 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
Scene 5th
Apame, Melitus226
At length I've found you, Brother; long you've shunn'd me,
As if Apame's presence were unwelcome;
The cause yourself best knows; but sure you need not
Fear the reproaches of a simple sister.
Melitus
I own, I fled your presence for a while,
'Cause well I know your high attachment to
The man your brother hates—I blame you not—
Phedon's pathetick eloquence hath power—
But therefore I declin'd a conversation,
Guessing the mighty purport of your errand.
Apame
An errand, Melitus, that much concerns you:
For know, your malice 'gainst the godlike Socrates,
Rebounds upon yourself—You may succeed;
But sure, unhappy youth, you only work
Your own perdition; your insidious wiles
Will in the end ensnare you in a ruin
I dread to think of.
Melitus
Then e'en spare thy terrors
For me, dear sister, I despise that ruin,
But say, what ruin? Brave, don't I defend
Our country-gods, whom this vain man insults?
Will they desert me, when in their own honour
I firmly dare? When I assert their godhead,
And strive to save their temples from contempt?
No sister; they're themselves too much concern'd
T'expose the man, who fights their cause, to ruin.
Apame
Ah! brother; vainly dost thou urge a plea;
Which can't convince one single soul that knows thee.
The worship of the gods affect thee little.
227
Their shrines neglected, their forsaken altars,
Did not thy own resentment trail thee in
To their assistance.—Socrate's friendship
His gen'rous candour, and his honest zeal
To wean thee from thy idle, fond amusements
The stupid figments of a poet's brain,
Words without meaning; and to lure thee thence
To solid studies, such as wou'd inform thee
In life's importance, and advance thy soul
To real pleasures—this his love for thee
Hath rais'd thy spleen, and drives thee to repay him
With such ingratitude as wants a name.
Therefore thou join'st the villain Anytus,
And ideot Lycon; one, a half-learn'd fool
Fraught with his empty self; the other, Heavens!
A wretch the meanest, guiltiest, most abandon'd
Of all that plagues our Athens—worthy fellowship!
Melitus
Well sister, hast thou learn'd thy sexes talent;
Thou bandiest purely; but pray I stope no more;
My friends will laugh at all thy woman's railing;
Nor think thy modest appellations worth
A wise man's notice—still, if thou art prudent,
Thou wilt forbear, and not provoke me farther—
I may perhaps forget I am thy brother.
Apame
These threats to me, dear Melitus, are idle;
I have, as well becomes me, all the love,
Nay, all the reverence, you can claim as brother.
Yet sure there's something due unto a sister,
The rather, when her tenderness alarms her,
And she forbodes some very sad event
From her dear brother's conduct. If he's angry
Merely because she fears he may regret
The steps he's blindly following, she will pity him,
But smiles—contemptuous at his empty threats.
228
Well; my pert sister, I'll for once be calm,
And hear the wondrous lesson thou wou'dst teach me,
Tho' much compliance sits but awkward on me.
Apame
Away with this derision! More important
Is the sad subject of our present converse.
You're tempting your own fate; and, like the bestial,
That heedless roves the flow'ry plain along,
That feeds securely on the verdant herbage,
Nor views the dreadful precipice before him,
Till suddenly he tumbles down it's height;
Gaily you rush into your own destruction.
The cruel prosecution you intend
'Gainst Socrates, whatever flattering dream
Deludes you on, will have most woeful issue.
Say, you succeed—oft-times the gods permit
A good man's fall, for wise and secret ends,
Which puzzle man with all his boasted wisdom.
But be assur'd the wretched instruments
Of these their sacred counsels are by them
Devoted to inevitable ruin.
Melitus
Full learnedly, Apame, hast thou pleaded;
I fancy Phedon understands his business;
He tutors well; and, I will do thee justice,—
His charming pupil hath a coming genius.
Apame
Twice you've unkindly mention'd Phedon to me;
O Melitus, wou'd you but act like him,
Your sister's aching heart wou'd be at peace;
The horrid image that now strikes her soul
With fearful horrors, strait wou'd disappear,
And leave her calm and easy.
229
What Enigma
Is this that thou wou'dst fain unravel to me?
Apame
It is my brother's pale and haggard carcase,
Drag'd by a ruthless mob along the street,
Spurn'd and insulted by each scoundrel citizen,
That now applauds thee; nay, while yet thou liv'st,
Me thinks e'en now I see thee scorn'd and loath'd;
Not one will speak to thee; they shun thee, like
The most abhor'd production of wild nature;
And thou at length will thank the executioner
For the kind blow that rids thee of thy being.
Say, can thy sister think this without horror?
And yet her fancy paints it to her view
In colours still more hideous.
Melitus
Well sayst thou
Thy fancy forms this to thee.—Pray, Apame,
No more of these imaginary terrors.
I stand resolv'd; and, were th'event to prove
As thy sick mind hath imag'd, such strong hate
My soul resentful bears thy idol, Socrates,
That I wou'd dare the horrors thou hast painted.
Away!—I'll hear no more thy wild surmises—
Why, thou hast rais'd such phantoms, as e'en shock
My firmest powers—Be gone, or I shall something
That—prithee, leave me.
Apame
Yes, I will be gone;
Unhappy Melitus, thou bidst me leave thee;
And oh! forgive a sister's pious prayer,
May the tumultuous passion, which now writches thee,
End in a fair resolve to quit thy purpose,
And free Apame from her killing fears.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |