University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Satyr
alone.
Small is the bee, yet sorely doth it wound;
It shoots a cruel, agonizing sting.
Yet Love is less; 'tis imperceptible.
In charming, though diminutive retreats,
The little tyrant takes his deadly aim.
Oft does he lurk beneath an eye-brow's arch,
And there he kills us with the visual ray,
That animated passage of the soul:
Couched in a flowing lock of golden hair,
From that soft ambush oft the subtle urchin
Peeps out, and deals an unexpected death.
Oft doth he ply his arrows from a dimple;
And from that covert, seemingly the seat
Of smiles, and innocence he slyly plays
Destruction on the unwary, fond admirer.
I burn with love; it tingles through my frame;
The unrelenting deity hath emptied
His quiver on me, from fair Sylvia's eyes.
Oh cruel Love! yet still more cruel Sylvia!
A tongue oracular gave thee thy name;
For thou art truly sylvan: nay, the woods
Harbour not such a fell, remorseless brood
As thy inhuman bosom nourisheth.
The woods afford, under their verdant foliage,
Shelter to snakes, to lions, and to bears:
Thy snowy breast, whose mild, luxurious view
Invites to rapturous joy, and balmy peace,
Perfidiously conceals disdain, and hatred,
And hard inflexibility; those monsters,
More savage far than snakes, or bears, or lions.
These may be tamed by art, and blandishment;
But those we cannot win by gift, or prayer.
When I for thee, my amorous soul absorbed
In thy idea, cull the choicest flowers;
And offer them with love's humility,
Thou haughtily rejectest them; perhaps
Because thy cheeks excel their glowing hue.
When thy assiduous lover offers thee.
Pomona's boon, the mellow, fragrant apple,
The mellow, fragrant apple thou refusest;
Perhaps because thy bosom swells with fruit
More tempting, and more exquisitely poignant.
Alas! from me no tribute wilt thou take;
When to propitiate thee I climb the rock,
And of it's golden treasure rob the bee,
The golden treasure thou wilt not accept.
Disdainful nymph! perhaps because thy lip
Is moistened with a more ambrosial dew.
But if I'm poor, and cannot give thee aught,
But what thou hast thyself in more perfection,
I offer thee my person:—Scornful maid,
By what pretext refusest thou this tender?
I am not so unseemly, if aright
I viewed myself of late in Neptune's mirror,
When Æther was serene, and not a breeze
Curled the smooth bosom of the glassy deep.
My sanguine, hale complexion; my broad shoulders,
My brawny arms with sinews prominent,
My shaggy breast, and thighs thick-cloathed with hair,
Give me not to thee for a mortal stripling,
But prove the matchless vigour of a god.
What dost thou hope from languid, beardless boys
Who having nothing that deserves thy favour,
Nothing substantial, nothing efficacious,
Endeavour to promote their suit by trifles:
Their dress, and hair composed with childish foppery:
Mere females in appearance, and in strength.
Suppose now such a tricked-out paramour
Should o'er the mount, or through the wood attend thee,
And meet a hungry wolf, or grisly boar;
Say, for thy sake durst he oppose the savaged
No; soon he would be seized with pallid fear,
And soon the coward would desert his mistress;
Hurried away by ignominious flight.
I know I am not ugly; nor dost thou
Despise me for my person and my face—
No; 'tis because I'm poor—dire lust of gold!
The tyrant reigns with universal sway,
Is not confined to the rapacious city,
It reaches stiller life, it haunts the village,
It chases slumber from the peaceful cottage,
And spreads it's influence o'er the whole creation.
This would be justly named the age of gold:
For nought but gold avails; and without gold
Life stagnates; friendless, and deserted man
Dies of the frozen gripe of penury.
Even I, a god, feel poverty's effects.
Accursed be he who first set love to sale!
Cursed be his ashes! ne'er may nymph or swain
In passing, pray the gods for his quietus,
Or say—“Light lie the flowery turf on thee!”
But may the beating rains, and the rough winds,
And all the jarring elements of heaven,
With vengeful storm unherse the bones, and tear them
From earth's asylum; may the stranger's foot,
Flocks, and unwieldy herds, trample the rubbish.
Thou, base venality, the ugliest monster
Of all that land, or ocean e'er produced,
Didst first degrade the dignity of love;
That noble passion, which can only flourish
Enlivened by the smile of liberty.
It cannot bear the supercilious brow
Of stern restraint; whene'er the tyrant enters,
It flies indignant from the grim intruder.
But why these empty words?—befits it me
Thus to lament my unsuccessful passion?
Each being for it's use exerts the arms
Which nature gave; the stag avails himself
Of his swift feet; the lion with his paw,
Terror and death unsheathing, gripes his prey,
And scruples not to crush it; the fierce boar
With whetted tusk destroys; nay even weak woman,
So fearful in appearance, and so gentle,
Kills with a look, or with a graceful motion,
Whene'er she would extend her amorous empire.
These rightly act as nature hath impressed them.
And should I foolishly reject her bounty,
And let her providence lie dead in me?
No:—Since with strength resistless I'm endowed,
I will employ that strength; I will extort
The bliss which a capricious nymph denies me,
As the just recompence of ardent love.
A trusty goat-herd who for me observes
The secret haunts and practices of Sylvia,
Hath told me that it is her frequent custom,
Tired with the chace, to seek a silver fountain,
And there, unnoticed, as she thinks, to bathe
Her snowy limbs in the translucent stream.
I know the place; my vassal showed it me:
Thither will I repair, and midst the shrubs
And bushes lie concealed, and wait her coming.
First will I feast upon her naked charms;
Then, stung with love, and rage, rush out upon her.
How shall a tender maid my fierce attack
Baffle by opposition, or by flight?
What will they prove against my strength, and swiftness?
Her tears, her eloquence, inforced by beauty,
Shall nought avail; I'll rifle all her charms;
And after I will take more deep revenge.
This vengeful hand I'll fasten in her locks;
And with her blood I will distain the ground:
Her pride shall pay the forfeit of her life;
Her life the victim which my honour calls for:
A puny mortal hath despised a god.
For slighted tenderness is sure to find
Just vindication from a generous mind;
The bosom feels a new, destructive fire,
Which deadens pity, but inflames desire.