Orestes A Dramatic Opera |
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| 4. | SCENE IV. |
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 | Orestes |  |
SCENE IV.
A WOOD.Enter Grecian Sailers.
1. Sail.
I have plow'd this Euxine Sea these twenty
Years, and never saw such a Storm before.
2. Sail.
Pox on't. I have made a hard Shift to keep
all my Limbs together, I'm sure. And now we are
ashore, we look more like a Crew of drown'd Rats,
than of Sailers: Nor have we one Drop of our brave
Greek Wine left us. The Sea hath swallow'd all that
down at one Draught.
1. Sail.
But what's become of our Leaders?
3. Sail.
They are safe on Shore.
2. Sail.
Pylades is looking after some Temple of Venus
to offer up his Vows at, I warrant you. Pox on
all Love-Voyages, I say. They seldom end better.—
What needs a Grecian run the Venture of drowning
for a foreign Mistress, when there are so many Women
in his own Country ready to drown themselves for
Want of Lovers?
1. Sail.
Methinks, Brother, Venus ought to take a
little more Care of her own Votaries.
2d Sail.
Why, what hath Venus to do with your
honourable Lovers?—If We had been running away
with some rich Citizen's Wife, the good Goddess
would have kept the Sea as smooth as her own Bosom.
For, look'ee, Friend, Venus is a wise Goddess, and
knows the Good of her Worshippers better than they
do themselves: She knows, when a Man is sailing to
be drown'd than to arrive at it.
3. Sail.
Ay, if he were to meet with such a Wife as
your piece of Comfort, we grant it: One, that a Man
had better be at Sea in a Storm, than at home in a
Calm with.
2. Sail.
That's too true:—Yet if ever I make another
Voyage, I'll bring her with me, I am resolv'd
on it. And then if a Storm should arise, I should lose
all Fear of my own drowning, in Hopes of seeing her
drown'd.
Enter Pilot.
Pilot.
What, have you forgot our Wreck already,
ye idle Varlets? Have you forgot your Ship, before she
is cold in her Grave, as a Man may say?
2. Sail.
Good Words, Master Pilot: As for our
Ship, rest her Soul, if she be gone: And how she
went, do You and the Storm answer between You.
1. Sail.
Ay, ay: Who should answer for a Ship's
sinking but the Pilot?
3. Sail.
I suppose, you'd have had us weather'd it
upon the Rocks where you steer'd us.
Pilot.
No, you lazy, lubberly Rascals; but I would
have you strive to save what you can, before the Natives
come down upon us.
2. Sail.
Natives! here are no Natives. There's no
Sign of any Houses, but those that the Gods live in; and,
sure, they have too much Piety towards themselves, to
plunder poor Mortals in their Misfortunes.
Pilot.
Sirrah, you'll find that those Temples have Priests
in them, who plunder all Mankind out of Piety; take
nine Parts to themselves, and give the Gods the Tithe.
3. Sail.
Priests! What, are there Priests here as well
as in Greece?
Yes; and where ever there's a Land like this
for 'em to graze in. They're no more to be kept out
of a rich Soil, than Weeds are.
1. Sail.
Well, much good may't do them with their
Plunder.—If they have Power enough with the Gods
to make the Sea refund our Treasure, 'tis more than
we have.
2. Sail.
Nay, that's past a Doubt. The good Moveables
are lost to the right Owners: And it's all one to
us, whether the Priests, or their Gods, the Sea, or
the Devil, have 'em.
Pilot.
How natural is it for a little ill Fortune to
make such cravenly Wretches wicked!—For shame,
come down to the Shore and let us save what we can.
Without the Recovery of our Ship, how do you hope
to be transported back to your Native Country?
Would you lie down and die like fainting Cowards, or
suffer your selves to live here the Slaves of Barbarians?
3. Sail.
The Circumstances are very moving, that's
the Truth on't: But we have no great Courage at undertaking
Labour in vain.
Pilot.
If nothing else could charm you to your Duty,
methinks, those Casks of generous Wine, which now
lie floating to the Shore, should tempt you to preserve
them.
2. Sail.
How! Is there any Hope of our Liquor
surviving? Lead on, Master Pilot. Shew me the delicious
Prospect but of one floating Cask, and I'll recover
it, or sink with it.
Omnes.
Ay, ay, we'll all down to the Shore on that
Promise.
Pilot.
Come on, then; and, if it must be so, your
villanous Debaucheries be the Spur to your Duty.
Well, well; shew us but the good Liquor,
and then see if you can rail us out of our Affection to
it.
Exeunt.
| Orestes | |