University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

PHILODAMUS, EARINUS.
Philodamus.
And now, Earinus, my faithful freedman,
My soul's again at ease.

Earinus.
Most happy hearing.

Philodamus.
Thy approv'd honesty deserves my confidence—

Earinus.
You honour me.

Philodamus.
—So that I fairly own,
Since I discover'd Erato my daughter,
What shall I call it? with an indiscretion
Ill-suited to that tim'rous modesty,
Whose only safe entrenchment is reserve,
Receiv'd the private visits of Epicrates,
My mind has labour'd under some disturbance.

Earinus.
Your pardon! but what shadow of a likelihood,
One of a fame unblemish'd as Epicrates,
Should entertain a thought that might disturb
Philodamus, whose merit, blood, and riches,
Claim the first rank in Lampsacus?

Philodamus.
None. But my sensibility was wounded,
That she, whose undisguised soul, till now,
I wont to read in, as a book laid open,
Should thus have clos'd the page.

Earinus.
I am surpris'd
A mind, so pois'd as yours, should be industrious
To raise up trouble from so slight a source.

Philodamus.
Thou dost not know the feelings of a father,
Whose apprehensions shoot to the same height,
As does his tenderness; and whose anxiety
Finds objects for itself, where most unlikely.
But to the purpose.—I at length determin'd
To call for explanation from Epicrates.
E'en now I leave him.

Earinus.
And, my Lord, you found him—

Philodamus.
Found him, Earinus? as I could wish.
But see, my son! which cuts our time too short
For more particulars.

[Exit Earinus.

SCENE II.

PHILIPPUS, PHILODAMUS.
Philippus.
Early this morning
I sought to pay my duty to my father,
But was inform'd, bus'ness had call'd him forth.

Philodamus.
It had, Philippus. But I must observe,
That bus'ness, exercise, nor yet diversion,
Have any longer pow'r to call you forth.

Philippus.
I know not how it is.—Our inclinations
Slacken sometimes to flow with renew'd force.

Philodamus.
Whate'er the cause, the change is rather sudden.
'Tis not so long since you foreran the sun.
Clamour and bustle ever waken'd with thee.
When I inquir'd, sometimes it was Philippus
Would try his horses at the Hippodrome,
Sometimes the morn was startled at his hounds,
That claim'd with ceaseless quest the promis'd chace;
At other, ev'ry thing was preparation
For the Gymnasium: now they're all forgot.

Philippus.
I was not reckon'd over negligent—

Philodamus.
Your other studies too, I find, lie fallow.
Here am I paying, at a vast expence,
Philosophers, forsooth! to rail at riches,
To vaunt the praise of simple pulse and roots,
(Who, by the by, despise them at my table)
While you loiter the live-long day in idleness,
With Erato, and my new guest Euphemia,
Whom, on the death of Agatho her father
In banishment at Corinth, for the love
I knew your sister bare her, I took hither.

Philippus.
That love gives reputation to her judgment.
Had but our crabbed rough philosophers
Avail'd them of Euphemia's gentle manners,
They might have learn'd, what has so puzzled them,
How Virtue looks and acts in her own shape.

Philodamus.
Fools only know extremes. Is there no middle
Between the harsh formality of bookmen,
And trifling delicacy that makes woman?

Philippus.
I see no point in which they yield to us.
Their apprehension's quicker, and their reason
By forms less fetter'd, their expression clearer;
They seek no shelter from authorities,
Nor do they strive to veil their ignorance
In terms of art, as we do: then their gentleness
Smooths off the rugged points of argument,
Melting contention into pleasantry.
Discourse, such as Euphemia's and my sister's,
Conceiv'd by sense, and harmoniz'd by beauty,
Reaches the heart, while it informs the mind,
Softens and civilizes all our ways.

Philodamus.
Not to examine whither, but too often,
These over-civilizing freedoms tend,
How did you venture, (you their wise admirer,
Who ought to know how delicate their fame,
How the least breath, that blight reproach may point,
Oft with irreparable taint deforms
The best complexion'd innocence that dares
But err from common forms), to introduce
Epicrates to Erato's apartment,
Which, by our manners, is severely barr'd
To all but nearest consanguinity?

