University of Virginia Library

Act I.

Scene I.

GONDIBERT and ULFINORE.
Gondibert.
Blest be the Hour which brought me to this Seat
Of Piety and Peace: may Ev'ning crown it
With all the softest Purple of the Sky:
The Hour when Astragon receiv'd me first
With hospitable Arms, and heal'd my Wounds.
'Twas then I learn'd the Vanity of Fame:
Then Virtue open'd all her Charms upon me,
Her modest Charms, superior to the Blaze
Of courtly Pomp, and brighter than a Crown.

Ulfinore.
Yes;—then his Daughter taught your Soul to languish,
The Flame of Glory sicken'd into Love.
When Virtue courts us in so fair a Form,
No wonder Pomp and Kingdoms fade before Her.

Gondibert.
Yes, I must own, my Friend, my gentle Ulfinore,
Thou dear Companion of my Youth, I own
That Birtha triumphs in my yielded Heart;
My Heart, my Life, my Soul, my All are Birtha's:
And can I blame my Passion? can you blame it?
For, oh, her Truth is matchless as her Beauty!
Such winning Innocence, such spotless Graces,
So Young, so full of Tenderness and Love!
By Heaven, my Ulfinore, She's more than Woman!

Ulfinore.
She shou'd be more: for royal Rhodolinda
Cou'd never steal your Breast into a Sigh.
This Heiress to the Crown of Lombardy,
This Rhodolinda, tho' she doats upon you,
And pines her Life away, must weep in Vain,
Neglected for the Daughter of poor Astragon.

Gondibert.
Is She not rich in all her Father's Virtues?
Then what are Crowns to Virtue, Love and Birtha?
Is She not fairer than the Morning Light?
Is She not softer than the Ev'ning Dews
That kiss, then melt away upon the Flow'rs?
Chaster than Lillies clad in Summer-Fragrance?
And sweeter than the rosy Mouth of Spring?
But You have seen Her often:—then She loves me,
She loves me with such dear Excess of Fondness—
I pity Monarchs while I sigh before Her.

Ulfinore.
I find She hangs so close around his Heart,
No Hopes, alass, no hopes are left for me.
[Aside.
'Tis strange that Birtha, by her Father tutour'd,
Ev'n with a stoical Severity,
That She, unknown to Galantry and Courts,
So soon shou'd learn to Love, should melt so soon.

Gondibert.
To love is Nature; Love's the Law of Kindness;
Springs from a Look, a Sigh, perhaps, a Tear;
Bathes in the Blushes of a Virgin-Cheek,
Or flutters round a Bosom's heaving Hills.
But, oh, when Harmony of Souls is blended
Into this softest, best of Passions, Love;
When Honour beams on Honour, 'tis a Flame
Which Art can never raise; a Holy Union,
A golden Chain of Hearts let down from Heav'n.
'Tis silent as the Whisper of a Genius,
Which breaths Delight into a good Man's Soul,
First tunes his Mind, and sweetens every Passion,
Then opens Heav'n upon his dazzled Senses,
That pant for sacred Bliss and burn with Rapture!

Ulfinore.
But strove She not to hide her Passion from you?
Did She not blush whene're you sigh'd your Vows,
And dy'd upon her Hand? For tender Virgins,
Tho' their soft Bosoms swell with warmest Wishes,
Pretend a Coldness foreign to their Hearts.
Oh? How I long to hear what must undoe me!

[Aside.
Gondibert.
I'll tell Thee all the Progress of our Love,
For I believe Thee faithful in thy Friendship,
And my whole Breast is thine, my secret Soul.
When first my Wounds confin'd me to my Chamber,
She waited on me with assiduous Care,
Compassionately sweet! She seem'd a Guardian,
Sent from the Skies in Pity to relieve me.
Her charmful Presence soften'd pain away.
Whene're her tender Fingers dress'd my Wounds,
A pleasing Anguish tingel'd through my Veins,
And Sighs unbidden, soft, and thick, stole from me,
Whene're I sigh'd, She thought they rose from Pain,
And wept a Show'r of simpathizing Sorrow.
But when, like dewy Morn, She shone in Tears,
In beauteous Tears—O Ulfinore!—O Heav'n!—
Love dip'd his Arrows in the falling Crystal:
The busy Graces gather'd, e're they fell,
The liquid Pearls, which trembled down her Cheek,
To sparkle on the Arm and Neck of Venus.

