 | Werter |  |
SCENE, Charlotte's Apartments.
Enter CHARLOTTE and LAURA.
(Charlotte, reading a letter.)
Albert returns to night—he little thinks
What ravages a few short hours have made
In this distracted breast: Laura, he comes
To take possession of my promis'd hand,
And claim that love his virtue well deserves!
How will his hopes be dash'd then, when he finds
That all the labours of three tedious years;
One night, one fatal night, has quite eras'd.
Laura.
Banish these thoughts—they serve but to enhance
The sad remembrance of an hopeless love,
Charlotte.
Talk not of love, it has destroy'd my peace:
O, had not Werter's lovely form appear'd,
I still had liv'd unconscious of these pangs!
And Albert's friendship Werter's love supply'd;
But he has shewn the God in all his charms,
With each allurement to seduce the soul,
And then has left me to deplore and die!
Laura.
Think not of Werter—'Twas thy solemn vow
To wed with Albert.
Charlotte.
And I'll maintain that vow;
Think'st thou that honour will descend to kneel
At love's fantastick throne? No, Laura! no;
Albert deservedly has gain'd my heart;
Some sighs may heave, some tears in pity fall,
When memory muses on another's fate;
But truth and constancy shall never cease
To pay that debt the generous Albert claims.
Enter WERTER.
Werter.
My better angel!—O, at sight of thee,
The gloomy winter in my bosom thaws,
And sunshine smiles again.
Charlotte.
O, Werter!
Werter.
What means my Charlotte?
Charlotte.
Alas! my Werter,
There in that letter read thy hopeless fate.
Werter.
(having read the letter.)
Albert return to night!—Then am I curst indeed.
Charlotte.
Wou'd I could sooth the anguish of thy soul;
But well thou know'st honour denies thee that
Which best might give relief—yet, if the balm
Of healing pity will assuage thy pain,
Still thou art somewhat blest! for even now—
My heart is bleeding for the wounds of thine.
Werter.
Generous Charlotte!—but oh! what needed this?
If sympathy could heal my rankl'd wounds,
I knew that thou would'st pour the balsam on;
'Twas madness only that has made me thus,
And only that can save me!
Charlotte.
No, Werter;
'Tis Charlotte only that has made thee thus—
She is the origin of all thy woes!
Werter.
Perish the thought!—I am myself the cause,
Thou art the lovely soother of my cares;
My guardian angel! sent by pitying heav'n
To compensate my every other ill;—
And yet there is another that should claim
My warmest gratitude.
Charlotte.
O shun me! fly me!
I am a syren fatal to behold,
And ruin those I ever should protect;
Sure heaven has made me only to destroy.
Werter.
Tell me delusion lurks beneath thy smiles;
Tell me destruction works within thine eye;
Tell me contagion hangs upon thy tongue;
And I will still love on, and still be happy:
But when thou tell'st me to avoid that form,
Death has no terrors! hell no pangs like mine:
Ah, whence those cruel fears!
Charlotte.
Thou best of men,
For thee they fall—anguish must have its vent,
Or the heart's blood would gush.
Werter.
If I have liv'd
To give one moment's misery to thee,
That moment I have liv'd too much—By heaven!
The frantic thought of adding woe to her,
Drives each ungenerous selfish sorrow hence,
And shews me what a shallow soul I have:
Oh, cease to weep, in a far worthier cause;
Thy sorrows might be shed.
Charlotte.
Never, Werter.
When virtue, such as thine, is tortur'd thus;
When love, the purest, is so ill bestow'd,
And noblest talents are in love so lost,
The sympathizing heart may surely melt;
And melting thus, may pour its wishes forth:
Fly then far hence—seek some more generous fair;
One who is worthy of a heart like thine!
And shou'd she ask the story of thy life,
Tell her, that Charlotte did abuse thy love:
Tell her, the only recompence she shew'd
For all thy sufferings was—to leave thee thus—
My heart no longer can support its pangs!
[Exit.
Werter
solus.
If ye have mercy Gods, O shew it now!
For never wretch did want your mercy more.
But hold—How shall my troubled mind resolve
If I remain?—'tis but to marr her peace—
'Tis but to check the generous Albert's bliss:
If I depart, the pain is all my own!
Where is that virtue then? that boasted honour,
That ever was my pride? O, shame, 'tis fled,
And Werter's but the shadow of himself!
Yet will I shew some firmness still remains,
And shake these demons from the dens they haunt!
Yes, I will leave her—e'en now I'll seek my friend,
Take one short farewell and depart to-night!
So may I live to bless that happy hour,
When honour nobly triumph'd over love!