Philippus.
The age, since you were young, has shaken off
Many the slavish customs of tradition.

Philodamus.
That country, where all forms are thrown aside,
However venerably perhaps deriv'd
From the collected wisdom of past times,
And meant a mound against some national bent,
Some native inclinations of the soil,
Is on the point of losing decency,
And sinking into rank licentiousness.

Philippus.
Now, good my father, if there be to blame,
Do not involve my sister in my fault;
Nor yet condemn her conduct; her fair fame
Stands not within the verge of reprehension;
Nor ever has she giv'n him ear alone,
Euphemia, or myself, were always present.

Philodamus.
'Twas inconsiderate and rash, no matter;
I've hit upon a way to remedy it,
Which you'll soon learn. Order your sister hither.

[Exit Philippus.

SCENE III.

Philodamus.
Such is the heart of man. No sooner quit
Of one anxiety, up starts another,
Ready to fill the vacant seat. It grieves me
To see this boy so very deep involv'd.
His thought, discourse, and soul is all Euphemia.
How desperate the fi'ry wish of youth!
How blind to the long train of ills behind!
High on Imagination's upper bough
Pleasure suspends her fruit, and shews its cheek,
Flaming with ruddy gold, to our impatience:
Does Fortune toss it to our longing hand?
We find in melancholy disappointment
The core consum'd by worms and rottenness,
The juice we hop'd so racy turn'd to bitterness.

SCENE IV.

PHILODAMUS, ERATO.
Philodamus.
Good morrow, my fair child; how dost thou, Erato?

Erato.
Health to my father. What are his commands?

Philodamus.
I have been rating here your brother, child,
Rather more warmly than my manner is.

Erato.
I'm sorry for the occasion; but I see
Your looks are still serene; your brow unruffled:
Mirth more than anger sparkles in your eye.
I think you scarce have giv'n us opportunity
To learn how you look angry.

Philodamus.
Why no, daughter,
For I regard my children as my friends,
As my acquaintance, my society,
Connected by the tend'rest strings of love.
'Tis their affection, 'tis their confidence
I want, and not a formal, cold obedience.
Dread is the seed from which rebellion springs,
And teaches soon to wish a vacant throne.

Erato.
Your milder government has rather chosen
To copy from those happy states, where one
Is rais'd, for the convenience of the whole,
Rather to represent than exercise
The pow'r supreme.

Philodamus.
I'm glad you think so of me.
Well, since I have not sought to reign by terror,
You'll tell me in what light you see Epicrates.

Erato.
So close an union knits him to Philippus,
I see him almost as another brother.

Philodamus.
And pray, this other brother, as you call him,
Has ought particular e'er pass'd between you?

Erato.
No more than general civility,
Th'attention ever paid our sex by yours,
No other than between him and Euphemia.

Philodamus.
Your sentiments?

Erato.
Are as of an acquaintance
That's always entertaining, oft instructive.

Philodamus.
No more?

Erato.
No more.

Philodamus.
Trust me, I'm glad of it.
For when I found that you receiv'd his visits,
And with a kind of caution that imply'd
We would not have the old man find us out,—

Erato.
Will you but give me leave?

Philodamus.
Not till I've done.—
I did inform me of his character;
And find him, as the general run o'th'time,
Wild in his ways, unmaster'd in his temper,
One who has taken in his teeth the bit,
And run away from rule, one whose glib tongue
Distils a dang'rous and infective softness,
Which on the passive and unguarded mind
Works, like a feather dipp'd in pois'nous ointment,
Pleasing while it destroys.—

Erato.
Do but permit me
To tell you, you're most grossly misinform'd.
Some private enemy hath slander'd him,
If worth like his can find an enemy.
Oh that I knew the wretch! Contempt cleave to him!
Nay, common fame, which, as it rolls along,
Licks up each speck and spot of character,
Impatient to produce them to our eyes,
Speaks him of conduct irreproveable.—

Philodamus.
What, ho! my daughter, whither are you running?
And why so warm for any one acquaintance,
However entertaining or instructive?

