University of Virginia Library

[[SCENE IV.]]

SCENE changes to Circe's Bower.
Enter Orestes.
Orest.
Was I, indeed, snatch'd from the dreadful Shrine?
Or did I suffer there, and wafted thence
To better Life, now tread th'Elysian Plains?
It must be so; for all is here Perfection.
This seems that verdant, never-fading Soil,
Where Heroes triumph in their Glories past;
And Lovers burn with unabating Fires.
Ev'n Thought, the Parent of Distress or Joy,
Is tun'd to Comfort, and drinks in Delight.
Musick?—oh, sweet as Orpheus' Harp new strung
With the fair Tresses of the Maid he lov'd!
Here I'll recline, and feast on circling Pleasures.
Enter Circe.
But see! the Goddess of the Place approaches;
Adorn'd with Youth, and rich in Beauty's Graces.

Circe.
My Spells are pros'prous:—Soft Desires have smooth'd
His manly Brow, and Languishment his Eyes.
[Aside.
Do I not break upon your better Thoughts,
Employ'd, perhaps, on some great Theme of Glory?
If so, reprove me for the bad Intrusion,
And send me from you, like a chidden Child,
To weep my Fault in Silence.

Orest.
Think not, fair one,
That I'm so savage, uninform'd of Soul,
So blind, or quite insensible of Heart,
As not to prize the Influence of your Charms
Beyond all Objects idle Thought can furnish.
What gross Barbarian was there e'er so rude,
As saw the Sun, and worshipp'd not his Ray?
Such Lustre yours, so fierce your sacred Beams,
That my rapt Sense owns you a Thing divine,
Feels all your Fires, and wonders at your Brightness.

Circe.
This Flatt'ry would displease from common Tongues;
Tho', I confess, it sooths my Heart from yours:
'Tis Beauty's Pride to be the brave Man's Praise.
But am I not to fear, the Hero's Strain
Prevails too strongly to descend to Love?
What Hope, the Lute should drown the Trumpet's Voice?
Or Sighs, and amorous Whispers, pierce an Ear
Tun'd to the Clank of Arms, and Shouts of Conquest?

Orest.
'Tis true, the Soldier deals in rude Alarms,
And Honour makes us brook the boistrous Trade,
When Fame is the Pursuit. But know, fair Creature,
Ambition kindles from the Paphian Fires;
Extent of Sway, and Rivalship of Pow'r,
Are not the Motives ever of our Broils:
Love often buckles on the stubborn Mail:
In Beauty's Cause we draw the Sword of War;
And tempt the Chances of the dang'rous Field,
To gain the rich, contended, Prize of Love.

Circe.
Yet might it much abate our Triumph, should you
Esteem the Struggle dearer than the Prize:
As vig'rous Hunters, that pursue the Stag,
Doat on the sprightly Chase, yet slight its Purchase.
Perhaps, should some o'er-fond, consenting Woman
(Who could not boast herself the Spoil of Arms,)
Begin th'Address of Love, and court your Kindness;
Such Yielding might defeat her wish'd Pretensions,
And make you view her with a cheap Regard.

Orest.
Not if the Fair One brought your Stock of Charms,
And came a wooing with those Dove-like Eyes.
Secure against Repulse, you're form'd to conquer,
And bow the Heart yet unsubdued to Fondness.

Circe.
How happy were it for our credulous Sex,
Had we that rare divining Spirit in Aid,
To know true Faith from Vows of common Breath!
But, lur'd at once by your professing Tongues,
We rush into the gilded Snare of Falshood,
And meet our Ruin in the gay Delusion.

Orest.
Propose what Oath your doubting Heart best likes,
And hear me seal the lasting Bond of Love.

Circe.
You shall not swear; I'll rather be the Woman,
Be self-deceiv'd, than wrong you with Distrust.
But can you be content with tranquil Joys,
With calm Delight, and still renewing Sweetness?
Can you for these forsake the Hero's Toils,
The busy War, and grow estrang'd to Glory?

Orest.
Like one, long harass'd with some Dream of Tumult,
I wish to shake the cumbrous Frenzy off;
Start from Dismay, and fly to Love for Shelter.

Circe.
Make me but Agent for that healing God,
Invention shall be rack'd to work thy Peace.
Come, prove our Skill: Pleasures attend my Call,
And smiling Sports shall lull thy Cares to Softness.

[Circe and Orestes seat themselves on a Bank. Singers enter, and, ranging themselves down each-side the Stage, sing the following Song to a Minuet.
[Dancers enter, and perform in variety of Characters: The Dances concluding with the Minuet, repeated in Chorus, as they go off.
[Orestes and Circe rise, and come forward.
Orest.
Thou art, indeed, a Mistress in Delights.
Soft Languishment thrills sudden thro' my Veins,
And I am sworn the Votary to thy Beauties.
But, oh! the gaudy, prying, tell-tale Sun
Glares o'er our Heads, and mocks our Protestations.
Love wants not such a Witness of his Rites.

Circe.
Alas! I fear; and tremble at my Wishes.—

Orest.
Call up Desire, and he shall chase that Phantom.
Come, let's elude th'inquiring Eye of Day,
Steal to the Covert of yon friendly Bow'r,
Where Gloom and Silence shall record our Vows;
And crimson Blushes only gild its Shade.
Pleasures and Ecstasies, our Handmaids there,
Shall spread the Nuptial Couch; and Zephirs wait,
Like Mutes, to fan us when we burn with Transport.

[As they are retiring, a Clap of Thunder is heard; and Orestes stops, and lets go Circe's Hand.
Orest.
Ha! Do I wake?—Gods, speak again in Thunder!
Dart your Oak-cleaving Bolts, ye dreadful Pow'rs,
And blast this impious disobedient Slave,
That durst grow careless of your great Command.
I know you now.—

[To Circe.
Circe.
Oh, do not look so stern.

Orest.
Why, are you not that sly deluding Fiend,
Who trade in Incantations, Charms, and Philtres?
Deprive our nobler Faculties of Reason,
And train us, by a Shew of varnish'd Beauty,
To do such Deeds, as force the Heav'ns to blush,
And make the modest Moon mask her in Clouds?
O, for a Sword! that I might right the Gods,
And stop the Progress of thy future Mischiefs.

Enter an Attendant to Circe hastily.
Attend.
O sacred Queen! some envious Pow'r is busy;
And works to frustrate thy once-potent Charms.

Enter Thoas and Guards.
Circe.
Is there a Pow'r, has strength to break my Spells?
O Negligence of Art! The Fault's my own.

Thoas.
Seize on her Minion:—Bear him to the Temple:
Away: and charge our Priests, they guard him well.
[The Guards bear off Orestes.
Ungrateful Woman! Am I thus repaid?
Did I for this protect thee from the Rage
Of Subjects justly stir'd? For this, brave Heav'n?
And court the Dangers of thy wanton Bed,
To taste the Fortune of Sarmatia's King,
(Poor unsuspecting Prince!) thy night-drawn Dagger?
But I'll begin to make my Vengeance bitter;
And, in thy Lover, stab thy Heart with Vengeance.

[Exit Thoas with Guards.
Circe.
Forbid it, Love! Am I not Circe still?
And Daughter of the Sun? Insulting Man!
I'll weave new Spells, shall baffle yet thy Threats.
O triple Hecat! Lend thy boasted Pow'rs;
Those Pow'rs, that made Medea strong in Vengeance.
And, oh! If e'er Endymion touch'd thy Breast,
Aid a lost Queen, whom both those Passions move;
The Rage of Vengeance, and the Rage of Love.
[Exit Circe.