University of Virginia Library

Scene 1st

Xantippe, Plato
Xantippe
Ye gods! what hath Xantippe done, to feel
This deep excess of misery?—Life! What art thou?
—A Curse—at least I've found thee so—the brute,
That knows no care but happily enjoys
The present hour, boasts nobler bliss than man.
He roves along the fields in joyous plight,
Selects his food, drinks free the christal stream,
And to the moment of his fate is happy.
But we, that vaunt ourselves superior beings,
That proudly talk of reason and her powers,
What bliss have we? incessant fears alarm us;
Incessant ills o'ertake us; and our joys
So thinly scatter'd, that they fleet unfelt,
Like empty bubbles on a watry mirror.

Plato
This springs from Heaven's peculiar love to man;
Too well he knows, how fond our hearts wou'd grow
Of mundane bliss; and therefore wisely mixes
The cup of life with gall. Sublimer joys,
Than what this life can furnish, he intends
In future, brighter Worlds; but, if our souls
Met here the full completion of their wishes,
They'd grow unfit for more exalted pleasures,
And cling to earth as to their only stay.

Xantippe
These are the idle rants of Socrates,
And he hath madden'd thee with his delusions.
Whence springs this knowledge or to him or thee?
Or why to you alone is given to know
The after-state of men? Tis all mere Rhapsody,
And he, inebriated with his whimsies,
Hath quite cast off all thought of what I feel,
Of what his harmless, helpless children feel,
Knows not the anguish of parental tenderness,
Forgets the love he owes to his Xantippe,
And wraps himself in his ideal prospects
Of something, but of what he does not know:
While I, distracted with my sore distress,
Rave to the Gods in fruitless exclamation,
And have no glympse of hope t'allay my sorrows.

Plato
Yet may'st thou hope, that that Omniscient Power,
Whose will he hath ever sought, and taught to others,
Tho' in his boundless wisdom he ordain,
That Socrates must fall, may yet to you
And to your little ones extend his mercy.
He may have glorious reasons for his sufferings,
Beyond our ken; and wou'd exhibit forth
His chosen favourite, as a blest example
To shew to others, how the man of virtue,
The man of wisdom, like to his shou'd act.
You therefore he'll forsake not in affliction,
But still will raise you friends, to heal your griefs,
To aid your wants, and drive away despair.

Xantippe
Alass! thou talkest wildly, Plato; How!
Must Socrates, who boasts that he hath serv'd
This unknown Deity with strict sincerity,
Be given a victim up unto his foes,
And feel the vengeance of their villain-malice;
Yet I, who never had a thought about him,
But worshipped merely as our father worshipp'd,
Regardless how, or whom, I must forsooth!
Be the peculiar object of his favour?
Gods! this is worse that womanish reasoning,
And shews us, how absurdly man will argue,
When he pretends to fathom what he knows not.

Plato
'Twere vain, Xantippe, now to plead submission
To Heaven's high will, to bid thee arm with patience,
Thy soul, too much opprest with sore calamity.
But sure afflictions are not always evils,
And Socrates, me thinks, in future times
Will shine the brighter from his noble conduct
Under the pressure of his present woes.
Like yon gay sun that glads the world with day;
Sometimes a black invidious cloud conceals him,
When he emerging with redoubled vigour,
Darts all his beams with more resplendent glory.

Xantippe
No more of this—to me he's ever lost—
By Socrates, thou'rt gone—thou diest, my Socrates;
But a few hours, and death's unpitying hand
Gives the dread final stroke—O hear me, Heaven!
Hear a lorn widow's prayer—shower down, shower down
Thy deadliest curses on those villain-wretches,
That have bereav'd me of my Socrates:
O let them feel the pangs I suffer now;
Heap all thy vengeance on them, till they groan
In deepest anguish, till they're curs'd like me.

Plato
Restrain, thou consort of my god-like friend,
This mad disorder; yet, if thou'lt be calm,
And bear submissive what the Gods ordain,
Yet may some unexpected change disperse
Thy present woes, and thou again be happy.

Xantippe
Happy? I happy? No; I've long shook hands
With happiness; tis writ in heaven, that I
Must be the most unhappy of my kind.
O I am all affliction—Socrates!
Thou hast brought this misery on me—I forgive thee,
Yet hadst thou listen'd to me, hadst thou yielded
To my persuasions—but tis vain t'upbraid thee
Thou art lost, and I am—O support me, Heav'n!