Erato.
Alas! you shew me to myself at once.
How could I be so ign'rant of my heart!
I blush at my own folly. Oh! my father,
Teach me my erring steps how to retrace.
Command me, and I never see him more.

Philodamus.
This picture have I drawn of thy Epicrates,
As in a mirrour that inverts the truth,
To punish you for not confiding in me.
Start you, my girl, to hear me call him thine?
Why, what a fire has lightned in thy cheek,
And glimmers o'er thy bosom? Yes, my child,
Epicrates is thine, and in an hour
From hence expect to interchange your vows.

Erato.
I do not only start, I tremble too,
Quite giddy at the unexpected change.
'Tis but this instant that I find I love,
The very same you give away my hand.
I look in wonder round me, like a voyager,
Who, quitting his own country late at evening,
Sleeps o'er the easy passage to another,
And wakes to a new people, and new manners,
Where the whole region wears a diff'rent aspect
From that he left.

Philodamus.
As to thy voyage, child,
Be sure it lands thee on a sunshine coast,
Where not a cloud yet lours. But think of this,
That happiness grows not on earth spontaneous.
It is a plant that calls for delicate rearing.
Trifling neglects may chill its tender growth,
And imperceptibly produce that canker
Shall dim the orient tints impress'd by heaven,
And give its fading lustre for a prey
To the harsh worm unkindness. Think this certain,
A necessary consequence, whenever
Familiarity outruns complacency.

Erato.
Fear not my care. But this too quick transition,
This hurrying so abruptly into marriage,
Ere it is whisper'd in Inquiry's ear,
Robs it of its due air of decency.

Philodamus.
I should distress you, were I to assent
To what your modesty would ask for form.
Do you get ready, while I give my orders
How to prepare the feast; not with great pomp,
Yet dignity, because the legate Verres,
Rav'nous as th'eagle on the Roman ensigns,
Is just arriv'd; and 'twould inform his avarice
Where to seek out for prey, should we unfold
All our magnificence to 's greedy eye.
[Exit Philodamus.

SCENE V.

Erato.
Only to love and honour such a father,
Is to be still ungrateful. I would give
Some wild, romantic proof of my obedience,
Out of the common, trampled road of duty—
Here comes Epicrates. Why all this tumult,
This trouble at him, whom I us'd to meet
With transport, yet be mistress of myself?

SCENE VI.

EPICRATES, ERATO.
Epicrates.
My loveliest Erato, I can perceive
A sweet confusion in your look, that tells me
You are not unacquainted with my errand.
Will not this gentle hand confirm the promise
This best of days has giv'n me from thy father?

Erato.
You have it. But I fear, Epicrates,
[giving her hand.
You knew too well before to need the question:
For surely you had eyes to read my heart,
However it impos'd upon itself.
May not a time arrive, when you'll despise me,
For the facility with which you win me?

Epicrates.
Yes, could a time arrive, when imposition,
Disguise, and mock'ry, and th'ungen'rous pride
Of giving pain, should grow more meritorious,
Than noble plainness, and free honesty,
Which lift thee from the level of most women,
And make thee ev'ry thing my heart could wish.

Erato.
Such may you think me still, and I'm too happy!
All that I know, is, that in pure affection,
And reverent submission to your pleasure,
It will be hard indeed for me to err,
Since they're so much my bent and inclination,
I shall not know they are a debt to duty.

Epicrates.
Thank thee, my gentle love! I am not one
T'out-passion passion, and to o'er-stretch sense,
To rant, in wild hyperbole and rapture,
Such stuff as takes the triflers of thy sex.
My love, obedient to my reason, grew;
Which weigh'd, and study'd thee, and still discover'd
More and new virtues for its admiration.
The search has justified excess of love;
And my best judgment gives thee all my soul.

