 | Eurydice |  |
SCENE V.
Procles, Eurydice, Melissa, Medon.Procles.
Hail young-ey'd God of wine! parent of joys!
Frolic, and full of thee (while the cold sons
Of Temperance, the fools of thought and care,
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Of purer flame, exalt each living hour
With pleasures ever new.—Eurydice!
Thou queen of souls! thou rapture of my vows!
What means this pensive mood? O quench not thus
In fruitless tears those eyes, that wont to smile
With all Love's sweetness, all his dewy beams,
Diffusing life around thee.
Eurydice.
Hence, thou tyrant,
And leave me to my sorrows. Ills like mine
Would draw remorse and reverence from the savage,
Who howls with midnight wolves amid the desart
In quest of horrid prey. What then art thou?
Whose brutal rage adds bitterness to woe,
And anguish to the breaking heart!
Procles.
'Tis well.
Yet have a care: my temper but ill brooks
Upbraiding now. Be wise, and timely seize
The minute of good fortune, that by me
Invites thee to be blest.
Eurydice.
Talk'st thou of bliss?
Thou bane of all my happiness! Cast back,
Cast back thy guilty eyes, and view the crimes
Thy soul stands charg'd with: view my bleeding wrongs,
Insult, imprisonment, dishonour, ruine!
All, all this guilt is thine—but heaven will find thee.
Those Gods whom thou hast proudly set at nought,
Will call thee to a dreadful reckoning.
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No.
The Gods and I are friends: they crown my cause
With their best favour. Come, be thou too mine,
And imitate the great example set thee.
Eurydice.
Thou vain and blind in soul! The righteous Gods,
Oft, in their anger, cloathe the worst of men
With all the pride of fond prosperity,
To make his fall more terrible.
Procles.
Confusion!
Still wayward and perverse!—Off then this tameness,
These supple, fawning arts. By all th'impatience
That goads my soul, I will not flatter more.
Know thou art in my power, and—
Eurydice.
Tyrant, no.
I scorn thy base unmanly threats—Ah heaven!
Dost thou look calmly on?—But be it so.
This friendly dagger sets me free.
[attempting to stab herself.
Procles.
Ha! what,
What means thy frantic passion? This is wildness,
Th'extravagance of female wilfulness.
It must not be: you shall be gently forc'd
To live, and to be happy.
| Eurydice | |