University of Virginia Library

SCENE the Second.

Trebellius, Semanthe.
Sem.
Alas! Semanthe dares not to attend,
Or listen to th'alluring Sound of Love;
Besides, she is a Spaniard, and a Slave,
Enslav'd by the Superiour Arms of Rome;
How can she yield to Love, to Love that Man
Who fought against her Country, and eras'd
The Stately Carthage? No, her Father's Ghost,
The Dead Mandonius will resent her Crime,
And haunt his Daughter for her faulty Love,
To match with one who was a Foe to Spain,
A Roman, to whose Proud Victorious Arms
The Glorious Warriour fell a Sacrifice.

Tre.
True Madam, Carthage is subdu'd, and Spain
Already bows submissively to Rome:
Your Father shar'd the Common Fate of War,
Expiring in the Field, but yet my Sword
Drank not his Blood; Trebellius stands excus'd,
And blameless of his Death; nor could his Arm,
For any Private Malice, seek his Life.
The Publick Contest made us Publick Foes:
But you on ev'ry side Protection claim,
The Vanquish'd, and the Haughty Victors, both
Are Vassals to the Fair: If you have lost
A kind indulging Father, you have found
A Lover far more kind; one who admires,
Makes you the Idol of his Doating Soul,
Pays equal Rev'rence to your Awful Virtue,
As to his Gods, and lives but in your Smiles.

Sem.
I fear, Trebellius, you're but too well skill'd
In all those Arts, so common to your Sex,
To praise our Beauties, and pretend such Love,
Such vehemence of Love confirm'd by Oaths,
The Artful Practice basely to delude,
And undermine a weak believing Woman:
Ought we not then to guard against your Wiles?

Tre.
And should you therefore judge Trebellius so,
Condemn the Guiltless Man by others Crimes?
No, if there is a Majesty Supreme,
Who overlooks the Actions of Mankind,
And punishes Deceit; let him, that God,
Dart all his Thunder on this guilty Head,
When e'er my Tongue belies my Honest Heart.

Sem.
These Imprecations needless are, and vain;
Think you Semanthe can consent to Love?
Or if she should, would not yourself condemn,
Accuse her Artless Folly, to believe
The Treachery of Man, to bury all
Her Griefs, Resentments for her Father's Death,
In the soft Transports of a guilty Love?

Tre.
Could I refuse the Mansion of the Blest;
Yon' Starry Kingdoms, and Eternal Glories?
But then, and not till then, could I reject
Semanthe's Love, or blame her for the Gift,
The Rich, the Glorious, the Immortal Gift:
Oh! doubt not of my Truth, Celestial Fair,
Grant me that Heav'n, and I'll (if possible)
Repay its sweet Possession with my Love.

Sem.
Where am I? Sure my Soul is ravish'd from me;
My Eyes grow dim, and glimmer at the Light;
A Thousand Phantoms thwart my dazzled View,
And leave me in a Maze; my Heart beats high,
And now again it throbs, then droops within me.

[Aside.
Tre.
May I presume to flatter my fond Hopes?
Think that the Fair Semanthe yet will deign
To bless me with her Love?

Sem.
No more; forbear
To tempt me farther, and betray my Weakness.

Tre.
No, rather let me me push the small Success,
Improve the lucky Moment, whilst Semanthe
Yet doubts, yet seems unwilling to decline
My Love.

Sem.
Cruel, insulting Man, to force
A Virgin thus, to struggle through the Bounds
Of Modest Niceness, and confess her Frailty;
Where is that boasted Quickness feign'd to dwell
In Lover's Eyes? Can'st thou not yet discern?

Tre.
I do, my Life, my Soul; these Eyes presage
Those Strugglings are the Symptoms of thy Love;
The certain Symptoms of the yielding Maid:
Is it not so? Or are my Eyes in fault,
That fancy what I wish?

Sem.
Yes, to suppose
The Looks must speak the Language of the Heart,
And tell thee, that I Love.

Tre.
Deluded Man!
To raise Imagination up so high,
And be beguil'd at last. Oh Godlike Maid!
Excuse this Fault, or rather call it none:
Yet grant me some Support, (tho' but the least,)
To keep alive my Hopes, and check Despair.

Sem.
Yes, thou may'st Hope, and that's the greatest Gift
A Virgin can bestow.

Tre.
It is enough;
'Tis all I ask, and more than I deserve:
Oh! I could listen an Eternity
To those delightful Accents; I could dwell
For ever on those Lips, that bad me Hope:
Oh my Soul's Goddess! you have giv'n your Slave
An endless Series of unbounded Bliss,
Beyond the vain Delusions of the Brooks,
And shady Grottos in th'Elysian Country:
Mine is a solid Blessing; from this Time,
From this propitious Minute, will I date
My Smiling Æra of indulgent Fate.
Mars and Bellona now to Cupid yield,
To gentler Love resign the warlike Field:
The Little God, pleas'd with his am'rous Trust,
Is to the Soldier in the Lover Just;
Safe, and secure from War's destructive Frowns,
With Love's succeeding Joys the Fav'rite Warriour Crowns.

[Exeunt.