University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—The Citadel. Women holding the feast of Ceres.
Hymn—sung in Chorus.
(Enter Leontidas, and Phœbidas,—in armour.)
Priestess.
The mysteries are profan'd! break off! break off!
(The women shriek and run to and fro.)
Oh! Ceres, Proserpine, and Pluto, haste!
Avenge! avenge the violated rites!—
Cry, women, cry! let the heav'ns hear the deed!
Ye horrid men, detested by the Gods!
Get hence! get hence!

Leon.
Good priestess! hear one word.

Priestess.
I will hear nought, profaning wretch! get hence!

Leon.
I will get hence,—so thou wilt hush this noise,
And hear me speak.

Priestess.
Women, forbear! forbear!
Now—what hast thou to say? irreverent man!
Quick—and depart!

Leon.
Most gentle priestess; list
With patient ear.—With no unholy thought,
No over-curious eye,—no foul design
To interrupt your hallow'd mysteries
Are we come here.—

Priestess.
What then?—intruding man!
Thy life may answer this!

Leon.
Sweet priestess! hear!
My life may answer it;—but that is nought
Where lives of thousands are upon the die.
In brief:—A giant sword hangs in the air,
And is about to fall.—When the sea chafes,
The stateliest barks must be content to toss,
As giddily as cock-boats:—and so now,
In this turmoil and tempest of events,
Your dignities, and reverend privilege
Must yield like meaner things.—

Priestess.
Ye Heavenly Powers!
Have ye no scourges left?—Who art thou, man?

Leon.
(taking off his helmet).
Chaste priestess! know'st me now?

Priestess.
Immortal Gods!
The Archon?—the stern Leontiades?
Can he be the profaner of the rites?—
The cold,—severe—the proud?—

Leon.
Stay, priestess! stay!
Thou know'st me; and shouldst know that no loose thought,
No madman's freak, hath moved me in this act.
Time's hour-glass now is dropping golden sands;
And I must hence. What is about to be
Ye cannot know. Enough, that it must be.
With that content you. For your better peace,
Thus much I say:—this tempest hath no bolt
'Gainst you, so you provoke it not. No hand
Shall touch you,—not an eye shall look on you,
So ye but keep retir'd. The place you hold
Must be left free.
(To Phœbidas)
Now lead your soldiers here.
Lock fast the gates,—and let none enter in
Save such who bear my passport.
[Exit Phœbidas.
Factious crew!
Your good deeds now shall have their guerdon due.

Priestess.
My lord—these actions are most strange!

Leon.
They are.
All things are strange; their causes being hid:—
But, known—are common matters. Is't not strange
That the bright sun—the moon—and all the stars
Should, like a monstrous wheel, roll round this earth?
And is't not passing strange that the great sea—

(Phœbidas brings in his troops, behind.)
Many voices of women.
Oh! heavens! arm'd men! arm'd men! we are betray'd!

Leon.
Silence! ye cackling geese,—and get ye hence!
Priestess, away with them;—and let them know
They're safe while they are silent.
(To Phœbidas)
I go now
Straight to the Senate. Look to hear anon
The thunder burst that way. Farewell.

[Exit.
Phœb.
And let the peal roar till all Greece shall rock.
Now, soldiers,—lock the gates, and make all safe.
Sure never fortress was so lightly won!

(The women go out. The troops continue to pour in till the next scene drops.)

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

Scene III.

—The Senate-chamber.)
Philip—Androclides—Pelopidas—Melon—Democlides —Theopompus—Pherenicus—Ismenias—Cephisidorus —Gorgidas—Archias—and other Senators.
Ismenias, as Archon, sits on an elevated seat. Another, near him, for Leontidas, is empty. Archias stands whispering to a Senator who is just going out.
Philip.
I do deny it!—and your empty threats
Hold with the threateners in contempt. We never. . . .

Ismenias.
Stay, Philip—stay—You've spoken for yourself;
And made a plausive tale.—Let Archias
Speak also for himself:—but with no prompting!

[Exit Senator.
Archias.
I understand you not;—nor is't my use
To put my words beneath the pilotage
Of any man—I need no prompter, sir;—
Needing no clue to lie by.

Ismenias.
Fairly spoke!

Melon
(aside to Democlides).
He means that he can lie without a prompter.

