University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

PHILODAMUS, EARINUS.
Philodamus.
You have my orders. Only this, Earinus,
See that propriety and elegance
Are not encroach'd upon by cloying quantity.

Earinus.
I shall.

Philodamus.
Yet, do you hear, Earinus!
Do not so check your hand, but that abundance
Smile gracefully upon my board. Forget not
That my dependents and the poor have mouths,
Alas! too seldom fill'd. And can one see
The feast, which lavish luxury has pil'd
With all that sea, and air, and earth produce,
Without the thought, how many of our species
Seem to inhabit quite another world,
And do not know our diet? So, be gone.

[Exit Earinus.

SCENE II.

PHILODAMUS, ERATO.
Philodamus.
How, now! What brings thee here, my gentle daughter?

Erato.
Euphemia means to leave us, and my heart
Feels heavy for the parting. Then Philippus—

Philodamus.
But, Erato, where is thy nuptial robe?
I thought to find thee trick'd in all the splendour
Which the unsatisfied and curious hand
Of ornament could torture out of fancy.

Erato.
I hope you have not found me over studious
Of that vain science. You have often told me,
Dress was an indication of the mind,
Which, whether rich and noble with simplicity,
Or light and trifling, wanton in redundancy,
Hung, like a sign, t'inform one of what goods
Were to be found within. As for my brother—

Philodamus.
I have so. And why did I so?—To check
A passion that's inherent to thy sex.
The peacock beauty, tho' it spread its state
Quite to the tiptoe stretch of vanity,
Wishes more eyes might stud its gaudy train,
Unsatisfied in all its present pride.

Erato.
The greater pity we are ever taught
To look on personal perfections
As our prime merit, but the scanty hand
Of Nature, in her dealing out those favours,
Aided by your advice, has cur'd, I hope,
Any excess Epicrates might blame.
I came to say, I tremble for Philippus—

Philodamus.
You can't deny, the sob'rest of you all
Seek in the glare of ornament to hide,
Where-ever Nature wanders from perfection.
You're skilful architects, and know to veil
With rich entablature and wreathing foliage,
Any th'untoward juttings and abutments
That would disgrace your symmetry of building;
Making necessity appear as choice.

Erato.
Now, my best father, hear me of my brother—

Philodamus.
Thou dost recur for ever to that burthen,
And wilt not see, that I with pains elude it;
Nor am I only talkative from age,
Fond as it is to hear itself discourse,
But by design. Why, how canst thou imagine
The care, the fondness, the parental friendship;
All faithful centinels, who, still on duty,
Ne'er wink their vigilant eyes upon you both;
Who told me, ere thou toldst them to thyself,
The secret inclinations of thy heart;
Could be so drowsy now, as not t'observe
A passion I must disapprove? 'Tis this
Welcomes Euphemia's departure to me.
I would be kind, but not to foolishness.

Erato.
My heart bleeds for him. I dread something desperate!

Philodamus.
Myself I have surviv'd, more than one cross,
Which youth and folly thought immediate death.
Of this no more. Here in the oratory
I go to pour my pray'rs, and beg of Heaven
Its blessings on thy marriage and my house.
Why dost thou follow me?

Erato.
To shut the oratory.

Philodamus.
What needs it shut? I dare not ask the gods
What I would wish kept from the ears of men.
[Exit Philodamus.

SCENE III.

Erato.
I see my brother following Euphemia,
And will avoid him, till I meet Epicrates:
Or he will jointly try to move my father,
Or soften our sad errand in the telling.

SCENE IV.

PHILIPPUS, EUPHEMIA.
Philippus.
This is too much. This dumb indifference!
Oh, rather let me suffer all thy hate,
And learn it from thyself: it would be kind,
As it must end a life of wretchedness.
Yet stop, and answer me. Cannot these tears
Obtain one only day; 'tis all I ask;
Nor yet the friendship you profess to Erato?

Euphemia.
Her marriage makes my stay unnecessary.
My resolutions are immutable.

Phillipus.
Cruel Euphemia! But I see the cause
Which wings your eagerness to take its flight.
Think you, a lover's eye could be so dull'd,
His soul so drench'd with thick stupidity,
As to o'erlook the thousand treach'rous signs
Which tell, spite of yourself, the darling secret?
The sigh half smother'd, and the melting look,
The thought abstracted, and the ardent wish,
With all the kindred attributes of passion,
Proclaim, to full conviction, that your heart
Is prepossess'd, and thence my love contemn'd.

Euphemia.
To this I owe no answer: free to love
Or hate, of you unquestion'd.

