Sylvia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Into a basin, whence it wells
Clearly and calmly through the dells.
The spot is lone, I grant, but then
So is the whole Enchanted Glen;
And though our Youth would seem to roam,—
'Tis not ten steps from Sylvia's home.

Romanzo.
Her mother shuns me, and with eyes averse,
Hardly endures my sight. What she may think,
I cannot tell; but that denial strange
Of my fool servant, gave her cautious nature
Reason to doubt I am not what I say.
Yet I will not forsake them:—Some dark storm
Seems to make heavy the dull air about us,
Although the sky is clear. I'll see it down;
Perchance I may have leave, if it do come,
To stand between the thunder-bolt and them:
This is a hope!—My Sylvia, too, is kind,
Still kind! and with yet dearer, sweeter smiles,
Endeavours to repair her mother's frowns.—
What noise is here? Enter the Peasants.

Some villagers a-Maying: Who are ye?

Geronymo.

Why here 'tis, your worship: We

are the most harmful people in the world; and indeed would not tread upon a worm if it sought our mercy. Yet have we been assailed here in this wood, by—saving your worship's worship!—no less a personage than Satan himself, in the form of a mountain-goat, only that he stood on's hind legs, bolt upright; with eyes like two red-hot warmingpans, ten horns, each as tall as a young oak-tree, and whisking a long tail over his head as if he was going to thrash us with it.—In short—

Romanzo.
Be you at peace!—I have expell'd him hence.
It is no devil, but a mortal wretch
Whom the elves sport with, and have thus transform'd
To make them merriment.

Geronymo.

We humbly thank your worship for exercising him from this place. Can your worship detect us to a little green cottage, that bubbles over the stream somewhere here about?

Romanzo.

Here come the owners; they will best direct you.

[Retires.
Geronymo.

A very personable sort of person, I'll assure ye, for a person of these parts!—O lud! here is a most preternatural creature!

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Enter Sylvia and Agatha.
Peasants.

Huzza! huzza!—This is she! this is she whom we have been looking for!—Not such a beauty in all the Earth, nor in the New World either!—Welcome to our Queen! welcome! welcome!—Huzza!

Sylvia.
Good people! wherefore do ye come with shouts
To break the holy silence of this vale?
Would ye aught with us?

Peasants.
To it, Geronymo!

Sylvia.
Why do you call me “Queen”? and throw your wreaths
At my unworthy feet?—By my simplicity!
I do not love the title!

Peasants.

Plague on't! will nobody out with a speech?—I could as soon look at the sun in his brightness!—My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, like the hammer to an old bell!—She's a rare pretty one, that's certain!—Geronymo! where is thy 'ration?—Where have we lived that we have never seen her before?—Geronymo! plague take him, where is his speech? where is his 'ration?— Begin! I'll second thee, man! I'll stand behind thee!

Geronymo.

Most mightiful! and most beautiful! and most dutiful princess!

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We do most passionately design and request that— And—so—hum!—that—hem!— In a word, and as I may say, thus it stands, or here 'tis, most lovely flower of this flowery loveliness! We have been tickled hither in the ear by an indivisible singing-bird, through dangers and demons, over precipices and watercresses, in spite of quagmires and quicksands, by numberless out-o'-the-way short-cuts, and straight-forward roundabouts, from our village to this place—

Peasants.

Bravo! bravo!

Geronymo.

Mar me not! I am in the very passion of it!—And so, to include my narration, thou paradox of beauty! thou superlatively superexcellent and most sweet creature! we come in a body to offer you our loves and submissions; for 'tis only looking at your pretty face for one moment to see that you, and none but you, are she whom Destiny has cut out with her shears for our May-Queen!

Peasants.

Huzza!—the wreath! the wreath!— Crown her!—Huzza!

Sylvia is crowned as May-Queen.
Sylvia.

'Tis all so sudden that I cannot strive— Nay, choose some other—It will not become—

Agatha.

Would every crown were won as peacefully!

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Sylvia is carried by the Peasants to a flowery bank, where she is installed as May-Queen.
Peasants.

The song! the song that our pastor taught us for the 'casion!—Come!—the roundel! the roundel!—Take hands, and sing it as we dance about and about her.

Here's a bank with rich cowslips, and cuckoo-buds strewn,
To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May;
Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon,
And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay!

Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you,
Such a beautiful wreath is for beauty alone!
Here's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew,
To be kiss'd by a lip just as sweet as its own!

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale,
That the Nymph of the wave on your wrists doth bestow;
Here's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes to veil,
Or to lie on that bosom like snow upon snow!

Here's a myrtle enwreath'd with a jessamine band,
To express the fond twining of Beauty and Youth:
Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand,
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth!

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Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll sing!
To soft pipe, and sweet tabor we'll foot it away!
And the hills, and the vales, and the forests shall ring
While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the May!

Geronymo.

I am taken! I am quite taken!— Venus, the god of Love, has shot me through the breast with his quiver! My heart falls asunder like a cleft apple!—Madam Agatha, I would have some words with you.

Agatha.

With me, friend?

Geronymo.

Ay, Madam.—Now to break the ice in delicate manner!—You must know, Madam; the case is thus, or thus it stands, or in other terms and insinuations, here 'tis, and this is the tot of the matter: I am over head and ears with Mistress Sylvia, your daughter—in short, I love her to destruction—and so, if our politics happen to suit, I hope we shall have your dissent to our marriage.

Agatha.
(Aside.)

What should I say now?—My mind misgives me about this Traveller, as he calls himself: and even were he what he pretends, is he a fit husband for my lowly daughter? This honest villager would make my Sylvia a homelier, but perchance a happier mate.

Geronymo.

Well?—what say you, Madam Quietly?

104

Agatha.

How now? what is the matter?

Sylvia.
O me! a heavy slumber seals mine eyes!
Vapors as thick as Night curtain me round
With herse-like folds; and the moist hand of Death
Laid coldly on my brow presses me down
Upon the dreary pillow of Oblivion.
Mother!—where art thou? Fare thee well, my love!
Goodnight for ever!—ever!—

Agatha.

Alas! what strange disorder?—These changes and surprises have wrought too much upon her tenderness. Bear her within, my friends, to her green chamber. This way—gently—so—

[She is borne in.
2d Peasant.

This joy hath a sorrowful ending. Let us go home, and return to-morrow by day-light to inquire after her.

Peasants.

Let us do so. Alas! poor maiden!

[Exeunt.
Geronymo.

Marry, I'll not stir a foot! I'll wait, Heaven willing! though 'twere a thousand years: that I'm dissolved upon!

Stephania.

Ho! ho! my weathercock is inconstant, I see. But he shall not shift his tail without a breeze, or I'm no daughter of a true woman! So, Mister Geronymo! you are going to—

Geronymo.

I am, incontinently.

[Exit.
Roselle.

Follow him, sister; follow him. We'll

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give him no more peace than a kettle at a dog's tail. We'll make him wish himself deaf and us dumb; we'll speak knitting-needles into his ear, till his head grows all miz-miz and infusion.

Stephania.

The ungrateful fellow!—After all my pains to tangle him!

Roselle.

The saucy jackanapes, rather! Come! he shall neither eat, drink, nor be merry, with any comfort, till he gives us satisfaction: We too can be dissolved upon this matter. Follow me!

[Exeunt.