Ismenias.
Now, sir.—It hath been charg'd 'gainst certain Thebans,
Yourself o' th' number,—that for traitorous ends
They did, this morning, seek the Spartan's camp;
Encouraging, by every friendly mark,
The bad design he undertakes:—'gainst which,
As a most tyrannous and foul attempt,
The Theban state has set its face,—and made
Wide proclamation that no citizen
Shall give thereto his aid.—Sir, to this charge
Philip hath made denial,—and, withal,
Out of his courtesy, hath reasons given
Why you did so—and so. Beseech you, sir,
In the simplicity of your rare truth,
That ‘needs no clue to lie by’—tell us now
Why went you to yon camp?—what did you there?
When came away?—with other lesser things
That, by coherence with this first report,
Shall make your innocence clear.

(A Pause.)
(Several voices.)
Speak, Archias.

Archias.
Hath Philip spoken,—say you?

Ismenias.
Yes, he hath;
And we would hear you also:—that his words,
Finding their counterpart in yours, may stand
Unchalleng'd by the doubtfulest.

(A Pause.)
(Several voices.)
Speak, Archias.

Archias.
But was there not a third?—Best question him
Before I answer. He hath readier speech,
And will convince you sooner.—See—he comes.
(Leontidas enters, in armour, and remains near the door as if arrested by the words of Archias.)
They call us traitors, Leontidas,—friends
To Sparta, and the Persian,—and demand
Our business in the camp this morn.

Ismenias.
We do!
Who sees the vultures gathering, but suspects
They have mark'd out their prey?—But, good my lord—
If you come arm'd against our questionings
With such strong mail as clasps your limbs about,
The contest must be short,—for we've nor words,
Nor swords, to pierce such proof.—Wilt please you say
Why this poor, peaceful company, and place,
You honour by this most unwonted pomp
And blazonry of war?

Leon.
'Twill please me much
To answer thee, and all of you. My tale
Is short, and plain;—but, therewithal, hath pith
May make it well remember'd.—Gentlemen—
The Spartan troops are in the Citadel—
(The Senators start up.)
Be not alarm'd!—They are not enemies
Save to the friends of war and anarchy.—
This act had my advice.—And, furthermore,
As general of the State,—and, by the power
Lodg'd in me by the laws to apprehend
All traitors,—for a public enemy
I do attach thee here, Ismenias!—

(He steps up and seizes Ismenias.)
Pelop.
(rushing on him).
Villain! thou'rt the traitor! Loose thy grasp,
Or I will tear thy soul out,—spite thy mail.

Leon.
Off! boy! or thou shalt rue it.—Soldiers—here!
Secure him,—and convey him,—you know whither.

(The Spartan soldiers rush in. Great confusion, and cries of ‘Treason!—treason!—fly!—we are betrayed!’)
Ismenias.
Thou damnëd villain!—Friends—away! away!
Thy hour shall come for this!—Haste—haste away!

(Ismenias is dragged out. The friends of Pelopidas rush out at different doors. In the confusion Archias attempts to stab Androclides; but misses him.)
Pelop.
(standing by the door in a threatening attitude).
Abhorrëd dragon! Thou hast stung us now:—
But mark me!—I will find a time to rend
Thy sting and life at once:—thou hellish pest!
Mark me! I say!—

[Exit.
Leon.
I will, so thou take not the speedier flight,
Thou factious democrat!—Now, friends—away—
Let's follow them:—the sight of us shall be
A spur in their gall'd sides to make them plunge
And hurry to the precipice.—Let them fly! Their blood,—
Being so many,—would breed hatred to us,
And stain the reputation of this act,
Which else shall shew most holy.—But—away!

[Exeunt all but Archias.
Archias.
I think I touch'd him:—but the dagger's bright.
He will escape.—What then?—she stays behind:—
That's not so well:—the thought of him alive,
Would fret me in Elysium:—he shall die—
By heaven and hell I swear it—he shall die!

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—The city gate leading towards Athens. (Many persons pass hastily out, flying from the faction of Leontidas.)
(Enter Epaminondas—from the fields.)
Epam.
What means this headlong flight,—and these wild looks?

(Several voices.)
Fly!—fly! Epaminondas.—Thebes is lost!

Epam.
Stay—stay—I charge you.—They are gone. Just Heaven!
What may this mean?—Pelopidas—

(Enter Pelopidas.)
Pelop.
Good friend!
Turn back, and leave the city. As we go,
I'll tell thee all.

Epam.
What!—play the runaway—
And then ask what 'tis frights me?