Ulfinore.
Contain yourself, dear Sir: But did she weep?

Gondibert.
She wept: I saw the silver-streaming Show'r,
Which fell like Drops of Fire upon my Heart.
But when I talk'd of Love, and of her Conquest,
Quick Waves of Scarlet floated through her Cheeks,
And dy'd Them in the Morning's deepest Red,
Just as if Modesty herself had chose
A Throne of Coral there, and Crown of Roses.
An artless Fondness languish'd o'er her Features;
And, lifted up and down by sudden Starts,
Her Bosom rose and fell as soft and white,
As rising Lillies or as falling Snow.
She sigh'd, deny'd; she melted, and withdrew.
I saw the Woman stealing on her Soul,
And look'd and vow'd, and swore such tender Things,
As stop'd her backward Flight and won her Heart.
E're since we liv'd within the Skies!—the Hours
Are wing'd away with Love and downy Joys.
Our Kisses are so pure, so warm with Innocence,
Our Sighs so glowing, yet so chastly sweet,
That Zephyrs waft them on their gentle Wings,
As grateful Incense, to the Throne of Love.

Ulfinore.
O State of Bliss!

Gondibert.
But, Ulfinore, retire;
My Birtha, at her promis'd Hour, attends me.
And yet, observe Her;—oh! observe her Beauties:
That Face, illumin'd by her brighter Mind;
That easy, unaffected, graceful Port!
And then her Softness, her entrancing Softness!
She smiles the Spring, and blushes-almost-Heav'n!
Mark how the flowing Wonders of her Breast,
Impatient of Confinement, pant for Freedom,
And seem to struggle with their silken Bonds!
See how her Lips,—I taste Them while I see Them—
Swell sweetly-pouting with nectareal Dew,
To feed and satisfy the thirsty Soul.
What living Purple animates her Cheeks!
'Tis not the Blood of Youth and Flush of Health
That mantles high and kindles up her Charms:
No!—it is more!—the very Health of Virtue,
The Mark and Tincture of immortal Bloom.
—I fly on all the Wings of Love to meet Her.

[Exit Ulfinore.

SCENE II.

GONDIBERT and BIRTHA.
Gondibert.
You come, my Birtha, like the op'ning East,
Half strow'd with Blushes, and half drest in Smiles.
When thou art absent Darkness broods around,
And Melancholy spreads her baleful Wing:
But now my Sun of Beauty gilds the Gloom,
To bless my Eyes and cheer my Heart with Gladness.
For, oh, believe me, I am ne'er so happy
As when I hang dissolving o'er thy Beauties,
As when I pour my Soul upon thy Lips,
As when I languish, languish on thy Bosom,
And, oh, as when I sink into thy Arms
And lose myself in Softness and in Love.

Birtha.
If I can make you happy, sure, my Lord,
'Tis my first Duty to attend your Pleasure,
Since you neglect the Court and all its Pomp
For Love and me; for so you please to honour
The humble Daughter of your poor, old Friend,
And condescend to dignify our Shades.

Gondibert.
These rural Shades are the best Friends of Love.
From Palaces He flies, and Midnight Balls,
To revel in the Myrtles and the Groves.
Here, here I found Him panting on thy Breast,
And envy'd Him so fair, so soft a Throne.
Oh, what are Courts to Shades possess'd of Thee,
Thou darling of my Soul! I joy more in Thee,
Than high Ambition in its darling Purpose.

Birtha.
Like a young Flow'r, o'ercharg'd with balmy Dew,
I sink beneath th'Abundance of your Kindness,
For I have nothing to return but Love.

Gondibert.
I swear, my Fair, by thy dearself I swear,
By that inchanting Smile, by every Grace,
(And every Grace is thine) thy Love is more,
Thy Love is doubly more than Worlds to me.
Tho' Nature offer'd all her Treasures up,
Her Spices, Gold, and Gems to buy my Faith,
I'd dash Them to the Earth in Scorn, and fly,
Quick as a Turtle's Wing, into thy Bosom,
There brood and murmur, there sigh out my Soul,
There find a sweeter, richer, brighter World.