Philippus.
You say right:
Nor would I now detain you for one moment.
Fly to your lover; fly: the ship attends you!
Go; think a hurricane, a tardy wind,
And all too loit'ring for such dear impatience.
Then, ere the indistinct horizon shew
The rising hills of Corinth like a mist,
Have your arms stretch'd out ready to embrace him;
Stay not to land, but plunge into his bosom.
Oh bliss of gods! which cannot know increase,
Unless, as I am urg'd by strong despair,
I glut your eyes with what they long to see,
The bleeding, mangled triumph of your beauty.

Euphemia.
Ah! do not force me from my resolution,
My reason, and my duty, to discover
What I would lock for ever in this bosom,
Known only to myself. Why will you torture me
For what, when told, will draw upon thyself
A dreadful train of bitterest repentance?

Philippus.
I am past fear of worse. Oh! tell me all,
Tho' death attend upon the explanation!
Nor think revenge may interrupt your happiness:
My enmity is pointed at myself.

Euphemia.
'Tis true; one has possession of my heart:
Nor malice can reprove my choice. His worth
Allow'd by all, tho' doubted by himself;
Of rank exalted, but of more distinction
For what he owes to none, honour and merit;
His tongue drops honey, and, whene'er he speaks,
Attention blames herself of negligence,
Tho' she's all ear and eye. Then for his person—
In pride of youth—words are too poor to paint it.

Philippus.
Refrain thy lavish praise, or I shall burst.
Ye tort'rers of the soul, Rage, Envy, Jealousy.
I fail beneath the lashing of your scourges!
Forgive my frenzy; I, like you, adore
His wondrous virtues; I, like you, would worship
Perfections heav'n created but for him.
Oh! say, where stands his altar? To this god,
Under what name shall I address my incense?
I crave his name, that happiest of names;
Oh, for that name of names!—

Euphemia.
Why, you are mad!
Nor do deserve to know, nor should you know,
But that I leave you, ne'er to see you more;
And that your wildness of misapprehension,
Fancy'ng another master of my soul,
Has humbled me to the too plain avowal
Of what the delicacy of my sex
Should doom to sleep in everlasting silence;
It is Philippus: Know you such a man,
That rival of himself?

Philippus.
Can I be sure
That I exist? support me, or I faint!
Astonishment has wrapp'd me from myself;
My senses whirl them round in giddy eddies;
Too much for nature's suff'rance! scarce can life
Cohabit with the tumult of my joy.

Euphemia.
Avoid these starts of rapture, which but add
Fresh poison to the stings of disappointment.
Imagination views her fav'rite prospect,
Till, lost in soft delusion, she approaches
Even the blue sky to her eager reach,
Skipping the middle space, which teems with obstacles.

Philippus.
What lion glares athwart the promis'd way?
Has not my love confess'd her gen'rous flame?
What then can come between me and my wishes?

Euphemia.
Are you to learn then what may come between?
What are ingratitude and disobedience?
And if Philippus (devious from the tenor
Of his past life, bursting each sacred band
That links his duty to so mild a father,
Obedience to him is but awful friendship)
Could take to 's arms an unbless'd vagabond,
Think not Euphemia of so base a spirit,
To ruin by her love the man she loves,
Or blast by a mean deed of selfishness
The only friend destruction left her parents;
Taint, like a pois'nous worm, those kindly branches
That yield her food and shelter.

Philippus.
I have won
Epicrates and Erato to ask—

Euphemia.
Ask him to set this ample roof on fire,
Or sink his riches in the boundless sea,
And he shall laugh less at us.

Philippus.
Dost thou doom me
To pine beneath thy ineffectual love?
Away with these refinements! let us fly;
Fly to thy mother, till resentment here
Thaw into reconcilement. She at least
Will bless me, while I ever seek to pay her,
In duty, the dear debt I owe for thee.

Euphemia.
Pay it at home. You little know that mother;
Nor would she own the name, should I revisit her;
Unworthy of her love. Distress had never
The pow'r to eat into her solid virtue,
Nor roughen with its rust the perfect polish.
One female slave attends her; their joint labour
Earns hard support, oft borrowing from night
Its softest hours of rest; and I defraud her,
While I am absent, of my share of toil.
Would I had never left her! never left her!

Philippus.
Oh, only kind to heighten cruelty!

Euphemia.
I've said too much. We part! take this embrace,
The first and last I give! Shun we each other!
Trust not a look, and think a sigh rebellion
Against our duties. So farewell!

[Exit. Shuts the Door.
Philippus.
One word!
She's gone! she's lost for ever! Oh, my brain!

[Ex.

SCENE V.

