University of Virginia Library

Scena octava.

Silvio,
Eccho within.
But too much honour hence to thee would come,
Vile and unwarlike Boy, to chastise whom
(I speak't aloud) a rod's enough.
Enough.
What art thou that reply'st? Eccho? or Love?
That so doth imitate the same?
The same.
Most wish'd! but tell me true; Art thou hee?
Hee.
The son of her that for Adonis once
So miserably pin'd away?
Away.
Well: of that Goddesse who was found in bed
With Mars, when the stars shot to see her shame,
And the chast Moon blush'd at her folly?
Olly!
What madnesse 'tis to whistle to the winde!
Come (if thou darest) to the wide air,
I dare.
And I defie thee. But art thou her son
Legitimate, or else a by-blow?
I glow.
O! the Smith's son that's call'd a God:
A God.
Of what? the follies of the world?
The world.
The Bawd thou art. Art thou that terrible Boy
That tak'st such sharp revenge upon those wights
Who thy absurd commands digest not?
Jest not.
What punishments dost thou inflict on those
Who in rebellion persevere?
Severe.
And how shall I be punish'd, whose hard heart
Hath alwayes been at odds with Love?
With Love.
When (Sot), if my chaste brest be to those flames
More opposite then night to day?
To day.
So quickly shall I be in that streight?
Streight.
What's she can bring me to adoring?
Dorin.
Dorinda, is it not, my little childe,
Thou wouldst say in thy lithping gibberish?
Ish.
Shee whom I hate more then the Lamb the Wolf?
And who to this shall force my will?
I will.
And how? and with what Arms? and with what bow?
Shall it be happily with thine?
With thine.
Thou mean'st perchance, when by thy wantonnesse
It is unbent, and the nerve broken?
Broken.
Shall my own bow, after 'tis broken too,
Make war on me? and who shall break't? thou?
Thou.
'Tis plain now thou art drunk: go sleep. But say,
Where shall these miracles be wrought? here?
Here.
O fool! and I am going now from hence.
See if thou hast not prov'd thy self to day
A prophet with the wine inspir'd.
Inspir'd.
But stay, I see (unlesse I much mistake)
A greyish thing at couch in yonder Brake:
'Tis like a Wolf, and certainly 'tis one.
O what a huge one 'tis! how over-grown!
O day of prey to me! What favours are
These, courteous goddesse? in one day a pair
Of such wilde beasts to triumph ore? But why
Do I delay this work, my Deity?
The swiftest and the keenest shaft that is
In all my Quiver (let me see,—'tis this)
I do select: to thee I recommend it
(O Archeresse eternall) do thou send it
By Fortunes hand, and by thy pow'r divine
Guide it into the beast. His skin is thine.
And in thy name I shoot. O lucky hit!
Just where the eye and hand designed it.
Would now I had my javelin here, to make
An end of him at once, before he take
The wood for shelter: but the place shall yeeld
Me weapons. Not a stone in all the field?
But why do I seek weapons, having these?
This second arrow layes him at his ease.
Alas! what do I see? what hast thou done,
Unhappy Silvio? what hast thou run
Thy self into? Thou hast a shepherd slain
In a wolfe's skin. O action to remain
For ever overwhelm'd with grief! to lie
Under salt water everlastingly!
The wretch too I should know, and he that so
Doth lead and prop him up is Linco. O
Vile arrow! viler vow! but vilest Thou
That didst direct that arrow, hear that vow!
I guilty of anothers blood? I kill
Another? I that was so free to spill
My blood for others, and my life to give?
Throw down thy weapons, and inglorious live,
Shooter of men, hunter of men. But lo
The wretched Swain! then thee lesse wretched though.