Birtha.
Sure Nature form'd me softer than my Sex:
Or else to make me worthier of my Heroe,
She fil'd the ruder Particles away
Which render us malicious, wayward, proud,
And melted all my Passions into Love.
Love forms alone my Heart; for oh! I feel,
At every tender Word you speak, my Heart
Flows at the Sound, and all dissolve within me.

Gondibert.
Sure thou art fairer, brighter than thy Sex;
For while I gaze upon Thee, all my Spirits,
Shoot to my Eyes, and press their Beams on thine.
Nature has cast thee in a Mold of Heav'n:
Such shining Beings, in the Midnight Hours,
When Slumbers wave their fleecy Gold around us,
Steal from their lucid Spheres to bless our Dreams,
And, hovering, prompt the willing Mind to Virtue.
We bless their Goodness, and almost adore Them.

Birtha.
O may the Hours for ever smile like this!
For ever let me glory in your Love.—
But who is yon that moves this Way? my Father?

Gondibert.
'Tis He: I know Him by his reverend Port.
Yet mark Him well; He seems immerst in Thought.
Now with unequal Steps He measures o'er
The level Green of yonder Walks; now stands,
As if that Motion had forgot its Office,
And with a steady Eye-Ball gains on Heaven,
Till Contemplation have her fill. Whate're
Employ his Thoughts, 'tis for the good of Man.

Birtha.
He moves, and looks this Way.

Gondibert.
Thou art so good,
From Heav'n to Thee is but a small Transition.
—I'll meet Him, and acquaint Him with our Passion.
I hope He'll pity us, and crown our Wishes.
Retire behind You breathing Sycamores,
And, when he's gone, I'll meet and tell Thee all.

[Exit Birtha.
Gondibert Solus.
[Gondibert.]
May soft Persuasion arm my Tongue to move Him,
And all the tender Eloquence of Love!
May Paphian Honey melt in every Accent
And steal into his Soul.—Hear, O ye Gods!
Make me but happy in the Maid I doat on,
In beauteous Birtha, and a Spring of Incense
Shall roll away in Odours from your Altars.

SCENE III.

GONDIBERT and ASTRAGON.
Astragon, at some Distance.
[Astragon.]
What! Birtha yonder parting from the Duke!
It must be so. I have observ'd of late
Uncommon Alteration in my Daughter.
Whene're I mention Gondibert, she blushes,
But soon the Purple fades away to Paleness:
A dying Langour swims upon her Eyes,
And her whole Nature's chang'd. It must be Love.
The Duke's made up of Honour, Truth, and Goodness,
And might I glory in Him for a Son!—
But that's too high Ambition. No; the Princess,
So Fame reports, is by the King design'd
To bless his Bed: and, sure, He's worthy of Her.
I love the Duke too well to bar his Way
To Empire, by advancing Birtha's Fortune?—
But He's at Hand.—Good Heav'n preserve your Grace,
May Fortune fan you with her softest Wing,
May Peace and sweet Contentment wait around you,
May sure Success for ever bless your Hopes,
And pour the Balm of Gladness on your Heart.

Gondibert.
Good Astragon, your Wishes half are heard,
And seal'd in Heav'n: the Ways of Peace are yours,
Divine Contentment spreads her rosy Wing
And constant hovers o'er your Walks. Yet still,
Still may you add one Kindness to the Rest,
And make me happier than the Sons of Men.

Astragon.
And is it in my Pow'r? I thank you, Gods,
Here on my aged, bended Knees I thank you.
But quickly speak, my Gondibert; unload
Your secret Breast, and, by the Pow'r of Friendship,
My Life, my all are yours.

Gondibert.
O wond'rous Virtue!
O might I be ally'd to so much Goodness,
Might I but call you, Father; then, O, then,
Heav'n, here, cou'd add no Happiness to this.

Astragon.
What means my Gondibert?

Gondibert.
Oh beauteous Birtha!
Amazing Brightness! were but Birtha mine—

Astragon.
What? She?—the Daughter of a poor Physician?—
Impossible—what Birtha touch my Heroe?—
Poor, little Innocence!—It cannot be.—
I fear, my Lord, you laugh at your old Man.

