
As if 'twere the Creation's second Birth:
And Sadness like some Witch skulk'd in a Hole,
Can find no Place for Harbor but my Soul.
Oh! wretched State of Greatness when the Mind,
A slave to proud Ambition is confin'd;
And Love that does the chiefest Joy create,
Is crush'd by the unweildy Bulk of State.

Enter Psyche.
Psy.
Oppress'd with Grief, and almost drown'd in Tears.
With throbbing Heart, that true Contrition wears;
The poor Endymion, he may have leave
To see, and from your Eyes, his Doom receive,
He says he knows not yet, what is the Fault,
Nor done a wilful Errour ev'n in Thought.

Cyn.
Offenders oft their Crimes extenuate,
But he in guilty Matters, of this Weight,
Does well to choose so fair an Advocate
If you but plead, a Pardon must ensue,
By all my Stars, I fear she loves him too.

[Aside.
Psyche.
Had I the fond Ambition to believe
That, Madam, for my sake you could forgive;
I must confess I would petition straight:
But since it is an Honour much to great,
To be importunate would prove a Crime
In pardoning, the Gods best know the Time.

Cynth.
Oh Psyche! thou art nearest to my Love,
Given me in Fancy by mighty Jove.
Forgive me, Sweet, if I have been unkind,
Alas, I am not well, humorous as Wind;
But, for thy sake Submission shall atone,
Go, fetch him in, and then leave us alone.

Psyche.
If this be Love, the Kiss will soon ensue,
And then I'm forfeited to Heav'n knows who:
Yet what he is methinks I long to try,
When Inclination prompts, what Virgin can deny?
[Ex. Psyc.

Cynth.
He comes, and now I must strange Frowns put on,
Talk Daggers to him, tho' I wish him none.
Would I had chosen here some lowly State,
Free from the Cares and Troubles of the Great;
Where Love, Content, and Innocence agree,
To bless the Swains with Life's Tranquility,
Endymion then might have look'd up to me.
But as I am thus high, and he so low,
I love, but 'tis not fit that he should know.

Enter Endymion.
End.
As a poor Criminal with flowing Eyes
Bows down to supplicate the Deities,
With humble Aspect does his Prayer begin
Begging a free Remission of his Sin,
So I with all humility implore
Your Eyes to dart their angry Beams no more.
That I have many Faults too well I know,
And great ones, since you please to think 'em so;
But in the main Offence am yet to seek.

Cynth.
Your Cunning, and Excuses, are too weak;
You have been insolent, and in each Grove
Proclaim'd licentious Stories of your Love;
In sawcy Rhymes my Name your Theme must be,
And Cynthia decks the Bark of every Tree.
Eclipsing thus my Fame and Grandeur too,
Speak now, aspiring Fool, is not this true?

Endym.
The Sacred Name of Cynthia all adore,
And so do I.

Cynth.
But that you lov'd you swore.

Endym.
I durst not so presume.

Cynth.
What does he say?
Oh Heav'ns! my Looks will my Surprize betray.

[Aside.
Endym.
My Hours in Adoration I employ
You for all Mortal Passion are too high
Love to our Equals well befits the Blood
But not to you.

Cynth.
What then you are too good
Or love another which your Vanity
Perhaps presumes to think does equal me.
This is an Insolence more vile and base,
Dare you affront, and slight me to my Face?
This is a most unpardonable Fault.

Endim.
She's angry if I own my Lover not;
What must I do?—

Cynth.
This Crime excels the first.

Endym.
Then, Madam, I could love you if I durst.

Cynth.
A slight Affection still is sway'd by Fear:
The perfect Lover never fails to dare.

Endym.
So much Perfection in my Flame I'll prove,
That were it scann'd before the Throne of Jove,
No Mortal 'ere had so refin'd a Love.
On this white Altar let me seal the Truth,
[Kneels and kisses her hand.
This Hand that can create Eternal Youth.
Transporting Odours breathe thro' every Pore,
That can ev'n Age inspire with Heat once more,
And crazy Nature's worst Decay restore—
White as the Milky Way in yonder Skies,
And sweet as th'fragrant Groves in Paradise;
Ah, who could live?
If so much Rapture always were exprest,
With so much Heav'n, Youth, Love, and Beauty blest.
[Kisses her hand between every word
Who would not sigh, and kiss, and ne'r have done?

Cynth.
Oh Gods! What are we doing? away, be gone:
[Snatching her hand away.
Obscure thy self in Shades, my Anger fly,
Act such another Errour thou shalt dye.
Where are my Glories now?
To whom Adoring Nations humbly bow'd,
That at a distance kept the Noisie Crowd.
That awful Grandeur which my Beauty grac't,
With Vertues pure, immaculate, and chast,
Destroy'd and wither'd like a blasted Flower,
Oh, shame to Honour and Majestick Power!
When it shall e'er be told my Father Jove,
The dazling Queen of all the Stars above,
Stood listning to a whining Tale of Love.
No, I'll controll this Tyrant in my Veins,
Oppose the Power that o'er my Freedom reigns.
Punish the Offender, that dares so presume,
Who soon shall find my Anger in my Doom.
[Exit Cynthia.

Endym.
Punish th'Offender that dares so presume,
Who soon shall find my Anger in my Doom.
Oh Fatal Sound! Oh Tyrant Beauty too!
Thou Basilisk, which murder'st with a View:
Thou flattering Ocean, that in Calms dost guide,
Fond Man at first with smooth deceitful Tide;
To wreck him after in tempestuous Pride.
Extend thy utmost Force, and since thy Doom,
Can give my Griefs a Period, let it come;
Till when I'll thus, of cruel Fate complain,
[Falls on the Ground.
Dispairing Love can know no second Pain.