[Exit.
Enter CHARLOTTE and LAURA.
(Charlotte, reading a letter.)
Albert returns to night—he little thinks
What ravages a few short hours have made
In this distracted breast: Laura, he comes
To take possession of my promis'd hand,
And claim that love his virtue well deserves!
How will his hopes be dash'd then, when he finds
That all the labours of three tedious years;
One night, one fatal night, has quite eras'd.
Laura.
Banish these thoughts—they serve but to enhance
The sad remembrance of an hopeless love,
14
Talk not of love, it has destroy'd my peace:
O, had not Werter's lovely form appear'd,
I still had liv'd unconscious of these pangs!
And Albert's friendship Werter's love supply'd;
But he has shewn the God in all his charms,
With each allurement to seduce the soul,
And then has left me to deplore and die!
Laura.
Think not of Werter—'Twas thy solemn vow
To wed with Albert.
Charlotte.
And I'll maintain that vow;
Think'st thou that honour will descend to kneel
At love's fantastick throne? No, Laura! no;
Albert deservedly has gain'd my heart;
Some sighs may heave, some tears in pity fall,
When memory muses on another's fate;
But truth and constancy shall never cease
To pay that debt the generous Albert claims.
Enter WERTER.
Werter.
My better angel!—O, at sight of thee,
The gloomy winter in my bosom thaws,
And sunshine smiles again.
Charlotte.
O, Werter!
Werter.
What means my Charlotte?
Charlotte.
Alas! my Werter,
There in that letter read thy hopeless fate.
15
(having read the letter.)
Albert return to night!—Then am I curst indeed.
Charlotte.
Wou'd I could sooth the anguish of thy soul;
But well thou know'st honour denies thee that
Which best might give relief—yet, if the balm
Of healing pity will assuage thy pain,
Still thou art somewhat blest! for even now—
My heart is bleeding for the wounds of thine.
Werter.
Generous Charlotte!—but oh! what needed this?
If sympathy could heal my rankl'd wounds,
I knew that thou would'st pour the balsam on;
'Twas madness only that has made me thus,
And only that can save me!
Charlotte.
No, Werter;
'Tis Charlotte only that has made thee thus—
She is the origin of all thy woes!
Werter.
Perish the thought!—I am myself the cause,
Thou art the lovely soother of my cares;
My guardian angel! sent by pitying heav'n
To compensate my every other ill;—
And yet there is another that should claim
My warmest gratitude.
Charlotte.
O shun me! fly me!
I am a syren fatal to behold,
And ruin those I ever should protect;
Sure heaven has made me only to destroy.
16
Tell me delusion lurks beneath thy smiles;
Tell me destruction works within thine eye;
Tell me contagion hangs upon thy tongue;
And I will still love on, and still be happy:
But when thou tell'st me to avoid that form,
Death has no terrors! hell no pangs like mine:
Ah, whence those cruel fears!
Charlotte.
Thou best of men,
For thee they fall—anguish must have its vent,
Or the heart's blood would gush.
Werter.
If I have liv'd
To give one moment's misery to thee,
That moment I have liv'd too much—By heaven!
The frantic thought of adding woe to her,
Drives each ungenerous selfish sorrow hence,
And shews me what a shallow soul I have:
Oh, cease to weep, in a far worthier cause;
Thy sorrows might be shed.
Charlotte.
Never, Werter.
When virtue, such as thine, is tortur'd thus;
When love, the purest, is so ill bestow'd,
And noblest talents are in love so lost,
The sympathizing heart may surely melt;
And melting thus, may pour its wishes forth:
Fly then far hence—seek some more generous fair;
One who is worthy of a heart like thine!
And shou'd she ask the story of thy life,
Tell her, that Charlotte did abuse thy love:
Tell her, the only recompence she shew'd
For all thy sufferings was—to leave thee thus—
My heart no longer can support its pangs!
[Exit.
17
solus.
If ye have mercy Gods, O shew it now!
For never wretch did want your mercy more.
But hold—How shall my troubled mind resolve
If I remain?—'tis but to marr her peace—
'Tis but to check the generous Albert's bliss:
If I depart, the pain is all my own!
Where is that virtue then? that boasted honour,
That ever was my pride? O, shame, 'tis fled,
And Werter's but the shadow of himself!
Yet will I shew some firmness still remains,
And shake these demons from the dens they haunt!
Yes, I will leave her—e'en now I'll seek my friend,
Take one short farewell and depart to-night!
So may I live to bless that happy hour,
When honour nobly triumph'd over love!
[Exit.
| Werter | |