Gondibert.
No, Astragan: I love her,—how I love Her!
Oh, She's the Soul of Goodness, all Perfection,
And everlasting Joy is in her Arms.

Astragon.
This Rapture is the Blaze of youthful Blood,
By Beauty kindled, by Enjoyment cool'd—

Gondibert.
Forbid it, Reason; and forbid it Heav'n!
My Love is Virtue, Purity and Truth,
Cool as a Sage's morning Contemplation,
Yet glowing as the Vestals Holy fires.
Pour but the Marriage-Oil upon the Flame
And in a sacred Blaze it mounts to Heav'n;
If not, which all the Gods avert! It then
Burns up my Life, and I am lost for ever.

Astragon.
Good Heav'n forbid, a Life so fair as yours,
The Joy of Thousands, perish in its Bloom!
No: may it flourish, like the goodly Cedar,
Till Time grow old, and shed abroad its Odours
To sweeten Earth, and entertain the Skies,
With the rich Incence of a virtuous Name.
Yet, call Reflection to your Aid, my Lord;
For, while you honour Birtha with your Love,
You sink beneath your Dignity and Fame:
You stain the Current of your Blood, which teems,
Rich in a Race of Heroes, through your Veins.

Gondibert.
I tell Thee, no: by mingling with her Virtues,
A Stream of Crystal! I refine my Nature.
For Beauty gilds a Crown with double Lustre,
And Virtue lifts us nearer to the Stars.
But shall I live? O say, is Birtha mine?
For Life and She are so wound up in One,
That every Pulse beats Musick at her Name;
But if That Dear One, whom my Soul longs after,
If She's deny'd, the Springs of Life stand still.

Astragon.
Live, and be happy!

Gondibert.
Blessings on the Sound!

Astragon.
Let Happiness and Birtha crown your Wishes!

Gondibert.
Not West-winds breathing o'er a Bank of Violets,
Not the Love-labour'd Song of Nightingales,
Not Sighs of Virgins in the Summer-Groves,
At close of Eve, when, soft, their Lovers steal
With Raptures to their Arms, are half so sweet
As those dear Words, “Let Birtha crown your Wishes!”
O Astragon! O more than Father to me!
Thus give me leave in flowing Gratitude
To pour th'Abundance of my Heart before you,
My ravish'd Heart that leaps and bounds with Joy!

Astragon.
Joy streams into my Eyes to call you Son.
New Tides of Vigour swell my wither'd Veins
In sparkling Sallies.—I am young again—
Again I live in you, my Son, my Son!
Rise but To-morrow, and the Holy Priest
Shall make Her yours for ever!

Gondibert.
Rise! O Rise!
Spring into Light, Thou 'Morrow's chearful Dawn,
Ye Minutes, speed away! Thou lusty Sun,
Drest, like a joyful Bridegroom, mount the East,
In all thy richest Rays and gayest Gold:
Nor shalt Thou see, in thy wide Circuit, One
So blest as I shall be, or fair as Birtha.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

BIRTHA and THULA.
Thula.
Yes—you are chang'd of late, my gentle Mistress,
Your Actions, nay your very Looks are chang'd.
No more you love to wake the sleeping Strings
Into the sprightly Life of Harmony,
Nor teach the Lute to dye away in Softness.
No more you dip the Pencil, and diffuse
A Blush or Smile upon the breathing Canvass,
Nor trace a Flow'r along the snowy Lawn,
Created by your Hand, the Pink or Violet.
The purple Morn no more beholds you busy
In culling Herbs to ease unhealthy Mortals.
No more your wonted Songs provoke the Lark,
The morning Lark, or Ev'ning Philomel,
To answer you with less melodious Sweetness.
Nay ev'n Devotion grows more languid in you;
Your Bosom swells, but not with holy Ardour,
And when your Eyes shou'd drink in Beams from Heav'n,
They steal a Glance and melt on Gondibert.
Your very Sighs, which us'd to rise like Incence,
Grateful to Heav'n, and fragrant as the Morn,
Now steem with Love, but not celestial Love:
The Gods with Pity view your War of Passions,
And as you mourn the Altars seem to tremble.