Enter Syrinx with a Drug.
Syr.
My glorious Rival in yon Vale I met,
Her Eyes with bubbling Drops of Sorrow wet.
But 'twas a Grief which sprung from Love, I fear,
And see, to clear the Doubt, Endymion here:
And by the Posture that I find him in,
Some petty Quarrel has betwixt 'em heen.
Oh, Traitour! Oh Ingrate! but hush, my Thoughts:
Here's that shall take Revenge for all his Faults.

Endym.
How blest is Man when his Life's Journey ends!

Syr.
Endymion rise and see what Cynthia sends,
To ease thy Aching Heart, and makes amends
For past Unkindness.

Endym.
Who names Cynthia?

Syrinx.
I, who bring this Cordial from her. Taste and try,
It's wondrous Vertue.

[Rises.
Endym.
Dearer than Fame or Wealth.

Syrinx.
Drink deep, and with a Gusto: come, her Health.

Endym.
With so entire a Zeal,
My throbbing Heart does the great Pleasure own,
That were it Poyson, thus it should go down.

Syrinx.
The Draught and thy Prophetick Soul agree:
[He drinks.
'Tis Poyson; and tho' no Fatal Quality
Renders it Mortal, it Life's Orders sways;
And thou shalt sleep the Remnant of thy Days.
Ha, Ha,—it works, the strange Effect begins;
Let this advance the Number of my Sins.
It yet feeds my Revenge.
Since hopeless Love Sleep from my Eyes did sever,
'Tis fit who caus'd the Curse should sleep for ever.

[Exit.
Cynthia returns.
Cynthia.
Enter Psyche, Daphne, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Neptune and River
[Here the Moon being Eepips'd all the Stage is darken'd.

[Exit.

Chorus of all.
Ask the Monarch of the Noon,
Why we lose our Darling Moon?
And if long she hide her Face,
Ask him to supply her Place.
And if long, &c.

Neptune.
Look down, Almighty Jove, look down,
And from thy Darling Throne above
Behold the Sorrows that the Land Oppress:
Behold our dismal Loss of Happiness
By Cynthia's Fatal Frowns.
My Stormy Seas mount high,
And in my Face do fly:
And surely Boreas no Obedience owns:
Ah! Pity and Redress
Afflicted Nature's in Convulsions now;
Nor knows she what to do
To gain her past Delight;
And to appease, appease, appease
The Lovely Angry Goddess of the Night.

Poctol.
sings.
Ask the Oracles, and straight
We shall know Endymion's Fate.
Nothing hidden lies
To their great Divinities.

Chorus.
Nothing, Nothing, &c.

Ganges
sings.
Ask why Youth and Innocence
Punish'd are for no Offence.
Ask the Gods why they agree
So unjust a Thing should be.

Chorus.
Ask the Gods, &c.
Pay your Vows to mighty Jove:
Round his Sacred Altar move:
Pay your Duty and your Love.

The Scene changes to the Temple of Jupiter, of large extent, and illustrated with Golden Pillars of the Dorick and Corinthian Order. Enter Cupid and High Priests, Apollo, Neptune, Padolos, Ganges, Tyber, Amphitrite, Mars, Nymphs, and Rivers ranging on either side of the Temple; then Cupid and High Priest of Jupiter meet apart near the Statue of Jupiter.
Cupid.
Doubt not my pow'r nor question Jove's Decree,
But speak the Mystick Words late taught by me.

H. Priest.
The God of Love must be obey'd.

Cupid.
Away!
[Exit Cupid
Apollo for the Oracle does stay.

[Musick begins here, the Priest goes and consults the Oracle and returns.
H. Priest.
Attend the Oracle.

Oracle.
When she whose figure like the World's vast Frame,
That's always one, yet never is the same:
Constant, yet waving still when most encreast,
Descends to kiss and make Endimion blest.
Then that which seems like Death shall take
No more Effect, but he that sleeps shall wake.

H. Priest and Chorus.
And pay your Vows to mighty Jove;
Round his sacred Altar move;
Sing your Duty and your Love.

Exeunt all but Apollo and Mercury.
Apollo.
Methinks the sacred Mystery fills my Heart,
And Jove's Almighty Influence inspires me:
I feel his Knowledge and in that his Favour;
For who can be the subject of this Oracle,
But Cynthia; she's the Hieroglifick Figure,
That's like the Globe, still wavering and yet constant:
She is to kiss Endimion, then he wakes,
For 'tis not Death but Sleep that seizes him.
Sleep caus'd by Charm, or some curst Drug of Nature:
This she shall know,—with thanks for her Indulgence,
Who has, I find, my Pardon got from Jove,
And by whose means I sood shall mount the Sky,
And once more gain my lost Divinity;
Now Cozen Hermes, what think you of the Oracle?

Herm.
As of a Riddle.
Surpassing Sphinx, or any I have heard of,
'Tis only proper for Apollo's Wit,
Which (now he has done loving) soon will solve it.

Apollo.
Oh, you are Satyrical I find, 'tis well;
For till you see how I'm reveng'd, y'have reason;
But to excuse my loving folly, know,
It is through all degrees of humanes so;
Every one bears within his Brain or Blood,
Some Lust by which a Fool is understood.
Pride Millions makes base, Avarice the same,
Honour vast shoals of Fools that fight for Fame.
Merchants are fool'd by trust, Courtiers by Vows;
And the City Trader by his jilting Spouse.
Nay the Law and Clergy, whom learn'd reason fills,
For some known frailty wear the Cap with Bells.
But 'mongst all reasons that the wise have met,
Love is the best excuse for baffled Wit,
Because the dear Temptation is most sweet:

Exit.