University of Virginia Library

SCEN. 1.

Artemone
alone.
I do not doubt his Love, but I could wish
His Presence might confirm it: when I see
A fire well fed shoot up his wanton flame,
And dart it self into the face of heaven;
I grant that fire without a fresh supply
May for a while be still a fire; but yet
How doth its lustre languish, and it self
Grow dark, if it too long want the Embrace
Of its lov'd Pyle? how strait it buried lyes
In its own ruines? Blesse me my kinder Stars
From the bad Omen! Now methinks he wrongs
The tendernesse of my Affection,
And playes the Tyrant with my easier Love,
He may perchance abuse the Liberty
He ravish'd from me; and when he hath won
Panareta, urge my own Consent against me.
If his Love still be firm, O how he seems
Too like the God that struck him; whil'st he can
With-hold his Sight, too cruel! and himself.
It much afflicts me that my message was
Prevented by my Father, and my Uncle.
I'le sift the bus'nesse out—
To her, Hyperia.
—How now my Girle?
Methinks there sits a Truth still in thy looks:
A Treachery upon that forehead plac't,
May easily wrong a faith it self hath lost.

Hyp.
Madam, what unknown fault of mine hath thus
Perplext your Entertainment? heretofore
You were not wont to cast these frowns upon me,
As if you meant to bury all my joyes
Within your wrinkled forehead.

Art.
Whence hath guilt
Borrow'd this glorious shelter? how can vice
Become thus specious, hid within the shrowd
Of an unfaulty look, and innocent tongue?
Thy pretty pleadings make me almost love
The Ruine thou throw'st on me.

Hyp.
Madam, I dare
Pronounce my self still free; no guilt can stain
My Innocence; unlesse it be a fault
There to be guiltlesse where your Sacred Tongue
Imputes a Blot: how my griev'd Eyes could weep
To wash that scandal off from my clear Face,
Which only your Suspition makes a Crime.

Art.
A vice thus painted out is the best Face
That vertue can put on: O that Lysander
Could thus dissemble too! I then were blest
As much in his conceal'd Apostacie,
As in his better Faith.

Hyp.
How I rejoyce
To suffer with that Name: Then I perceive
'Tis some uncertain Rumor hath displac't
Your wonted chearfulnesse.

Art.
Were but the fame
Uncertain, I would then call back my Smiles,
And still shine in a free and generous Mirth.
But oh! the grave instructions of Age,
And the more lively Precepts of a bribe,
Whose Innocence will not these baits o'rethrow?

Hyp.
Now Madam, since I have discover'd thus
The poyson of your sicknesse, give me leave
To cure the Malady with a present Ease.
You sent me to Lysander, as I went
Your Father and Diarchus met me, They,
I must confesse, urg'd me with vehemence,
And a severity printed in frownes
Deeper then age had carv'd upon their browes:
They threatned to Reward my falshood too.
(For even that whiles it would take away
My Faith from you were but a Punishment)
I should have told Lysander, that your flame
Cool'd by his absence now did onely aym
To seat it self within the prouder Circuit
Of Philonax rich bosome: I did then
Promise Obedience, which I perform'd
Onely in not betraying your commands,
This is the onely guilt my vertue feeles
In disobeying Artemone's Father.

Art.
Suspition yeild a little: how I fain
Would force my self to a belief that thou
Speak'st only Truth? but yet recall thy self,
Do not heap guilt on guilt in a Denial
Of what hath pass'd; alas! thy tender yeares
Are too unripe for to delude the strong
And mature pollicy of subtle Age,
'Tis but a slender fault to be o'recome
By an experience such as theirs.

Hyp.
Madam,
Could you perswade me that it were a vertue,
I would yet scorn to own it (Pardon Madam)
I am not rude, I ought in such a Cause
To be as bold as Innocence.

Art.
Yet still methinks there heaves a Jealousie,
And will not out oth' suddain, I feel it beat
About my heart, O that I could believe
Thee faithful, and might yet suspect Lysander:
There's something whispers me thou art not false,
And yet I must still doubt of him.

Hyp.
This Madam is
But to distrust me in a fairer word,
You Gods that kept me Innocent, by the same Pow'r
Make it appear so, else it is but vain
To worship whil'st y'are as blind as Love,
Vertue is worth your miracle; Create
Some new way which may blot this scandal out:
I can bring onely Teares to plead my Faith,
And would I could weep Rivers to maintain
My secresie to you, in the same way
As I would expiate some horrid Crime.

Art.
Enough, Th' hast won my Faith, and kept thy own:
Then pardon my best Girle the vain Surmise
The frailty of my love possest me with.
Let Father threaten, and that next dear Name
Of Uncle plot against my happinesse,
Let them contrive my Ruine, and infect
Their Care with Malice too, so I enjoy
Faithful Lysander, and Hyperia.—
Yet oh this Absence!— (She walks melancholy.)