University of Virginia Library

Scene 4th

Apame, Phedon
Apame
Alass! I've heard your kind attempt was fruitless;
That all your eloquence, your prayers, your tears
Mov'd not the god-like sage. He'll not escape;
And Athens must receive a stain, which all
The tears of her repenting citizens
(For sure I am they will regret his death[)]
Will ne'er wash out.

Phedon
No, my Apame, no;
He will not hear us; he hath weigh'd it well,
And on the ballance finds it best for virtue
To quit at once a base and sordid world,
A world unworthy of the Good she offers.
We sued, as pious children to a parent,
On whose dear life hung all their future welfare;
In vain; he answer'd all our pleaded reasons,
Said, he must die; that it was Heaven's high will;
And he'd obey it: then with that authority
That firm, commanding, yet endearing aspect,
He wonted to instruct us, bad us leave him;
His seem'd the voice of Heaven; in wonder lost,
Sunk in our grief's distraction, we submitted.

Apame
O Phedon, what a day is this to Athens!
How will she rue—yet she deserves it all—
The dire result of her inhumane cruelty?
Indeed I pity her—she demands my pity—
Yes, O my country, I will pity thee.
But for the virtuous man she hath condemn'd,
Condemn'd unjustly; by his godlike firmness,
He shews he has made his peace with those above,
And only waits the destin'd hour for happiness;
Therefore, an object only now of wonder,
Rather, of envy, he's above our pity.

Phedon
I joy, my dear Apame's soul regains
Her wonted calm; you look resign'd, my charmer,
And quit your Socrates with that tranquillity,
As suits his great philosophy.

Apame
Ah, Phedon!
My soul is stunn'd;—it is indeed a calm—
But what th' event?—that we must leave to Heaven.
The death of Socrates, my brother's madness,
For oh! he hath lost—

Phedon
Your brother? say, Apame
What of your brother?

Apame
Now he left me, frantick,
Mad with his guilt, and sunk in desolation

Phedon
Good Heaven! how you surprise me!—but, no wonder—
When guilt like his recoils upon the soul
Tis then a dreary waste, a dreadful gloom,
And not one ray of comfort darts upon her
But I forbear—O pardon me, Apame.

Apame
Yes; I will pardon thee; thou say's no more,
Than what becomes the friend of Socrates;
Myself condemns him, tho' I am his sister;
A sister, that much loves and pities him.
O Heavens! What means my heart?—it seems too easy;
These two great evils, that shou'd sink her down
To deepest woe—

Phedon
Oh! add a third, my charmer,
A third, that, spite of all I feel for Socrates
Gives me more cruel pangs, our hapless loves.

Apame
Yes; Phedon: I must own, I once indulg'd
A fruitless hope, that thou and I were form'd
By Heaven's blest power, to give each other happiness,
But tis determin'd, tis above determin'd
That we must meet.

Phedon
Thus mortals oft
Plan to themselves their flattering schemes of bliss,
And, spite of all their vaunted art and forsight,
Drop from their airy hopes to dire despair.
What must I say? at this tremendous moment
What can I say? And yet I wou'd say something.
Alass! O can't—My soul distrest, desponding,
Wants e'en conception to describe the pangs,
That rack her now, and makes her more than wretched.

Apame
Say this; that thou art still Apame's friend
That thou wilt ever bear within thy breast
Her dear Idea

In Platonic philosophy, an idea is an archetype of which all real things are but imperfect imitations.

, as she will do thine;
That thou wilt still pursue the glorious track
Thy great Preceptor led thee; and endeavour
T'improve in ev'ry grace, in ev'ry virtue;
Say this; and thy Apame yet will promise
To love thee still, t'indulge the holy friendship
That flames her soul for thee, to weary Heaven
With prayers for Phedon, and to her last hour
Think on thee with affection and with rapture.

Phedon
Say this! O Heavens! My feeble tongue wants utterance
To tell thee—this is more than I durst hope;
To be subject of Apame's prayers,
The constant object of her tender thought,
The sole delight of her remaining hours!
What can't I promise thee? divinest maid!
Oh! I'll be all that thou wou'dst have me be;
And, if not here, yet sure in future worlds,
Transporting thought! our gentle souls shall meet,
Where no impetuous storms of fate shall part us.

Apame
Be that our hope; tis time we now retire,
You to the prison, to perform the last
Kind, filial service to your dying master.
Tell him, Apame never will forget
Th'important lessons that she learn'd from him;
Tell him she deeply mourns her loss, not his,
Much will she want him—but she hopes to see him
In better worlds, where she and thou and all
That lov'd him here, and listen'd to his lore,
Will yet attend him in an endless state
Of peace, of happiness.—farewel—my soul
Sinks to her heaviness—farewel, my Phedon.

Phedon
One kind embarce—Sure modesty forbids not
This last—forgive me; but my soul hangs on thee,
As o'er the body it's departing spirit,
Unwilling to forsake her long-lov'd mansion.
Do not refuse me—tis the last sad favour
Thy Phedon asks—
She inclines to him
O Heavens! and I must lose thee?
Farewel;—sure, sure, it will not be—for ever.