University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter SCEPARNIO, with a spade, as going to work.
Have mercy on us! what a dreadful storm
Has Neptune sent us over-night!—The wind
Our whole house has uncover'd.—In a word,
It was no wind;—but 'twas the rattling peal
In the Alcmena of Euripides.
Troth, it has stript the roof, tore all the tiles off,—
Made our house lighter,—giv'n it store of windows.

SCENE II.

Enter PLEUSIDIPPUS, talking to three friends at a distance.
I have withdrawn you from your own concerns;—
Nor has the purpose speeded, for which cause
I brought you out with me.—I could not find
This villainous procurer at the port.—
Yet I'm unwilling to forego all hope
Through my remissness:—Wherefore I have still,
My friends, detain'd you for some longer space.—
To Venus' temple am I now come hither,
Where, he inform'd me, he design'd to sacrifice.

Scep.
(at a distance, falling to work.)
'Twere best to set about this plaguy clay here,
Though I am work'd to death by't.

Pleus.
Sure I hear
Some voice or other near me.

SCENE III.

Enter DÆMONES from his House.
Ho! Sceparnio!

Scep.
Who calls me by my name?

Dæm.
Why, he that bought you,

Scep.
That is to say, you are my master.— (turning)
Dæmones!

Dæm.
Come, dig away; much stuff will be requir'd;
For, as I find, the whole house must be cover'd:
It has as many holes in't as a sieve.

Pleus.
(advancing)
Save you good father!—Save you both together!

Dæm.
Save you!

Scep.
(digging)
But are you man or woman, you
Who call him father?

Pleus.
Sure, I am a man.

Dæm.
Then seek elsewhere a father.—I had once
An only daughter, and I lost that one:—
I never had a son.

Pleus.
Pray heav'n may send—

Scep.
(still digging)
Send you a mischief, whosoe'er you are,
That seeing us employ'd would give us more
Employment with your chattering.

Pleus.
Dwell ye here?

Scep.
Why do you ask?—What! you survey the premises,
That you may come and plunder bye-and-bye.

Pleus.
That slave should be a trusty and a rich one,
Who lets his tongue run in his master's presence,
And dares in scurvy terms address a free-man.

Scep.
And he should be a filthy knave, a foul one,
An impudent base fellow, who will come
Of his own motion to another's house,
That owes him nothing.

Dæm.
Peace, Sceparnio. (to Pleus.)
Prithee,
Good youth, what would you?

Pleus.
I would ill to him
For his unmanner'd haste to speak the first,
When that his master's by.—But, sir, an't please you,
I'd ask in brief one question.

Dæm.
I'll attend you,
Though I am busied.

Scep.
(to Pleus.)
Go into the marsh,
Wilt thou? and cut some reeds to thatch our house with,
While it is fair.

Dæm.
(to Scep.)
Peace. (to Pleus.)
Tell me what's your pleasure?

Pleus.
Inform me what I ask you.—Have you seen
E'er a grey-headed, frizzle-pated fellow,
A scurvy, perjur'd knave, a fawning cogger?

Dæm.
Full many an one:—by reason of such men
I now alas! live miserable.

Pleus.
He,
I speak of, brought two damsels with him here,—
To-day or yesterday,—to Venus' temple,
In order to prepare a sacrifice.

Dæm.
I have seen no one sacrificing there.
These many days.—Nor can they sacrifice
Without my knowledge: Here they always come
For water, fire, or vessels, or a knife,
Spit, seething-pot, or something; in a word,
My well, my vessels are for Venus' use
More than my own:—But now, for many days,
There has been intermission.

Pleus.
What you say
Tells me I'm ruin'd.

Dæm.
'Tis no fault of mine.

Scep.
Hearkye me,—you, sir,—you that roam about
To temples for your belly's sake,—'twere best
Order your dinner to be got at home:
Belike you was invited yon to dinner,
And he, who ask'd you, never came.

Pleus.
(angrily)
Most excellent!

Scep.
E'en take thee home then with an empty belly;
There's nothing hinders.—Thou should'st rather be
A follower of Ceres than of Venus:
Love's her concern, but food is Ceres' care.

Pleus.
How scurvily this fellow dares to treat me!

Dæm.
(looking towards the sea.)
O ye good Gods! Who are those people yonder
Nigh to the shore, Sceparnio?—Look.

Scap.
Methinks
They've been invited to a parting dinner.

Dæm.
Why so?

Scep.
Because they've bath'd them after supper.
Their vessel's gone to pieces.

Dæm.
So it is.

Scep.
And so indeed our house too and its tiles
Are shatter'd upon land.

Dæm.
Alas! alas!
What nothings are poor mortal men!—See! see!
They are dash'd overboard! Look, how they swim!

Pleus.
I pray, where are they?

Dæm.
(pointing.)
This way, to the right,—
D'ye see them?—near the shore.

Pleus.
I see them.—
(To his Companions)
Follow me.
Would it were He I seek, that worst of villains!
Fare ye well.

Scep.
Of ourselves we should have look'd
To that without your bidding.

[Exit Pleusidippus and friends.

SCENE IV.

SCEPARNIO and DÆMONES.
SCEPARNIO,
(looking towards the sea.)
O Palæmon,
Neptune's associate, (nay, thou'rt call'd his partner,)
What do I see?

Dæm.
What do you see?

Scep.

Dæm.
What's that to you?

Scep.
If she should topple from yon cliff, which now
She's making to, she'll briefly put an end
At once to all her rambling.

Dæm.
If you mean
To sup with Them this evening, it behoves you
To be concern'd about them; but if me
You think to eat with, you must mind my business.

Scep.
O to be sure.

Dæm.
Then follow me.

Scep.
I follow.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Enter PALÆSTRA, from among the Cliffs, at a distance.
The storied miseries of men's mishaps
(How sad soe'er relation sets them forth)
Are far less sharp than those we know and feel
Ourselves from sore experience.—Has it then
Pleas'd heav'n to cast me on this stranger shore,
With these drench'd garments, frighted and forlorn?
Shall I not cry,—“Why was I born to bear
This load of misery?”—Is this the meed
Of my distinguish'd piety?—With ease
I might endure this labour of affliction,
If I had borne me impious to the Gods,
Or to my parents.—But if studiously
I've sought to shun that trespass, then, ye Gods,
You've dealt with me unfittingly, unjustly.
How, how will you requite henceforth the impious,
If at this rate you prize the innocent?—
Were I but conscious that in any thing
My parents or myself had done amiss,
It less had griev'd me.—But my owner's crimes
Have wrought this woe; for his impiety
I'm punish'd.—He has lost his ship and all,
Wreck'd in the sea;—And I, the sad remains
Of all that he possess'd:—the damsel too,—
She that came with me in the boat,—is perish'd.—
At least had She been sav'd, her gentle aid
Had sooth'd and lighten'd my affliction.—Now
What hope, what help, what comfort can I find?
Here am I in this lonely desart; here
Stand rocks;—here roars the sea;—no living wight
Comes 'cross my way;—the cloaths that I have on
Are all my riches; and I'm mainly ignorant
How to get food, or where to find a shelter.—
Have I an Hope, that I should wish to live?—
I am a stranger, a new comer hither:—
Would I could meet with some one, that might shew me
A path or road:—my mind is all uncertain
Whither to make,—to this way or to that.—
No cultivated land I see before me.—
Ah, my poor parents! little do you know,
I'm now the wretch I am.—By birth I'm free:—
But what avails that freedom? Am I now
Less wretched than if born a slave?—Ah me!
I never was a comfort or an help
To those, who gave me birth and education.

SCENE VI.

Enter AMPELISCA, coming forward from among the Cliffs, at the other End of the Stage.
Can I do better? were't not for my good
To put an end at once to my existence?
I am so wretched, and so many cares
Distract my breast, that weary out my soul!—
I'm prodigal of life; for I have lost
That hope, which was my comfort.—All around
In quest I've rambled, crawl'd with patient step
Through ev'ry covert place, with voice, eyes, ears
Trying to trace her out, my fellow-slave.
Yet no-where can I find her!—I am puzzled
Which way to take, or where to seek her further.
I cannot meet a soul, that I might question:—
Never was place so desart and forlorn
As these dread wilds!—yet will I not desist
From searching, till at length I've found her out,
If haply she's alive.