Birtha.
I dare commit the Secret to thy Ear,
Tho' nothing but these Groves were trusted by me
With the dear Truth; for oft to Them I whisper,
In lowest Murmurs, which escape the Echoes,
That Love and Gondibert possess my Soul.
Yes, Thula, yes, that gallant, Godlike Stranger
Beats in my Pulse and trembles in my Heart.
And is He not deserving of my Love?
Tell me, dear Thula, is He not deserving?
So graceful is his Port, so sweet his Nature,
So high in Glory, and so great in War,
And yet so young, so passionately Loving,
And glowing in his Vows; my yielding Heart,
Without a Flutter, fled into his Bosom,
Nor once, once wishes to return again.

Thula.
Believe me, Madam, tho' his Vows be glowing,
It is the Art of those Deceivers, Men,
With Oaths and Murmurs, soft as billing Doves,
To sigh believing Maidens into Ruin.
They'll pray, and weep as if they dy'd with Love,
Besiege us with a Storm of burning Passion,
Till we, too fondly, give our Treasure up,
The Treasure of our Innocence and Beauty.
Awhile they wanton with unbounded Freedom,
And seem to pour away their Souls in Pleasure;
But soon their Passion ebbs to cold, cold loathing;
Then leave the helpless, poor, forsaken Kind-One
To Grief, to Shame, and triumph in our Ruin.

Birtha.
By all the Powr's of Virtue, Love, and Honour,
Now I cou'd chide Thee for this base Mistrusting.
He's pure as Chastity, as Pity kind:
My Gondibert! How can that godlike Youth,
So full of Truth, of Tenderness and Goodness,
Design the Ruin of the Maid that loves Him,?
Or Falshood lodge in such a gallant Breast?

Thula.
Beneath the smiling Herbage of the Spring
The Adder may be couch'd, nor once betray
His spotted Skin, till—

Birtha.
Hold, nor wound his Virtue.

Thula.
Nay I believe your Gondibert as good,
Tender, and true as any of his Sex;
But still He's Man, and then-He may deceive you.

Birtha.
Hold, hold thy Peace: He's something more than Man.
He looks a Deity: and lo! He comes
Like radiant Truth! Suspicions fly before Him;
Blush, Thula, blush—for, know to thy Confusion,
To-morrow's dawning Light shall see Us One.

SCENE V.

GONDIBERT, BIRTHA, THULA,
Gondibert.
My Birtha! now for I will call Thee mine,
I long have sought Thee through these secret Shades,
Through every Walk and Grotto, to disclose
Our mutual Happiness. A Tide of Joy
Bears down my Soul: the Gods are most propitious:
Thy Father (O the Rapture turns my Brain!)
Blesses our Passion and confirms our Love.

Birtha.
Is it the Voice of Gondibert, or Heav'n?
For oh, thy Words are wing'd with heavenly Joys!
Pardon me, Modesty, and Virgin-Shame,
If here I clasp Him in my eager Arms,
If here my heaving Bosom grow to his,
If all my Wishes are dissolv'd in Love,
And Thought be happily destroy'd with Rapture.

Gondibert.
Let but To-morrow come, and I'll reward Thee,
For all this Flow of Tenderness and Love,
With Faith unequal'd, and unbounded Joys.

Thula.
Indeed, my Lord, She well deserves Affection,
Ev'n now She call'd you God, She doats upon you;
She lives but on your Sight, She bleeds with Tenderness,
And all her Soul o'erruns with Fondness to you.
I did but hint at Man's Inconstancy,
And Rage began to sparkle in her Eyes
For Doubting of Your Virtue: nay, She chid me.

Gondibert.
And did She, Thula, did the Charmer chide Thee?
O wond'rous Goodness! No, my Birtha, no;
When I prove false—but 'tis impossible;—
Ev'n were my Nature vile and giv'n to changing,
Thy Beauty, matchless Beauty might reclaim me,
Might fix me Thine, and thine alone for ever.
And when this rebel Heart forgets to love,
And beats with ought but Thee, may want o'ertake me,
Contempt and Ruin haunt me through the World,
And Guilt pursue me with a Whip of Scorpions.
I love Thee in my Nakedness of Soul,
Bare and unclouded with the Mask of Baseness.
I'll be so very jealous of my Heart,
That, shou'd another Woman enter in,
I'd stab Her there; and do my Birtha Justice.

