University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

Corisca.
What Words can paint the Passion which I feel?
The wild Disorder of my Soul reveal?
Is it not strange two Contraries should meet,
And such Intestine, Civil War create?
That Love and Hatred should possess my Breast,
And banish thence all Hopes, all Thoughts of Rest?
When I survey Mirtillo's beauteous Face,
Each Lineament, each lovely Feature trace,
Think on each Motion, each attractive Grace:
Whene'er I hear his soft melodious Tongue,
Or listen to the Musick of his Song;
My Soul's on Fire; with Extasy I move,
And every other Passion yields to Love.
But when I think how the disdainful Boy
Beholds another with triumphant Joy;
With Pride avoids my eager longing Arms,
(Wilfully blind to my superior Charms)
The furious Storm begins again to rise,
My rage revives, and I the Youth despise.
What! Shall I tamely bear his proud Disdain?
Sue for a Shepherd's Love, and sue in vain?
Shall he presume to slight my dazzling Charms,
And revel in a meaner Beauty's Arms?
Audacious Villain! to be mov'd no more,
To view my Eyes, and not my Eyes adore!
To view my Charms, and yet so senseless prove,
As not to languish, not to burn for Love!
Shall I submit, when he should prostrate lie,
Be proud like others at my Feet to die?
Oh! no:—The Shock my Heart can never bear:
The Thought confounds me, drives me to Despair.
Against myself, against the Youth I rage,
Nor can my former Love the Storm assuage.
Myrtillo proves the Object of my Scorn;
From the loath'd Sight my Eyes with Fury turn:
My worst of Wishes does the Swain pursue:
My Passion does no Bounds, no Compass know.
Thus Love and mortal Hatred in their Turn,
Like intermitting Fevers, chill and burn.
I, who have sacrific'd a Thousand Swains,
Laugh'd at their Love, and slighted all their Pains,
Now feel those Fires, which they have undergone,
And guess at others Torments by my own.
I, who have stood unmov'd at all their Tears,
Deaf as the Winds to all their amorous Pray'rs;
Have banish'd all their Hopes; with Pride survey'd
The Devastation which my Eyes have made;
Am now oblig'd my wayward Fate to moan,
And a poor simple Shepherd's Conquest own.
Corisca, how unhappy hadst thou been,
Hadst thou no Lover but Myrtillo seen!
What would'st thou do? How sooth thy amorous Pain?
Or how revenge the Villain's proud Disdain;
To what Extreams may that poor Maid be drove,
Whose foolish Heart admits one only Love?
Corisca's Soul shall ne'er be so confin'd:
She'll love and change as often as the Wind.
For what is Faith, or what is constant Love.
But idle Dreams which jealous Doatards prove?
In vain does silly Man expect to find
Or Faith or Constancy in Woman-kind.
But if by Chance the Prodigy appears;
'Tisn't th' Effect of Virtue, but of Years.
Some ruin'd Beauty, that Love's War gives o'er,
Pleas'd with one Captive when she finds no more.
Why shines the Sun, but that he may be view'd?
What's Beauty if conceal'd, or not pursu'd?
Happy's the Nymph whom various Swains adore;
Her Triumph's glorious, and her Peace secure.
One cannot well all Offices supply,
But a long Train of Lovers crown our Joy.
This with a matchless Grace his Gifts bestows,
That, dances, sings, and the shrill Trumpet blows;
A Third reads well; all Plays, and Novels knows.
On each the Prudent Nymph confers a Smile,
And seems well-pleas'd to see their various Toil.
But none shall ever so successful prove,
As to transfix my Heart with ardent Love.—
And yet, so weak my Resolutions are,
Myrtillo sits, alas! in Triumph there.
I sigh the live-long Day, yet sigh in vain,
I languish, burn, and feel unusual Pain.
All Night my Tears like tumbling Surges roll,
And thence disclose the Secrets of my Soul.—
Unhappy Change! To distant Shades I fly,
Yet all in vain,—the Shades Relief deny.
In vain I wander thro' the gloomy Grove,
And trace the Footsteps of my hated Love.
What shall unhappy poor Corisca do?—
Corisca cannot,—must not,—will not sue.
Shall I forever from his Presence fly?
I cannot go;—For if I go,—I die.
In these Extreams what Measures are the best,
To heal my Griefs, and tune my Soul to Rest?
To still this Storm I must approach the Swain,
And by Indulgence rouse his Love again.
By slow Degrees my Passion must reveal,
But the dear Object artfully conceal.
What Wiles, what Stratagems can do, I'll try,
But if all fail, to sweet Revenge I'll fly?
The proud disdainful Youth shall quickly prove
My fierce Resentment, if he slights my Love:
And my proud Rival, to his Soul so dear,
Shall curse the Day she did my Laurels wear.
At last, they both shall to their Sorrow know,
What Mischief one like me, provok'd can do.