Pelop.
We're unarm'd,—
Or I would stay and beard them. The black Archon
Hath seized Ismenias,—brought the Spartan troops
Into the Citadel.—yea, to the Forum,
Whence armëd men have chas'd the Senators.
Still they pursue us:—we've nor arms nor soldiers,
And must submit.—Hark to yon blood-hound cries!

(Shouts at a distance.)
(Enter Democlides, Theopompus, and Pherenicus, in haste.)
Demo.
Fly! fly! Pelopidas.—They call for you.

Theo.
Haste! for Heav'n's mercy haste!—they seek your life.

Pelop.
But shall not have it. Make what speed you can
Tow'rds Athens—I am safe:—My horses wait
By this time in the palm-grove near the gate.
(Shouts at a distance.)
Hence! hence! Heaven guard you, friends!

Demo., Theo., and Pher.
Adieu—adieu!

[Exeunt at the gate.
Epam.
Pelopidas—I shall not fly with thee.

Pelop.
Then wilt thou perish?—As my friend, thou'lt die
Wert thou as harmless as the new-yean'd lamb.—
Thou shalt not stay.—By heaven, I'll force thee hence
If thou resist!—

Epam.
Pelopidas—these times
Are like fierce fires, that separate the dross
From the pure metal.—'Tis no wondrous thing
To lead an honest, quiet life;—read books,
And dole forth scraps of wisdom to one's friends;—
Wive—and bring up good children;—pay one's debts;—
Give unmiss'd alms to the unfortunate;—
And so live on a comfortable life
Of virtuous indolence,—at a small cost
Buying the kind opinions of the world:—
This may be only glittering hollowness.
The bubble that the children blow for sport—
Seen in the sunshine, and the unmov'd air—
Looks bright and hard as crystal:—but, a breath
Dissolves it.—I've known many men, my friend,
Who have led decent lives,—and, at their death
Been held up as examples,—who but lack'd
Courage or industry to have up-climb'd
Guilt's steepest precipice.

Pelop.
But, my dear friend,—
You need no fire to prove your metal pure—

(Shouts again.)
Epam.
Stay—stay—the moments are but few. Now—mark me!
Though the sky bend its arch, and threat to fall,
I'll not leave Thebes,—till I shall be made sure
I serve my country so.—

Pelop.
Then I will bid
The groom lead back my horses.—I can die
As well as wiser men.

(He goes to the gate.)
Epam.
Pelopidas—
Thou hast thy duties,—and I mine: the paths
May join again, tho' in their setting forth
Averse as North from South.—What is our goal?
Our country's good.—You seek it hence,—in arms,
I—here—by patience and mild argument.
I ask not you to tread my path:—forbear
To urge me upon yours. Each, separate,
May trip on lightly to his journey's end;—
But,—forc'd together;—one will lag by th' way,
And drag his fellow backward.—Now get hence!
(Shouts again.)
I hear thy name, with no kind accent, call'd.—
Depart—I charge thee!—

Pelop.
Will your life be safe?

Epam.
Unless you stay with me, to lose your own.
Their fangs, being flesh'd, might hunger for more food;—
I have no other fear.—From time to time
Let me hear of you.—You're for Athens too?

Pelop.
'Tis our best refuge.—It were vain to beg,—
And you're the wiser.—Be it as you say.
Farewell, Epaminondas—dearest friend—
Farewell—farewell!— (They embrace.)


Epam.
Both shall, I trust, fare well,
Though th' heavens look frowning now. Adieu—adieu!
Dear youth—farewell—farewell!

[Exit Pelop.
(Epaminondas stands at the gate to look after him.)
Epam.
Heaven never wrought a nobler piece of work
Than thou art:—save thy huntings;—that's not well:
And somewhat over-fiery art thou too,
Being provok'd,—or in the battle's rush:—
But thou art full of every nobleness;—
Thy very gait bespeaks a lofty soul;—
Thy kindling brow is like a sudden burst
Of sunshine on a cold and cloudy day.—
The just Gods prosper thee! (Shouts again.)


(Enter Melon—Cephisidorus—and Gorgidas, from the city.)
Melon.
Epaminondas, have you seen your friend?

Epam.
Melon, I have. Look there;—he rides as cool
As if he took an airing for his health,
Or to make sharp his appetite.

Cephis.
Who is't
That stops him now?

Melon.
'Tis Charon.

Gorgid.
Heaven be prais'd!
The harpies yonder would have drunk his blood.