Erato.
Grant, Heaven, you do not over-rate my worth!
How poor, and how deserted, shall I seem,
When the imaginary virtues vanish,
And my defects step forward to your view?

Epicrates.
There I have not a fear. But see! Philippus.
What mean his downcast look, and haggard eye?

SCENE VII.

PHILIPPUS, EPICRATES, ERATO.
Philippus.
My friend! my brother! happiness show'r on thee.

Epicrates.
It does, till I can hold no more. My friend!
I cannot love thee better, tho' I gain
Another tender name by which to call thee.

Philippus.
All joy to thee, my dearest Erato!

Erato.
My brother, you felicitate but coolly.

Philippus.
It may be so, for I am scarce myself;
Else the content of such a friend and sister
Would animate me into exultation.
Euphemia leaves us.

Erato.
This was unexpected.
It gives me grief. How shall I bear the parting?

Epicrates.
So suddenly?

Erato.
Has ought offended her?

Philippus.
I have offended her, I have offended her;
Wretch that I am! by telling her I lov'd.
For that I love her, with a flame as pure
As elemental fire unsoil'd by smoke—

Epicrates.
Has long been visible enough, Philippus.

Philippus.
The day when she arriv'd at Lampsacus,
(The sea had ruffled her, and pal'd her cheek
With such a winning languidness, it added
An air of sensibility to beauty,
That only height'ned, what it meant to steal from.)
She had my hand at landing on the pier,
And her first touch was answer'd at my heart,
Which instantly did homage to its sovereign.
I waited long in humble, distant awe,
Smoth'ring my pains; till now, this very morning,
Their violence forc'd a passage from my heart.

Epicrates.
How did she hear you?

Philippus.
As she would a tale
Related of feign'd love, and fancy'd persons;
A mere Milesian novel, which we read,
Nor find one track behind it on the mind:
Said, it requir'd no answer, for to-morrow
She sail'd for Corinth.

Erato.
This is something sudden!
But, in these cases, trust a woman's judgment:
We read each other with a piercing eye,
And penetrate, with ease, each latent meaning.
I'm sure Euphemia loves.—

Philippus.
I've seen it long.
Oh, I've no doubt! Now could I gnaw my heart.

Epicrates.
Hear me; and if I speak with liberty,
Think, 'tis the surgeon's hand which cannot aid thee
Without first giving pain. Can you conceive,
High as your father stands in Lampfacus,
With such a city bowing to his greatness,
He will consent to wed his only son
(Whate'er her birth, her merit, or her beauty,
May plead in favour of Euphemia)
Into a family, whom banishment
Has stripp'd without remorse of its possessions?—
I could say more, but fear to wound you deeper.
Oh, strive t'o'er-rule this unavailing passion,
And be in time advis'd.

Philippus.
Go, and advise
The lapse of water down the broken cliff,
Not to obey its own propensity
Which drives it headlong to its place of rest:
Then, if it heed thy bidding, come again,
And I will try to bind my passion prisoner
In Reason's icy fetters. Ah! Epicrates,
'Tis easier to advise, than to assist.

Epicrates.
Mistake me not. I For tho' I would dissuade,
Yet my dissuasion frees no obligation
That friendship owes to serve you your own way.
Therefore, try you to win upon Euphemia,
But to delay her voyage for a little;
Mean while, my Erato shall press her father—
Say, wilt thou not, my love?

Erato.
Whate'er you bid,
Were I averse to't; but in such a cause,
My inclinations run before your bidding.
And be you sure, my brother, I will plead
With all the energy of pure affection,
Join'd to the sincere love I bear Euphemia.
Could I but hope so to prevail on him,
As I believe you will on her to stay,
I should have warmer prospect of success.

Philippus.
I see, and thank, thy goodness, Erato,
Which strives, tho' thou despondest in thy heart,
To give th'unbodied ghost of hope a substance,
And tinge it of some colour: but thy love
Leaves it, at best, evanid.

Epicrates.
Now, no more.
Go to Euphemia, while we try Philodamus.

[To Erato.]
[Exeunt.