University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

PHILODAMUS, PHILIPPUS, going to execution. EPICRATES, Guards, &c.
Epicrates.
Fear not, he must desist from his mad enterprize;
Mean time, we arm, with utmost speed, a vessel,
Which shall transport us, past his search, to safety.

Philodamus.
'Tis well, Epicrates, I would not see her,
For much I doubt how my own resolution
Might stand the burst of so much tenderness.

Epicrates.
She's most desirous to receive by me
The blessing and last orders of a father.

Philodamus.
My blessing; why, my life has been to bless her.
This last formality can add no weight to it;
However, take my blessing on you both;
Then, as to orders, what should I command her?
Bid her persist in the pursuit of virtue?
Her life insures she will; or should I charge her
She bear unvaried duty and affection
To thee? Her inclinations answer for her.
Be it your care to comfort her distress,
Teach her submission to the will of Heaven.

Epicrates.
Alas! my father, what a leave to take!

Philodamus.
My death-bed ow'd me a severer end.
Another word, and then we part, Epicrates.
One article remains of dearest import,
If this fierce tempest of calamity,
When fall'n its rage, should chance to drive on shore
Any the wrecks and fragments of my fortunes,
Collect them safely for Euphemia.

Epicrates.
I have already offer'd her my house,
Begg'd her to share my fortunes.

Philippus,
embracing him.
Oh! Epicrates.
Oh friend indeed! What would I give for words?
Yet could they more than call thee, friend indeed!

Epicrates.
Oh my Philippus! Oh my better half!
I live not half without thee—

Guard.
Come, make haste.

Philippus.
My last thoughts to Euphemia and my sister.

[Exit Epicrates.
Philodamus.
Be gone, Epicrates. And now, Philippus,
I have no leave to take of thee, my boy;
We're bound on the same voyage. Only this;
I have prevail'd upon the executioner
To spare thy eyes my death; and you wait here
Till I am past. So, now lead on, I'm ready.

Philippus.
To thy last thought the same, my gentle father!
[Exit Philodamus.
Enter EUPHEMIA.
Why art thou here, Euphemia? to unman me?
Now, that I've born the parting of a father,
With all I have of steadiness, art thou come
To rob me of that last of vanities,
Which cowards sometimes reach, the dying resolute?
I'm young, am born to dignity, and affluence;
Have health untainted, and th'esteem of friends.
These I could have resign'd, yet be myself,
And mock the phantom death. What is world
That one must ask the leave of Rome to live in?
But when I view thy beauties, which I quit
Purchas'd, but unpossess'd; there lies the agony,
And it grows terrible indeed to die.

Euphemia.
I came to steel thy breast, and not to melt it
Into the whining softness of a woman.
And why regret to die? since we have lov'd,
And have enjoy'd already, never doubt it,
All that is keen and exquisite in love.
The rest deserves small notice. Be like me.
I feel my soul exalted 'bove itself,
Secure, and pleas'd, in its own resolution,
It looks with intrepidity on death.

Philippus.
What dost thou mean, Euphemia? thou alarm'st me.
There's a determination in thine eye,
And firmness in thy speech, that makes me tremble
More than the axe that waits me. Oh! dismiss
Thy desp'rate thought whatever. Live, Euphemia,
Cherish my memory, nor let that affect thee,
Beyond a melancholy recollection,
How much we lov'd, and how unfortunately.

Euphemia.
There are, Philippus, in Distress's quiver,
Some shafts so very deeply barb'd, they mock
The unavailing art that would extract them,
And will be left to rankle in the wound.
But did the world possess the balm to heal them,
'Twere meanness to survive distinguish'd wretchedness.
What! to be pointed at, and shown a sight,
As one no misery could drive from life!
See here the remedy of ev'ry woe.
See here the cure of Verres.

[Shews a dagger.
Philippus.
'Twas my fear.
That dagger! no, thou must not, shalt not use it.
Ah! do not listen to that witch Despair,
Who gilds with a false sun-shine the black precipice
T'allure the suff'ring mind?

Euphemia.
The suff'ring mind?
'Twas then it suffer'd, when my glory bid
The chasm of separation yawn between us.
'Twas harder to resolve to part our loves
Adoring and ador'd, than share thy death.

Philippus.
In this dread hour it was my consolation,
Epicrates had lent thee noble shelter
From all the storms that yet might buffet life.
Oh! harbour there, and drop the social tear,
In consort, oft as you shall think of me,
Till slow-pac'd time, nay, habitude of sorrow
Induce satiety of itself. Who knows?
Long years of happiness may wait behind,
That shall do justice to Euphemia's merit.

Euphemia.
Yes, and be comforted; dry up my tears;
My mourning weeds convert to ornament;
Whimper but now and then; and in a moment,
Call any other man my only love.—
The thought is paltry. Oh! how I disdain it!
Why now, methinks, I'm at the pitch of happiness,
High in my own esteem. 'Tis only now
That I feel worthy of a flame like thine:
I'm all on fire to shuffle off this life.—
'Tis an impatience that still spurs me forward.
The Gods conceal from those they force to live
How happy 'tis to die, lest they desist
From their hard drudg'ry, and desert their station.

Philippus.
If ever tender thought of me has glow'd
Within that gentle bosom—dost not hear,
Horrid! the blow that ends the best of fathers?
[Noise within.
The time demands me.—Let me yet prevail.—

Voice
within.
Lead on the prisoner.

Philippus.
'Tis my last request.

Euphemia.
But a request you have no right to make.
Nay, talk no more. Farewell. This last embrace.
If memory extend beyond the urn,
Still shall we love each other. Now, away.
Farewell, my love, my pride, my happiness.
That I am thine, o'er-pays the loss of life.

Philippus.
An instant longer.—

Euphemia.
Why an instant longer?
And should the tyrant grant us till to-morrow,
Think you we'd take it?
Guard takes hold of him.
Come, nay come along.

Philippus.
I go—but would.—'Tis easier to die.
[Exit, she looking fondly after him, till, just as he is out of sight, she stabs herself. He re-enters.
Unhand me for a moment, rash Euphemia!

Euphemia.
I thought thee farther—or had spar'd thee this.
'Tis over—haste—oh loiter not behind—
Where are you—now you're lost.—I see thee not.—
Night hangs upon my eyes—and thou art no where.—
Oh, now again I know him—'tis Philippus.—
At least remember—oh—that I die—thine.

Philippus.
Kind executioner, be quick, dispatch.—
Why do I ask what I can do myself
With readier expedition.

[Stabs himself with her dagger.
Guard.
Haste, prevent him,
You are too late.

Philippus.
I thank thee for thy lesson.
Now, Verres, thy revenge is half deceiv'd.
Now, Dolabella, I elude thy sentence.
Stay, let me seize her hand, ere light desert me,
Else I shall wander in uncertain search,
And find it not.—Why now, in spite of numbness,
I hold thee fast—to separate—no more.

Enter EPICRATES.
Epicrates.
Sure she came hither; yet I dread to find her.
Ha! is it so? my fears inform'd me just.
Philippus, art thou here? I knew indeed
Death waited for thee, but in other place,
And other manner. Better as it is.
Tears, by your leave, a while; there's time enough
For your indulgence. Who commands the guard here?

Officer.
'Tis I.

Epicrates.

[Exit, the bodies carried before him.