Epam.
Perhaps not, good Gorgidas;—we've sins enough
In what we do;—let our intents lie still.
Were each man's guilt weigh'd by his enemy,
The monstrous mass would burst earth's ceiling in,
And crush th' infernal Gods. . . Cephisidorus,
You look not well. I hope you ride.

Cephis.
My strength
Hath been much shaken by an obstinate ague;
And this strange business doth me little good.
Farewell!—our horses wait.

Gorgidas and Melon.
Farewell—farewell.

Epam.
Kind gentlemen, adieu! Heaven be your guide!

[Exit Epaminondas, towards the city.
Cephis.
In sooth I'm very faint.

Gorgid.
Come, lean on me.

Cephis.
I thank you.

(Enter Charon, from the fields.)
Charon.
My noble friends, I grieve to hear of this!
Have you seen Androclides?—Ha! he comes.

[Exeunt Gorgidas and Cephisidorus.
Melon.
Charon, adieu!—you're on a slippery path,
Yet strive to walk alone, or he who stays you
May trip your heels up.

Charon.
Melon, thou art kind.
[Exit Melon.
Adieu—adieu! I thank thee.—Androclides,
(Androclides enters from the city)
Where hast thou lagg'd? I saw Pelopidas
An instant back, nigh to the grove of palms.
He waits for thee, and wonders at thy stay.
Art thou not well?

Andro.
Oh! Charon.—I am sick!—
Sick to the heart. I hasted to my home
To snatch from ruin the sole thing i' th' world
For which I care to live;—and she was gone!—
But that I hope a friendly hand hath borne her
To some safe hiding,—I would perish here;—
For life, without her, were but agony
Passing endurance!—

Charon.
Hope the best,—dear youth!
If she be left behind thee, all my power—
And, as a neutral 'twixt your adverse parties,
Thou know'st I have power—with what sway beside
Wealth, and a noble ancestry may give,—
All power and influence mine will I employ
To shield her, and, at fitter season, guide
Where thou shalt point the way.

Andro.
Charon—dear friend!
Thou giv'st all comfort I can take.—Oh! God!
(Shouts again.)
Must I then go?—Mad hell-dogs! ye would tear
Your grey-hair'd fathers, or your prattling babes
When you are raging.—Aye!—you call in vain!
He will not bleed beneath your tiger-claws—

(Shouts again.)
Charon.
Hence—hence:—your name is call'd. To linger here
May cost your life, and his. Beside yon clump
Of dwarfish oaks I left my horse: your flight
May be pursued;—take him, and leave your own:—
You may defy all chase:—twice hath that steed
Been victor at th' Olympic games.—Hence—hence—
Your foes are close upon you.—Stay not now
For a leave-taking,—but farewell at once.

Andro.
Farewell—kind friend!—Oh Thulia! where art thou?

[Exit through the gate.
Charon.
Unhappy youth!—There may be sharper stings
For man t' endure than thine;—but oh! not one
That with a deadlier sickness swells the heart
Almost to bursting!—I have known that pang.

(Enter Leontidas, Archias, and Philip.)
Leon.
Charon, good day. Hast seen Pelopidas?

Archias.
Hast thou seen Androclides, gentle Charon?

Philip.
Who wast went hence ev'n now?

Charon.
Good gentlemen,
Good day to all of you. I wish 't may prove
Good day indeed. But oft a wicked noon
Follows such morning, and a woful night
Closes what dawn'd so fair.

Leon.
True, noble Charon:
Therefore, to have a still and pleasant eve,
We shun the guilty noon.

Charon.
I joy to hear it.
You shed no blood then?

Archias.
Philip—Philip—look!
There rides the wretch who sought my life—

Charon.
Your life!—
Who's he that did so?

Archias.
Bloody Androclides!
Ev'n in the Forum!—see where his fell dagger
Hath pierc'd my robe,—aiming to pierce my heart!—
I'll after him;—his life shall answer it.—

(Going to the gate.)
Leon.
Stay, Archias—stay—I do not think 'twas he.

Charon.
I'd stake my life he's free of this!

Leon.
Think, Archias,—
In such turmoil how soon the steadiest eye
Might be disturb'd, and see unreal things:—
And of the danger think, if private broils
With this great public question be mix'd up.
Desist, I charge you!