Philodamus.
The gods have heard my pray'r, and sent their answer.
I ask'd them for a blessing on my house,
And they have brought this woman to my ear,
That I might learn her worth. How nobly strict!
How just to me! how duteous to her mother!
There I've been negligent—The voice of misery
Is often lost to pity's ear by distance.
Hide from the eye distress, compassion loses
Its best, almost sole entrance to the heart,
And leaves disaster by itself to languish.
It shall be mended. Erato, Epicrates,
Hark ye, a word.

SCENE VI.

Enter ERATO, EPICRATES.
Haste thee, my gentle daughter,
Upon a message thou'lt be glad to bear.
I would not hear thee, when thou wouldst have mov'd me
To listen to the sorrows of thy brother.
Himself I've heard. Fly to him, child, and tell him,
I love Euphemia little less than he does,
And long to give her to him. Haste, away.

Erato.
Oh, happy change! how I shall bless Philippus!

[Ex.

SCENE VII.

EPICRATES, PHILODAMUS.
Epicrates.
Now you have heap'd the measure of my joy
In thus preventing what I meant to urge
In favour of Euphemia. This completes
What you began, in hast'ning my felicity;
Which else had waited the interposition
Of friends, ere I had ty'd this wish'd alliance.
A life so lib'ral in dispensing happiness
Claims ev'ry pray'r for blessings in return.

Philodamus.
There is more usury in making happy,
Than the most studied selfishness e'er dream'd of.
My son, except that his is more tumultuous,
Owns not more joy—And as for you, Epicrates,
Had the whole world been open to my choice,
That I could say, Here will I give my daughter;
Thou wert the man; the one my soul would cleave to.
I love thy probity, and gentle nature,
That form and fashion of the present time,
Which grows a virtue when it is allied
To antique truth, and sanctity of manners;
And that timidity of modest merit,
Without the bookish, down-look'd awkwardness,
Which oft disgraces knowledge—Who attends there?
Send here Earinus.

[To a Servant.
Epicrates.
Such commendation
I dare not think my own. Yet I would wish
Your favour should not be mistaken widely,
That I may prove not wholly undeserving
The hand of Erato.

Enter EARINUS.
My lord, your orders.

Philodamus.
Thou art too much employ'd thyself, to quit
The general inspection of this day:
Therefore, Earinus, have thou in readiness
Some servant of especial trust, to bear
A packet to the port; it is of consequence.

Earinus.
Or Æschylus, my Lord; or Xanthias—

Philodamus.
Ay, either;
E'en which you will: let it be giv'n on board
The vessel which Euphemia meant to sail in:
Thus better freighted with the chearing news
(For this will chear Lysistrata her mother)
Of our alliance.

Epicrates.
Thank you for a goodness
Which never acts, as I perceive, by halves;
But at this time you're all too overhurried
For such dispatches; at your better leisure
This may be done as well.

Philodamus.
Epicrates,
I tell thee what. I should be less punctilious
Had Fortune never turn'd her back upon her:
But where Adversity has fix'd her teeth,
It leaves a soreness, that is sure to smart
At light suspicions of unmeant contempt.
The veriest trifles, which, in happier days,
Slip our observance, and leave no impression,
Assume the shape of Injury and Insult,
To rankle in the mind—I write besides
To press her, with her earliest convenience,
To hasten hither, and to make this house
Her place of residence—Oh! here they come.

SCENE VII.

PHILODAMUS, EUPHEMIA, PHILIPPUS, EPICRATES.
Philodamus.
Well, Erato, how hast thou sped thy message?
Or meet you difficulties and objections?
What says our son? Does he refuse t'obey us?
Or is Euphemia not to be prevail'd on?
What, is she so determin'd on her voyage,
She will not listen?—How! dissolv'd in tears!
I thought you had not own'd such weak humanity.

Euphemia.
I was prepar'd and fortify'd 'gainst misery.
Unguarded to this vast surprise of joy.
Whatever resolution we pretend,
By my own weakness I'm too well convinc'd
Our passions still are woman.

Philodamus.
Worth, like thine,
Is all too scarce in man. Thy sex, Euphemia,
Whether in good or bad, will distance ours.
This hand, say, may I give it to Philippus?

Euphemia,
My heart was giv'n before. Oh ecstasy,
That you approve and realize the gift!

Philippus.
Avoid these starts of rapture, which but add
Fresh poison to the stings of disappointment.
Oh best of men! oh Erato! oh friend!
Was ever such a father! Oh! Euphemia!
Dost not adore him! but I know thou dost.
Forgive my wildness—do not laugh at me—

Philodamus.
Contract your transports, and retire a little,
While they prepare this chamber for the ceremony,
That gives you to each other, once and ever.

[Exeunt.