University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—An anteroom leading to the chamber in which the Senate is assembled.
(Two Guards enter, and pace before the door.)
1st Guard.

Hark! didst ever hear such a noisy debating?
—That's the voice of young Pelopidas. He's teasing Philip
about the Spartan troops. Hush!

2nd Guard.

Who is't speaks now?

1st Guard.

Ismenias—and now Philip—and now Pelopidas
again, as if he were cheering on a boar-hunt. If thou and I,
now, were to be as noisy over our potations, as these be over
their disputations,—why, the fetters—you know;—or a kiss
from the whip for us.

2nd Guard.

And reason good! Are not these all lords?
and are we not poor men? Zounds! man—'tis quite a different
matter! Your poor man is nothing but dregs at the bottom
of a barrel;—and your rich man is the wine above it.

1st Guard.

Which is the reason, as I take it, that your dry-throated
Death commonly draws off the rich man first: leaving
the poor dregs at the bottom to dribble away drop by drop, so
slowly that one hardly knows when the barrel is quite empty.

2nd Guard.

I know thy barrel is empty: for thou wentest
to bed sober last night.

1st Guard.

I wish thou hadst risen so! I tell thee I was
as drunk last night as any gentleman need desire to be.

(Enter Thulia.)
Thulia.
The young lord Androclides is within,—
I'th' Senate: pray you call him out.

1st Guard.
No! lady. I think he is not here this morning.
I think I may say he is not here.

Thulia.
Good friend!—I know he is here. Call him forth,
For that I have to say imports him much.

1st Guard.

Lady, it cannot be:—for how can water be
drawn out of a well that hath no water in it?—or the lord Androclides
called out of a place in which the lord Androclides is
not?

Thulia.

Here, friend, is gold,—so thou wilt call him forth.

1st Guard.

Faith! and that's a chain that will reach the
very bottom of the well. I'll see if he be there—perhaps—
while I was away—or before I came—'tis possible—What shall
I say to him?

Thulia.
Say that his wife would speak to him in haste.

1st Guard.
His wife!—I cry you mercy, gracious lady!

(Goes into the door of the Senate chamber.)
Thulia.
Oh! heavens! what passionate voices do I hear!
Is there aught ill within?

2nd Guard.

Oh no! my lady—no! Nothing but a little
flustration about the Spartan soldiers in the fields yonder. We
never take heed of this sort of hurly-burly. 'Tis only a kind
of thunder-clap high up i' th' air, my lady,—that, maybe,
cracks a cloud or two, but never comes to the earth.

(Enter Androclides and the 1st Guard.)
Andro.
Well, sweet—what is it?

Thulia.
Oh! my dearest lord!
I'm much alarm'd.

Andro.
You are not come alone?

Thulia.
Oh no! my maids attend without. But first
Bid these rough men retire.

Andro.
Friends, by your leave,
We would be left an instant.
[Exeunt Guards.
Now, sweet girl,
Despatch, for there's a hot debate within,
And I am wanted.

Thulia.
But, my gentle love,
Why will you mix in these intemperate broils?
Yet do not tell me.—Deeply I suspect
Some wicked scheme in progress. I had climbed
Our garden wall, to th' south, by a large knot
Of purple grapes allur'd—nay,—do not smile,—
'Twas not to please my palate. . .

Andro.
Sweetest girl!
I did but smile to think what hideous giant
This dwarf would usher in.—Pray now go on—
By this dire bunch allur'd—what next?

Thulia.
Nay—nay—
I pray you do not mock me, gentle love!
But listen now:—yet shall I be most glad
To have deserv'd your mocks. I had climbed up
To look if snail, or any harmful insect,
Were in the leaves, or fruit: 'twas all untouched,
Purple and bloom most beauteous. As I looked,
Admiring how each full distended grape
Glow'd like an amethyst in the bright sun,
And thinking how delightful 'twere—

Andro.
To pop
One after t'other in that pretty mouth—

Thulia.
Shame on you, love! I meant them for your friend.
You know he tastes no meats:—and when you went
So hastily unto the Senate-house,
He would not stay,—but to the fields walk'd forth,
Nor could my best entreaties more obtain
Than promise of return ere evening fall.
I hope he went not anger'd.

Andro.
Oh! no—love!
He would have urg'd us rather, had we lagg'd.
But now for thy catastrophe!—this ladder
Is very hard to climb.—

Thulia.
Yet, to descend
To me was harder still;—my limbs so shook,
And every muscle so appear'd to fail:—
As when, in dreams, you would attempt to run,
And cannot;—you have dreamt so,—have you not?

Andro.
Aye, dearest Thulia,—many times.

Thulia.
But now
To the chief matter. Resting on the ladder,
I heard a sound that, for the rustling leaves,
I took at first,—or it might be the brook
Across the meadow,—or some harmless snake
Brushing among the long grass:—or some bird
Bringing her fluttering young on their first flight:—
You know there are a hundred little sounds
Among the fields and woods, that seem to be
Voices of men far off,—or whisperings
Of nymphs or goddesses i' th' air unseen.

Andro.
There are, my love.

Thulia.
And so I heeded not;
But, on the ladder leaning, trained the leaves
To shade from the fierce sun the glistering grapes
Lest with o'er-ripeness they should burst ere night:—
And, sooth to say—but you will mock me now.—

Andro.
No love;—if it displease thee, I'll not mock.

Thulia.
And if you do I care not.—I was lost
In a long reverie of that blest night
When,—sitting on the shore of the Piræus
To watch the sunset in the ruby waves,—
You,—travelling then to Corinth—stay'd your horse
To look upon it too.

Andro.
I did so, sweet!
But, seeing thee, forgot the setting sun.

Thulia.
So was I lost, methought I heard anon
The hollow trampling of your horse's hoofs,—
And, turning, saw the grey steed pawing on:—
And then I looked again upon the waves—
And then anon I heard your first soft words,
Breath'd in my startled ear:—and then the sun
Was gone down ere I knew it;—and my maids
Told me the night would fall, ere we reach'd home;
Which seem'd most strange,—for I thought not of night,
Nor anything but what you told me of—
And, all the way to Corinth as we walked,
You seem'd to talk to me,—and pointed back
To the deep ruddy sea,—or up to heaven,—
Telling of wondrous things,—as then you did.—
And last I saw you in my father's hall—
And the dear good old man, with a glad smile,
Hastening to welcome you—Oh! heavens! what noise!
Sure 'tis some mortal quarrel!

Andro.
No, love, no.—
There's a hot war of words,—but nothing more.
Hush! hush!—I thought 'twas Archias speaking then—
But 'tis not he. They'll push him hard anon,—
And 'tis a chase I'd gladly join:—so, sweet,—
Put spur into the side of thy slow words,
And let them gallop to a close.

Thulia.
Well, then:—
From this sweet reverie I was arous'd
By a harsh, horrid laugh, just underneath,
From whose most loathsome dissonance I shrank
As from the touch of newt, or bloated toad,
It had such foulness in it:—one quick step
In my descent I'd taken,—when thy name,
Distinctly syllabled, came to my ear.—
I paused:—there was a low, dull, humming sound,
Like a monotonous reader,—but no word
Clear-utter'd as before;—so once again
I was descending, when another voice,
Not louder, but articulate, and slow,
Arrested me. ‘I thank thee for thy care’—
Such were the words,—‘they shall be look'd to close;
Thou shalt have ample vengeance;—and yon sun
Shall not set ere it falls.’

Andro.
Well!—Is this all?

Thulia.
All?—dearest Androclides?—Is't not horrid
To hear thy name, and such terrific threats
Coupled together?

Andro.
But, dear Thulia!
'Tis not enough that they have stood together
In such disparted talk, as thou hast heard,
To prove affinity.—They might have named,
At such wide interspace, th' Eternal Gods,
And some new snare for vermin,—then wouldst thou
Infer great Jove turn'd rat-catcher!—Why—love—
'Twas some foul beggar threating broken heads
On those who had refus'd him broken meats—
Some tinker,—or some cobbler—

Thulia.
Oh! no—no—
Excess of terror made me bold. I climb'd
To the wall's height, and, over-peering, saw
The dark-brow'd Archon,—and the loathëd face
Of Archias—and with them the thin old man,
From whom this morning you redeem'd the youth,
Our servant now.—

Andro.
Indeed! they saw not you?

Thulia.
No—for that instant they were taking leave,
And parted different ways.

Andro.
'Tis odd enough!
A tailor, and two lords of Thebes, conjoin'd!—
Some dreadful purpose, doubtless!—Shall we send
To Persia—to consult the Magi on't!
Three such malignant stars, conjunct, must point
At revolutions—deaths of mighty kings—
And fall of Empires!—

Thulia.
Oh! my dear, dear lord!

Andro.
Go—get thee to thy happy home, sweet wife:—
Enjoy the present;—for th' unknown to come
Trust the good Gods! Adieu—and go at once.

(He embraces her, and returns to the chamber.)
Thulia.
I will, love;—yet my heart sinks utterly:—
What can it mean?

(Enter Archias.)
Archias.
What! do the Graces deign to visit us?—
Or is't not rather love's sweet Queen herself?—
Bright Goddess! thy celestial presence fills
This chamber with ambrosia!

Thulia
(aside).
Thine with poison!

[Exit.
Archias.
What a delicious wrath was on her brow!
Her anger is more sweet than others' love!
Gods!—there's more brightness in her darkest frown,
Than in another's smile!—There is more music
When she most chides, than when another sings!
Oh! thou most excellent witch! I'll forge a wand
Shall over-charm thy charmings:—and to-day
It shall be done.

[Exit into the Senate-chamber.
(The foregoing scene draws, and discovers