University of Virginia Library

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.