 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
Scene the 7th
Melitus, Anytus, LyconMelitus
I've had a glorious lecture from my sister,
Why; the girl's grown a mere philosopher;
And mouths her maxims, out as well as Socrates;
Had not my soul been iron-proof against her,
I shou'd have faulter'd—
Anytus
Sure the noble Melitus
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The sex will oft assume a fancied power,
And rate it shrewdly; but they're tinsel arguers;
The man, whose soul is constant to herself,
Carries with ease the pretty things they say.
Melitus
Nay; had she spoke with sevenfold eloquence,
With all the energy of Hermes, still
Her eloquence were fruitless—I am determin'd,
Nor all the powers of heav'n or hell can move me.
Can shake my soul, or alter her resolve.
Lycon
Spoke like my friend, and now we soon shall see
How this sage reasoner, this intrepid Socrates,
This mighty man of wisdom will behave,
Aw'd by the solemn presence of a court,
And all his baleful schemes produc'd against him.
Tis well, if his philosophy supports him:
He'll then appear like other common mortals,
Sunk in his fears, and cover'd with confusion.
Anytus
No; Lycon, no; his philosophick pride
Will bear him up against us; we shall see him
E'en smile contempt upon us: 'Twere unworthy
Of the wise Socrates to hint a fear.
Therefore he'll summon all his hoard of maxims,
All he hath gather'd from a long experience,
To arm his haughty stubborn soul against us:
For tis the boast of madmen, like himself,
Not to confess their frenzy, but stand out
E'en Against the strongest Evidence.
Melitus
We'll prove him;
We'll work up all his patience; I'm deceiv'd,
Or we shall make him totter on the basis
Of his assum'd Integrity—Be it
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We'll undermine, till like a tumbling tower
It falls at length in hideous ruins on him,
And crushes him to atoms.
Anytus
Twill be so;
He ne'er can stand th'assault—he falls—he dies.
And then, my friends, our souls will be at ease;
Our virtues too our own without a monitor;
Our youth will tread the good old path
Of their forefathers; Heaven will have it's votaries;
Our sacred fanes, as usual, will be throng'd
With hallow'd victims; Athens rise anew
In wonted glory; horrid war forbear
To fright her matrons and her tender maids;
O'er distant realms supreme once more she'll reign,
And hold her envied empire o'er the main.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |