University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

Achilles, Nearchus.
Ach.
No more, Nearchus, no, I'll hear no more
Of temper or disguise—my soul is fix'd.
No longer hope to abuse my yielding nature:
Let us depart.

Near.
And whither?

Ach.
From these limbs
To strip these woman's weeds—Shall I, Nearchus,
Thus basely pass my life, my prime of years?
And must I bear it tamely, while I see
My threats despis'd; and to complete my shame,
Charged with a haughty lord's imperious mandate?
I see, I see by others' great example
My own reproach; nor will I feel each moment
The conscious blush—

Near.
The conscious blush—

Ach.
Be silent:
I've borne too long thy counsels: different those
The sage Thessalian taught: these feet could then
Outstrip the winds: this arm, in savage wilds,
Would dare the fiercest beast, and stem the tide
Of roaring torrents.—Now—did Chiron now
Behold his pupil in these slothful vestures,
Where should I hide? How answer, when with looks
Of stern reproach he cries: “Where, where, Achilles,
Is now thy sword, with all the warrior's arms?
No mark of Chiron's school, save yonder lyre,
Debas'd from heroes' praise to strains inglorious.”

Near.
Enough, Achilles, I contend no longer,
But yield to reason's force.

Ach.
Think'st thou, Nearchus,
This life is worthy of me?

Near.
No—I own
The generous truth: 'tis time to rouze thy soul
From drowsy sleep; shake off that base attire,
And haste to scenes where honour calls to prove
Thy dauntless heart.—'Tis true, that Deidamia,
Depriv'd of thee, must taste of peace no more;
Nay, grief perchance may waste her gentle frame
Till friendly death—but pause not thou, Achilles,
In glory's course: the triumphs thou shalt gain
May well outweigh the life of Deidamia.

Ach.
The life of Deidamia! think'st thou then
Her constancy will not support our parting?

Near.
Her constancy? Ah! what can that avail
A tender maid who mourns her lover lost,
The sole dear object of her fondest wishes,
Her comfort and her hope?

Ach.
[aside.]
O! Heaven!

Near.
And know'st thou
That if thou steal'st a moment from her sight
A thousand fears distract her? All repose
Is banish'd from her breast: with eager warmth
Of each she meets she seeks her bosom's lord.
How thinks Achilles now she brooks his absence?
She knows no peace, but trembling—

Ach.
Let us seek
The lovely mourner.

Near.
Art thou then prepar'd
To quit the port of Scyros?

Ach.
No, Nearchus,
No, let us now return to Deidamia.

[Exit.