University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—A Chamber in Arria's House.
Enter Pythias.
Pyth.
What shouts rend the wide city? There is a roar
Deep as the murmuring of Etna. Gods!
I tremble for his safety. What, hoa, there!
Enter a Servant.
Hast thou, sirrah,
Heard no intelligence how matters speed
Up at the senate-house?

Ser.
My lord, no word.

Pyth.
And those time-cheating knaves I sent to know,—
They have not yet returned?

Ser.
Not yet, my lord.

Pyth.
Run thither, then—for thou art light-limb'd,—
Regard Lord Damon well; note how he seems,
And what he says—On, on.

Ser.
My lord, I will.

Pyth.
And, hark!
Observe of all if any words of wrath
Fall between him and Dionysius—
Begone!

[Exit Servant.
Pyth.
He is hotly mettled,
And not life's autumn, nor the discipline
Of cold Pythagoras' school has tam'd it yet.

Enter a Servant.
Ser.
My lord,—

Pyth.
Now, sir, what from the senate-house?

Ser.
My lord, I know not of the senate-house.

Pyth.
Not, sir! I sent thee thither, did I not?

Ser.
Another, sir. I am despatch'd to say,
That all the guests and witnesses are come,
And that with them the bride Calanthe waits
To have thy company to the temple.

Pyth.
How!
Is it the hour?

Ser.
The hour, my lord, is past.

[Exit Servant.
Pyth.
Did ever man upon his wedding-day
Feel so impatient of the hour arriv'd
That is to bless him? But I dare not stir
Till I have tidings of my friend—He is
Expos'd to deadly loss, and may have need
Of Pythias' sword. By Heaven, I do him wrong
In tarrying from his presence at an hour
So full of peril, and perhaps of death.
Death, did I say? I must—

Enter Arria.
Arria,
Now, Pythias, Pythias,
Why is it that we wait so long for thee?
Fie! thou a bridegroom! absent now!

Pyth.
Gods! If that Dionysius
Should level at his life!—I pr'ythee, Arria,
How soon might one with active and light foot
Run to the senate-house, and back again,
From hence?

Arria.
Is the man craz'd and lunatic?
Is it your pleasure that we wait a season,
I, sir, Calanthe, and our guests and kinsmen,
For your best humour to get wedded in?

Pyth.
Good Arria, pardon me; take not amiss
This absent seeming—but I am not well,
I know not how, but so you see it is—
Give me an half-hour—nay, the half—the tithe
Of such a time!

Arria.
Pythias, indeed art ill?

Pyth.
'I faith, I am—sick in the head and heart!
Bear with me, Arria; go among our guests,
And cheat their notice of this accident,
I shall be better quickly—Well, quite well.

Arria.
The gods forefend it should fall otherwise.

[Exit Arria.
Pyth.
O how these leaden-footed limping minutes
Lag and creep beneath my lashing wish!
When fiery expectation mounts the time,
Time is a spiritless and jaded steed,
That staggers 'neath his rider. Gracious gods!
Will none of them come to relieve this weight
From my o'erloaded heart!—What shall I do?
Calanthe!

Enter Calanthe.
Cal.
My dear Pythias!

Pyth.
Calanthe!

Cal.
My mother whisper'd me you were not well;
And here, even as you see me, though you should not
Have seen me in my bridal garments thus
Till we were wedded—yet even thus,
To speak with you, and comfort you, I came.

Pyth.
Beshrew her heart now, though she be thy mother,
For such ill-tim'd and womanish whispering.
I am as well, as I am happy too.

Cal.
She said, too, but I heed it not—

Pyth.
What said she?

Cal.
She pray'd the gods your sickness might be free
From surfeit sickness: but, I heed it not:
You know I heed it not; I cannot think
Your heart is such a bad one, Pythias.

Pyth.
How!

Cal.
I do not think 'tis in your very nature
To stumble so—at least, I do not think
You would have waited till this very hour,
When, like two plants that have been long in neighbourhood,
Our souls had crept and twin'd around each other,
Leaves, fibres, roots, and all!

Pyth.
Tears, my Calanthe!
How like a virgin morn in May thou art,
That would be wedded to the amorous day,
In all it's watery freshness! My fair girl,
The maiden pulse beating upon thy brow
Is not so faithful to its sister pulse,
Which throbs within this little heart of thine,
As I have been, and am!—Ha! dost thou smile?
Now, by the gods! I cannot see thee smile,
And tarry longer from the property
Of this dear hand I grasp. Come, my Calanthe,
They tarry for us, do they not?

Cal.
They do.

Pyth.
Nay, do not bend thy head, but let me gaze
Upon thee as we go, that those fine looks,
So full of life and joy, may banish from me
The ghastly thought of death!

Cal.
Death!

Pyth.
Nay, forgive me;
I know not what I say.—Ye bounteous gods,
Who guard the good, because yourselves are good,
Wave your protecting arm around him!—Come,—
O, Friendship! thou must yield it for a time,
To the torch-bearer, when he lights his fires
From two such eyes as these are!—Come, Calanthe.

[Exeunt.