Birtha.
Enough, my Lord, my Life, my Soul, my Husband!
For I will call you by that tender Name,
The Spring of chaste Delight and long Endearments.
And if the Gods be kind, I hope To-morrow,
O Transport! I may truly call you so.

Gondibert.
The Marriage-Robe To-morrow shall infold Thee
With purest White, the Emblem of thy Mind.
Then, like a Zephyr o'er a Field of Spices,
My Virgin-Bride, I'll whisper in thy Arms
The Breath of Ecstasy; I'll murmur round Thee,
Unfold thy Charms, and wanton in thy Sweetness.
O drowning Bliss! I dye upon the Thought,
I dye with Ravishment, and, oh, my Senses
Are hurried down the Flood of swelling Joy,
And swallow'd in the Ocean of thy Love.
—Let me repose me on thy fragrant Breast,
And lull me with the Musick of thy Voice,
O sweetly lull my Senses into Calmness!
For now my Spirits bound with wild Excess,
An Agony of Bliss! Oh Birtha, oh!—
Yet how on this soft Pillow of Delight,
How on this Bosom can I rest from Rapture?

Birtha.
My Gondibert! but Language all is poor.—
I'll answer you with Gazing, dart my Soul
In Glances on you, till they twist their Rays
With those kind Rays of yours, and melt together.

Gondibert.
Why, I cou'd gaze for ever on thy Beauties
And look away my Soul into thy Eyes:
Ev'n now it sickens, languishes to leave me,
And longs to rise upon their Beams to Heaven.
What art thou, Beauty? whence thy charmful Pow'r,
To swell the Passions thus, and fire the Blood,
With pleasing Madness, and delightful Fury?
Beauty's the sweet, unfading Rose of Love,
Which blooms diffusive on to endless Ages
From Stock to Stock, in amiable Progress;
And where it blooms creates eternal Spring.
Beauty's a Recompence for all the Woes,
A Counterpoise for all our Pains below.
Beauty's the Essence of divine Perfection,
A radiant Emanation of the Gods,
The Smile of Innocence, the Blush of Virtue,
The Light of Truth, the Harmony of Goodness,
The Flow of spotless Love, the Ray of Honour,
And, all in one, the very Soul of Woman!
Of Woman, lovely, wond'rous, sacred Sex,
The darling Masterpiece of smiling Nature,
The fair Epitome of all that's good,
The Wish of Wisdom, and the Joy of Sense,
At once the Honour and the Proof of Heav'n!

Thula.
My Lord, the Hour of Pray'r is now at hand,
And Astragon will wait.—They heed me not.
—My Lord the Hour of Pray'r—

Gondibert starting from his Rapture.
[Gondibert.]
'Tis well observ'd.
Yes, gracious Pow'r, we'll fly unto thy Altars
With holy Fervour, and o'erflowing Hearts.
To Thee we owe our Being; all the Good
Which show'rs in dewy Plenty on Mankind,
Riches, and Ease, and Honours flow from Thee.
And, oh, Thou Fount of Life, to Thee I owe
This Treasure of my Soul, my Birtha's Beauties.
Still may thy Blessings thus descend upon us,
Of Virtue, Peace, of Piety, Delight;
And still be thus propitious to our Love.

[Exeunt Gondibert and Birtha.
Thula.
Ha! Ulfinore—I'll steal into this Bow'r.

[Thula retires.

SCENE VI.

Ulfinore Solus.
[Ulfinore.]
In vain I wander through the Shades and Gardens
For Peace; the Shades and Gardens nourish Love.
O Love, thou Serpent hid beneath the Flowr's
Of rural Innocence, to sting our Quiet!
How am I lost! The Venom burns me up.
I pine away in Thought; I sink in Sorrows;
And Hope, the smiling Flatterer of Grief,
Ev'n Hope is distant from me, to extend
A helping Hand, and raise Me from the Vale
Of Misery: but dull and black Despair
Sits heavy on my Soul and weighs it down.
Why shou'd I think; for Thought must swell to Madness.
O Birtha! lovely as the youthful Spring,
When happy Nature, drest in Verdure, smiles!
But Gondibert alone shall revel there:
Luxurious Thought! to dwell upon her Sight;
To drink the fragrant Dew from her moist Lip
Breathing Delight; to clasp her yielding Waste;
To melt upon her easy-swelling Bosom,
Till the fond Soul flow all to Ecstasy
And bubble up in Sighs!—O happy Gondibert!
No wonder He neglects the Princess' Passion.
But yet the King—By Heav'n the lucky Thought
May dart a Beam of Comfort through the Gloom,
And light me up to Joy: for well I know
The King assumes the Pow'r to chuse a Bride
For his Allies; and Gondibert so charms Him,
He swore that none but He shou'd wed his Daughter.
Wou'd the King knew but of their Loves, in time,
Before that Marriage make Them one for ever;
Still, still She might be mine! hush, Thula comes.