Archias.
To the public good
My private must bow down:—let him go free!—
But wilt thou then pursue Pelopidas,
Forbidding me my chase?—Is yours not, too,
A private broil?—

Leon.
No—Archias.—Went he not
Through every street exciting to revolt,—
Calling us tyrants;—bidding men take arms
And slay us on the instant? No one stirr'd
To act his bidding:—but his guilty aim
Not less deserv'd the penalty.—Yet, mark!
I give him up!—his blood shall not be shed
For this bad treason:—let thy private wrong
Pass to oblivion then.

Philip.
I think indeed
His blood shall not be shed,—at least o' th' instant;—
For,—else my eyes tell false,—he hath made free
To take his exercise, our leave unask'd,
On his black hunter yonder.

Archias and Leon.
Where? where?

Philip.
Stay—
Now look!—between yon row of poplars—now—
Just over that thick chesnut—

Leon.
Yes—'tis he.
You can't mistake his seat,—nor the proud lifting
Of his strong hunter's feet.—Well—let him go!—
And, gentlemen,—with most dispassion'd minds
Return we to the Forum,—there to hold
Discourse on what hath happen'd,—and to choose
With wariest circumspection our new path,
That, 'scaping this, we fall not in more snares.

Charon.
It glads me much to find such gentleness
I' th' rear of so much fury. I have friends
In both your parties,—being myself of none;—
And whichsoever shall oppress the other
Inflicts on me a grief.

Leon.
We'll be like bows
After the shafts are shot.—But hark!—The heralds
Make proclamation of our government;—
Let us away!—Charon, a word with you
As we go on.—Lend me your arm, I pray you.
I wrenched my ankle with a fall last night,
And now it stings me.

Charon.
Have it look'd to, sir.

[Exeunt Leontidas and Charon.
Philip.
Archias—didst thou hear the heralds?

Archias.
No!—

Philip,

Nor I. 'Twere best we went to see the ceremony,
—were it not? I'll hold you a wager, Archias, that, at the
next Pancratium, Polydamus shall keep the ring against all
comers.

Archias
(aside).

I'll employ a surer dagger,—and a more
practised arm:—and I'll go about it immediately.

Philip.

What dost thou mutter, Archias? Shall we not go
after, to hear the proclamation? (Aside)
No answer again?
What the plague does he stare at?—Ha! 'tis his new dignity
hath closed up his senses thus. It is wonderful how a carved
stick, stuck in the hand,—or a robe of a new cut and fashion,
should transform a man quite from the shape of his former
self, and transmute all his thoughts and faculties,—his carriage,
—and his most ordinary and unimportant actions as completely
as the magic of Proteus could have done it,—which, in
the twinkling of an eye shall change you a good portly man to
a wisp of straw,—or the hind leg of a toad to a grave Senator.
—I should like now to see a fish-wife suddenly created queen
of Persia—

(Enter Thulia in great agitation.)
Thulia.
Oh! Androclides!—have you seen him, sirs?
I heard a voice i' th' street cry he was slain—
For heaven's love—have you seen him?—doth he live?

Archias.
Lady,—but now with most foul scorn you eyed me.

Thulia.
Speak! speak! Doth Androclides live? ha? say!

Philip.
Lady—he doth live; and hath 'scaped unhurt;
I saw him on his horse, bound, as I think,
Tow'rds Athens.

(Thulia shrieks with joy, laughs, and falls backward. Archias catches her in his arms.)
Philip.
She's dead! This is no common swoon, Archias!
She's surely dead.

Archias.

Dead! Philip? Thou'rt a raw physician! She
knows better than to die, I'll warrant thee. Women never die
o' this fashion. The world hath not seen such a folly. They
die decently and solemnly; after distributing their trinkets,—
their embroideries,—their infinite gew-gaws to their sobbing
friends, whom, with a most breathless voice and trembling
hand, they awfully warn against the follies and vanities of life.

Philip.

But, Archias—I do truly think she is dead.

Archias.

Art thou a mushroom, Philip?—Didst hear her
make her will? Talk no more of it,—but turn the corner and
summon my servants—and bid them bring the litter with them.
— (Exit Philip)
Which in truth was intended for a different
burthen; but the exchange will be a rich one. Now, my little
proud-crested dove, we shall see if thou wilt peck at me, and
flutter thy disdainful plumes as before;—or if a close cage shall
not bring down that haughty humour of thine to a more obsequious
humility. Come, fellows! despatch! But stay—set
down the litter there, i' th' shade. The sun burns here unbearably.
Now, pretty dove! I'll lay thee in thy nest: and,
as thy old mate hath left thee, why, it will be but charity to
find thee another, and a better perhaps. (He carries her off.)