Pal.
(at a distance.)
What voice is that
Sounds near me?

Amp.
(overhearing.)
I am mightily afraid.—
Who speaks there?

Pal.
I beseech you, gentle Hope,
O come to my assistance—

Amp.
'Tis a woman;—
A woman's voice.—

Pal.
And free me from my dread.

Amp.
(listening.)
Sure 'tis a woman's voice, that strikes my ear.

Pal.
Is it Ampelisca?

Amp.
Is it you, Palæstra?

Pal.
Why don't I call her by her name aloud,
That she may know me? (calling.)
Ampelisca!

Ama.
Ha!
Who's that?

Pal.
'Tis I,—Palæstra.

Amp.
Say, where are you?

Pal.
Environ'd with misfortunes.

Amp.
I'm your partner;
Nor is my share of sorrow less than your's.—
I long to see you.

Pal.
In that wish we're rivals.

Amp.
Our voices be our guides.—Where are you?

Pal.
Here.—
Come forward,—here,—come meet me.

Amp.
I am coming.

[They meet.]
Pal.
Give me your hand.

Amp.
Here,—take it.

Pal.
Prithee tell me,
Are you alive?

Amp.
Aye, and would wish to live,
Since 'tis permitted me to feel and touch you:—
(They embrace.)
O how you ease me now of all my troubles!

Pal.
You are before-hand, have prevented me
In what I would have said.—But let us go.

Amp.
Go? whither, sweet?

Pal.
We'll keep along the shore.

Amp.
I'll follow where you please.

Pal.
And shall we roam
In these wet garments?

Amp.
That which is befall'n us
We must perforce endure.—But prithee now
What's that? (looking.)


Pal.
What?

Amp.
Don't you see a temple yonder?
There,—don't you see it?

Pal.
Where?

Amp.
Upon the right.

Pal.
It seems, 'tis deck'd unto some God.

Amp.
Then men
Cannot be far off.— (They advance towards it.)

And the site so charming!—
I'll pray unto this God, whoe'er he be,
That he would succour us poor, helpless wretches,
And free us from our sorrows.

[They kneel before the Temple.

SCENE VII.

Enter PTOLEMOCRATIA, Priestess of Venus, from the Temple.
Who are these,
That lowly bending to my Patroness
Solicit her protection? For the voice
Of some poor supplicants has drawn me hither.
Their suit is to a good and gracious Goddess,
A Patroness most gentle, and most kind.

Pal.
Save you, good mother!

Ptol.
Save you, my sweet girls!
Whence do you come, so woefully array'd,
In these wet garments?

Pal.
Lastly, from a place
Not far from hence, but 'tis a great way off
Whence we were borne at first.

Ptol.
Ye came forsooth
By sea then.

Pal.
You judge right.

Ptol.
Ye should have come
Cloathed in white, and bringing victims with you.—
'Tis not the practice to approach our temple
In such habiliments.

Pal.
Ah! whence should we,
We that were cast away, have got us victims?
In need of succour, destitute of hope,
In a strange land, we now embrace your knees:
O let your roof receive and shelter us;
Have pity on two hapless wanderers,
Who have no place of refuge, no, nor hope,
Nor any thing indeed but what you see.

Ptol.
Give me your hands: rise both: no woman ever
Was more inclin'd to pity; but alas!
My state is poor and mean: hardly indeed
I get support, and for a livelihood
I serve our Venus.

Pal.
Is this Venus' temple?

Ptol.
The same; and I'm her Priestess.—Such as 'tis,
You shall find here a courteous entertainment,
As far as my scant means will give me power.—
Come then with me.

Pal.
You tender us, good mother,
With a most kind affection.

Ptol.
'Tis my duty.