SCENE VII.

ULFINORE, THULA.
Thula.
What? ever musing in these lonely Shades?
Some Beauty sure, must entertain your Mind,
Some City-Fair; for, as I came along,
Methought the Echoes seem'd to murmur Love.

Ulfinore.
'Tis Love, 'tis more, 'tis almost Adoration.
[Aside.
No, gentle Thula, I was bred to war,
And the rough Business of the Iron-field:
No Beauty sheds a Softness o'er my Mind.
The little God of Love's affraid of Arms:
Whene're He spys a burnish'd Shield, or Helmet,
Horrid with flaming Gold, He moves his Pinions,
His downy Pinions to the rural Walks,
And aims his Arrows at the blushing Maid,
Easily won; or else delights to wound,
The Shepherd, piping on the whiten'd Plains.
But I was wond'ring at the grateful Peace,
And Lassitude of quiet Bliss which reigns
Here, far from Courts, within your happy Groves.
Here I cou'd wish to dwell, but that my Duty
To Gondibert must draw me from your Shades.

Thula.
Why, Ulfinore?

Ulfinore.
Because the royal Aribert,
No doubt, will speedily invite my Lord,
For now his Wounds are heal'd, unto the Court,
And crown his Valour with the Princess' Beauty:
For so the King designs.

Thula.
Forbid it, Love!
The Duke with Oaths has promis'd beauteous Birtha
To-morrow's rising Sun shall see Them one.

Ulfinore.
What mean thy Words?

Thula.
They cannot want a Meaning;
To-morrow, holy Marriage makes Them One.

Ulfinore.
Marriage—To-morrow—Thou confounds me, Thula.

Thula.
Why, Ulfinore? She well deserves a Crown—

Ulfinore.
True She is fair as Heavn's unsullied Face,
And spotless as the Eye of Day: but then—

Thula.
What Then?

Ulfinore.
The King, I fear—

Thula.
'Tis well observ'd:
But I'll acquaint Them with thy kind Suspicions,
And hasten on their Marriage. Then, secure,
They'll live the Life of Gods, nor fear the King,
But grow immortal in each other's Arms.

[Exit.
Ulfinore Solus.
[Ulfinore.]
Then I am lost. To-morrow—what—no longer?
No Time's allow'd to finish my Design.
What shall I do? O whither, whither wander?
Where can I find the thornless Paths of Peace?
No Peace is left for Thee, unhappy Ulfinore.
Why didst thou gaze upon her fatal Beauties?
Why drink such pleasing Poison to thy Soul?
And, oh, oh, wherefore—wherefore didst thou Love?
Let dull Forgetfulness creep o'er thy Sense,
And close her dazling Beauty from thy Thoughts:
Yet still it flames in Fancy. Dye, then, dye:
O mournful State when Death alone can ease me!
But, tho' to Death I suffer, make Them Happy,
Heav'n, make Them Happy!—And They must be so
In one another's Arms!—Yes hear my Prayers,
Ye genial Deities, with Blessings crown Them
As everlasting as their mutual Love!
O may a little, pratling, beauteous Race
Reward their soft Endearments, smile around Them,
With all the Father's Virtue in their Minds,
And all the Mother's Lustre in their Eyes,
The Blossoms of their Joy, and Fruits of Love!
Then, when I moulder in my silent Grave,
And this rebellious Heart forgets to heave,
May Birtha then with pious Pity mov'd,
Shed one soft Tear, and say, “How well He lov'd!”