University of Virginia Library

Scene 1st

Phedon, Apame
Phedon
This day, this solemn day, my dear Apame,
Will stand recorded in Athenian Annals,
As the most black and dismal: Not the period,
When Heav'n sent forth the raging pestilence,
When the dank air we breath'd was big with death,
And Athens shew'd a heap of carcases,
Will wear a gloomier aspect to posterity.
Our after-race must blush to read, their fathers
Brought to an infamous, a cruel trial
The man, whose virtues made their state renown'd
Bove all the Grecian Cities; heav'n, they'll cry,
Had let the Furies loose, and given them leave
To dart their venom in each Attick

Attica was the region in Greece where Athens was located.

breast.
O Athens! O my country! how my soul
Indignant glows, that she within thy walls
First view'd yon glorious sun!

Apame
Thou art happy, Phedon,
Thou hast been a steady friend to Socrates:
Hast shewn a soul well worthy his instructions,
Nor will desert him in the day of evil;
Thou hast no brother, whose prepost'rous hate,
Whose perverse enmity, to worth, to virtue,
Can give thy heart a pang.—Too wretched I!
Long as I've lov'd that venerable sage,
And almost reverenc'd him as a divinity,
When I reflect, the man that calls me sister,
That drew his first, his infant-nourishment
From the same honour'd breast, resolves his ruin,
And joins with impious men against his life;
How I am struck with horror at the thought?
How I am lost in my excess of misery?

Phedon
Strange! that a man who in the spring of life
Promis'd a glorious harvest of brave actions,
Shou'd thus run counter to his fair beginnings,
And hate that virtue, which he once rever'd!
We then were friends; at least I call'd him mine,
And with delight I saw him close attend
The virtuous Socrates, and catch each sentiment—
As it came from him—How alass! he's chang'd!
Sure some malignant Planet sways his conduct,
And drives him head long on the guilty course,
He now with such determin'd will pursues.

Apame
Oh! he is lost, my Phedon, he is lost;
The gods have destin'd him to be the dupe
Of his remorseless folly;—Late I saw him,
And strove to win him from his dread design;
In vain—his fury rose—his form look'd madness—
Wild were his eyes—his voice grew loud and rageful,
And he in heighth of passion drove me from him.

Phedon
How I am mov'd at thy too just complainings?
O my Apame, Life is fraught with misery;
Few are our joys and many are our woes.
For me, had they denied me thy dear love,
If thou hadst not with kind compassion heard me,
Heard my fond suit, and bad me hope, that time
Might ballance all my miseries with thee,
Sure I shou'd sink beneath the pondrous load.

Apame
Ah! Phedon, cease t'indulge this weakness farther;
T'will but delude thee—Heaven forbids our loves—
Far from each other we must fly for ever;
Must bid adieu to ev'ry fond desire,
Each tender thought that knit our souls together;
I can't be thine—I must not—Nature, virtue,
The ties of blood, the rigid laws of honour,
Severly bar me from thee.

Phedon
Aweful powers!
What do I hear? Apame now forbid me
T'indulge my faithful love!—It must not be!
O thou art all to me the Gods can grant,
And, if I lose thee, Heaven hath not beneath it
A wretch more lost in misery than Phedon.

Apame
Phedon, be calm; to thy impartial reason
Will I appeal, and she'll I'm sure, acquit me.
My brother is the foe of Socrates,
Th'inveterate foe, and e'en to death pursues him.
However guilty, he is still my brother,
A Brother too, for all his wayward conduct
Something within commands me still to reverence.
Say, can I marry then the youth, whose friendship
For that illustrious, that much injur'd sage,
Must make him look on Melitus with hatred,
As on the base destroyer of his friend?
How wou'd it suit with thy Apame's virtue,
With that chaste fame she values far above
All that mistaken man calls great and splendid,
To lose herself in softnesses of love,
So to be led away by her fond folly,
As to forget that great, that innate law
Nature makes indispensable, forget
My brother is my brother, thou his enemy?
No Phedon, never can Apame's soul
Bear the reflection of so wild a conduct.

Phedon
Good heavens! Where am I? Are they all a dream,
These golden hopes, that have thus long entranc'd me?
To all the dreaded woes, that now alarm me,
Must this be added yet?—Apame lost!
Apame never mine!—Assist me, fair one,
Say something to relieve thy sinking Phedon,
Or, like the bark, that on the stormy surge
Hath long been tost, the sport of raging winds,
And sinks at length deep down to the opening gulph.
I fall victim to my love and thee.

Apame
Alass! what can I say to ease thy anguish?
That I have lov'd thee—witness, ye chaste Stars,
Witness, ye holy powers, that know our hearts,
And search the inmost passions lurking there;
Long have I lov'd thee, and to death will bear
The virtuous flame—but oh! Apame can
No more—

Phedon
How I am lost in many sorrows?
Thou lov'st me, my Apame! What avails
This fond confession, if I still must live
Unblest without thee, and must languish out
A tedious, hated life in dread despair?

Apame
Learn, Phedon, to support the awards of Heaven
With noble fortitude, with true philosophy;
And copy with more firmness thy great master.
He sets a glorious pattern—act like him.
This is unmanly whining—if he falls,
All I can promise, since I can't be thine,
Is, ne'er to be another's—if he lives,
(But oh! my heart forebodes, the god's decree,
That he must fall, and by my brother's means)
Yet, if he lives, and Melitus at length
Sees and laments his present wayward conduct,
I'll only say, that life without my Phedon
Will be a burden heavier to my soul,
Than to the chained slave, that tugs the oar,
And hourly dies beneath a tirant-lord.

Phedon
Too slender solace for my bleeding heart!
And yet I thank thee—yes; thy Phedon thanks thee.
O may high Heaven with piteous eye look down
On our transcendant loves!—But I'm all fear—
My trembling heart—forgive me, my Apame—
But when I think what I shall lose in thee,
Oh!—I will copy my great Master's firmness,
I'll copy thee—Do thou, my virtuous maid,
Support me—O I wou'd, wou'd hope, and yet
Some envious demon glooms upon my soul,
And e'en forbids my hope—O help me, Socrates,
Help me, Apame; help me all that virtue,
That I've imbib'd from Socrates and thee.