University of Virginia Library

Scene 2d

Melitus, Apame
Apame
Alass! my brother, what uncommon terror
Speaks in your countenance? you look so wild,
So sternly sad; that you alarm your sister.

Melitus
Apame, you've succeeded in your wishes;
Your brother's lost; you pray'd the foes of Socrates
Might feel the pangs of fell remorse—I feel them,
And fall the victim of my own resentment.

Apame
Does Melitus relent? O heavely powers!
The venerable sage will yet find mercy;
My brother will retract the wrongs he did him,
And haste to save him from the fatal potion.

Melitus
No; by the gods, I'll have my dear revenge;
Save him? I save him? Were it possible
To have my tortures doubled, (and I feel
All that the most distracted mind can form)
So strong the hate I hear him, he shou'd suffer,
Shou'd die the death my vengeance draws upon him.

Apame
What horrid resolution? Are there gods?
You say, there are, and have yourself asserted
Their dread divinity. Say, will not they
(They must be just) inflict severest torture
On guilt like yours? O hear me, dearest brother;
Give to your soul her peace, implore their mercy,
To aid you in the justice you shou'd act;
To make you gentle, humble, mild, forgiving,
That you may yet—

Melitus
Ha! sayst thou? I implore
The gods?—they'll hear not me, or, if they wou'd,
I'll not implore them, for I'll not retract
All that my injur'd soul hath urg'd against him.
He merited my vengeance—I implore them?
No; I'll not ask the mercy they'll not grant me.
—Avaunt, foul spectre! What is Socrates
To thee? art thou his wife, his child, his friend,
That thus thou haunt'st me?—Well, I will be wretched;
Away! I tell thee, that I will be wretched—
O my pain'd heart!—Ha! hath he suffer'd, say you?
Thank heaven for that the dotard then is gone
To his reward—to what reward? Ay; there,
There lies the question—If he shou'd be right—
What's that to me? I'm sure, I must be wrong—
Apame—sister! how dar'st thou intrude
Upon thy brother's privacies? Phedon sent thee;
I know him—he's the friend of Socrates,
And he has sent thee to behold thy brother
Curst e'en beyond redemption—hold, my brain!
—Gods?—what Gods?—there are none—or if there are,
They are the gods of Socrates, not mine—
I'll have no Gods—Yes, roar, ye changeling crowd,
Drag, tear me e'en to atoms, if you will;
You're true Athenians, and I'm—horror, horror!