University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE, An open plain, with the prospect of a wood at a distance.
Enter Sylvia. Nerina following.
Nerina.
You shun me then, my Sylvia?

Sylvia.
No, my friend,
Not you, 'tis the fond voice of love, I shun;
Chuse any other theme, and I will listen
Still as the night, when not a zephyr stirs
The trembling leaves.

Nerina.
And why not talk of love?
While that soft bloom glows on thy beauteous cheek,
While thy eyes dart their undiminish'd rays,
And every feature smiles with rosy youth.
Youth, the fit season for delight and joy.
Ah! trifler, waste not thus the fleeting hours,
The spring of life knows no return; and age,
The ceaseless winter of the human frame,
Steals silent on, to blast thy flow'ry prime.
SONG.

Sylvia.
Then let me seize each minute as it flies,
Consume in varied sports the blissful day,
Rise with the dawn, and join the virgin train,
Bound o'er the dewy vale, dislodge the deer,
Pursue with flying pace the nimble doe,
And with the savage wage a distant war.

Nerina.
Ah! foolish nymph, begin the war at home:
Within thy charming breast the savage lies,
Covert too sweet for such a dang'rous foe.
SONG.

Sylvia.
Thee, chaste Diana, all my wishes claim;
By choice thy vot'ry, my whole life is thine.
SONG.

Nerina.
Thy infant-vows, to young Philander given,
Thou stand'st excluded from the virgin choir.

Sylvia.
Philander was my parent's choice, not mine.
My heart subscrib'd not to th'unhallow'd vow
That pass'd my infant lips; urge it no more.

Nerina.
Montano's heir, Montano Phœbus' priest,
Dear to his patron-god, and blest with wealth:
Where could your choice have fix'd, had it been free
But on your destin'd spouse? Arcadia's boast,
The secret wish of every blooming maid.

Sylvia.
Take him who will, this all-accomplish'd youth:
My part in him I quit, and, sweet exchange!
Be freedom mine; mine the enchanting joys
These woods and forests yield, this well-strung bow,
This sounding quiver, pure delights supply.
Be but my arrows fleet, and just their aim,
And I have all my wish.

Nerina.
Take heed, fond maid!
For love has arrows fleeter far; and oh!
More deadly too, if pointed with despair.
SONG.

Sylvia.
With her own coldness Cynthia guards my breast;
And the soft god can find no entrance there.
SONG.

Nerina.
Yet dread the anger of avenging gods,
For broken vows and violated faith.

Sylvia.
The gods are just: they form'd me what I am,
Cold and disdainful of the nuptial tye;
They will not punish faults themselves have caus'd.
But while forgetful of the promis'd chace,
With thee the moments idly thus I waste,
A bevy of bright nymphs, already met
In yonder grove of oaks, expect my coming.
This day we hunt the stag.
SONG.

[Going.]
Philander meets her.
Philander.
One moment stay.

Sylvia.
Detain me not, the morning wears apace.
The nymphs expect me to the promis'd chace.

Philander.
Ah! quit the Sylvan war, the hunter's toils,
Love, nobler trophies yields, and sweeter spoils.
Beauty like your's should these rough sports despise,
Nor with your arrows conquer, but your eyes.

Sylvia.
Beauty's short conquests soon to bondage turn,
The vanquish'd triumph, and the victors mourn.
With haughty sway his empire Love maintains,
And all are vassals, where a tyrant reigns.

Philander.
Yet his soft power, even gods themselves confess,
'Tis his to conquer, but 'tis his to bless.
Then yield thee, beauteous nymph, and thou shalt prove
How faint all joys compar'd to mutual love.

Sylvia.
Away, presumptuous! taint not my chaste ear
With sounds Diana's handmaid must not hear.
Hate ever be my part, be thine despair,
Away, presumptuous! and thy suit forbear.

Philander.
SONG.
Yes, cruel maid, I go to prove
The last sad effort of despair:
One death shall this lost wretch remove,
And thousands from thy scorn shall spare.
Yet shall thy image bless my closing eye,
And my last breath thy still lov'd name shall sigh.

Exeunt.
Nerina.
Oh! cruelty extreme! ungrateful maid,
Thus, is it thus, that faithful love is paid?

Sylvia.
Cease chiding now, my savage lover comes,
The rude, rough Satyr—ah! he's here already.

Enter the Satyr
Ah! Sylvia, whither, whither, dost thou fly?
Turn, cruel maid, too lovely Sylvia turn.
Oh! fairer than the fairest lillies thou,
Erect and tall as alders; thy soft skin
More sleek than orient shells; and whiter far
Than falling snows; turn, turn thy starry eyes,
And bless thy lover with their beauteous rays.

Sylvia.
Great terror of these woods; ah! why on me,
This lavish praise? know thy own worth, and woo
Some nymph, if such there be, whose wondrous form
Is lovely as thy own.—

Satyr.
Insulting maid!
This form despis'd by thee wants not its charms,
If in the liquid mirror of the sea
I view myself aright, this face of mine
A sanguine colour boasts; these shaggy limbs
For strength and swiftness form'd, and manly grace.

Sylvia.
If charms like these want pow'r to gain my love,
Blame my dull eyes, and my still duller mind.

Satyr.
To charm those eyes the aid of art I'll try,
To move that mind the force of gifts I'll prove,
A pair of turtles callow from the nest,
Court the soft soothings of thy lilly-hand;
Oh! learn of them to love, and pay my pains.
SONG.

Sylvia.
Melodious strains, indeed! your music, Satyr,
Nought equals, but your verse.

Satyr.
Do my songs please thee? stay then and behold
A vintage measure, and my skill applaud
As in the harmonious maze I lightly move.
Here on the verdant turf recline, while I
Summon my fellows to the antic round.
Enter Satyrs.
Ye dear companions of my rural joys,
This paragon of nymphs, this conquering fair
Deigns to behold our sports; begin and shew
That Satyrs have their graces, and can tread
With Bacchanalian skill the sprightly dance.
Begin, I say.

Sylvia.
This lawless rout with terror chills my heart:
Seize the first happy moment, to retire.

[To Nerina.]
DANCE of the Satyrs.
Sylvia and Nerina steal off when it is almost ended.
Satyr.
Ha, gone! break off the dance:
She is not here whose eyes I sought to charm.
Ah! cruel nymph, inexorable fair,
Harder than tygers to be broke; than rocks
More fix'd in thy disdain; more haughty far
Than the vain peacock in its plumy pride.
Why seek I thee with song and dance to move?
Colder than fountains; like the sliding streams
Impossible to hold: but here I swear
By Pan, great author of our race, I swear,
Since song, nor dance, nor gifts, nor pray'rs can move
Thy stubborn soul, by force I'll crown my love.