University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Prologue.

Sudden authority in those inur'd
To forcing of offensive offices
On men, in stubbornness and discontent,
Begets a churlish spirit; like to his
Who tames a bear with hunger and with blows,
Turning its nature to his purposes.
Treatment like this young Joseph did receive
At the Egyptians' mercenary hands;
Who in their power did indulge themselves
In bitter threats, in grudgings and contempt.
These things do little where the greater are;
For Joseph was departed from himself
Like one who sleeps and dreameth of events;
Or with imagination fondleth still
In pain and passion on a former joy:
And as he journey'd still he turn'd his face
Towards bright Canaan and its misty hills:
And as the evening time of folding came,
Of morning prayer and brotherly repast,
His eyes did pierce to heaven thro' his tears;
And all his features struggled with sharp pain
To wear obedience to the will of God,
And overtop his sorrow in content.
So selfish was he in this heartfelt grief,
And so resolv'd to be obedient
In all mischance that should befal to him
(Seeing he had sought favour at His hand
Who cannot know us without patience),
That he still bore a cheerful countenance
In all his drudgery and offices;
Turning rough speeches with a gentle look,
Wooing respect by execution;
And by forbearance and a temperate tongue
Stealing from out the bosoms of these men
The sting of anger and the fang of wrath.
So as their journey did decrease in leagues
Their favour and their love did cleave to him.—
At length they left the forest and the hill,
The wholesome green, and on the barren sands
Crept on their burning way, where man ne'er comes,
Save the marauder sweeping o'er the plain,
Upon a palfrey fleeter than the wind,
Fearful of officers and men at arms—
Like as the ostrich watchful from afar
Measures his flight, and aids him with his wings,
Screaming towards the desert hard pursued,
Urg'd by the horsemen's javelin and bow
Who seek his rolling feathers for their pride:
So flies the bandit, coursèd by his fears,
Bearing large wine-skins from the city gates
To his companions in the wilderness,
Who curse with parchèd lips his long delay;
With faces freckled black by the fierce sun,
And hands that hunt the lion and the man.
They cleanse their scimitars of stainèd blood
And hang their scalding armour on the boughs,
Midway within a rugged precipice
Browing the raving cataract beneath,
While overhead the grey clouds sail in light
Like drovèd camels dreaming in the sun.
Long time their wheels indent the weary miles,
And many signs and landmarks still remain
To cheer their sickening courage and fatigue;
And oftentimes they scare the wary mule
And gather'd vultures (sign of carrion),
Gorging on what the bear and wolf have left,
Greeting disturbance with a deafening cry;
While sailing warily to distant strands
They stand and safely watch the slow retreat;
And where a barren rock doth forkèd rise,
Old eagles perch'd, unweary of the sun,
With dreamy eyes returning his regard
As tho' his dazzling fire but lull'd their pride:
Meanwhile their eaglets in the gushing spring
Which Providence has wisely planted there,
Mapping its way upon the level sand,
Bathe their young wings. In this immensity
Upon the droughthy sands doth silence dwell—
And wandering winds are lost in loneliness—
Sweeping its level surface without end;
Like to a drove of wolves who miss the track,
And wind a circle and shoot forth again,
Perplexedly in a maze monotonous
Howling their savage discord at the moon.
The fiery heat doth beat against the ground
In a reflective waste of golden light;
Nor tree, nor shrub chequers the tedious blank:
Like a dull stain curs'd o'er with barrenness
Sear'd in the angry glances of the sun.—
Anon they come unto the oozy Nile,
Where the sweet wind doth dally with the sedge,
Peopled with insects strange—of gorgeous dyes,
Where the secretive sun conception breeds
Over the ebbèd bottom, that engluts
The fecund grain; so that pale Fear almost
Possesseth watchful Famine of his being;—
River of speckled snakes and adders blue,
And thriving birds that forage in the slime
To nourish nestlings on the sandy plain,
Tiring the wing towards the wilderness,—
Of armèd crocodiles, whose scales defy
Sol's penetrative beams, in slothful ease
Slumbering upon the bosom of the stream,
And as a cloud drifts to the tide of air,
So they in shapeful course obey the flood.
The alligator there in rushy mew
Doth snare the supple weasel to his jaws,
Scenting the mangled carrion in his throat.—
The golden snake out-rollèd like a cloud
At sunset, when the umber sand gleams red,
Teases the restless spirit of a hawk
Who hath descended on his craven food,
And with his ardent eye by fear illum'd,
And blacker in its lustre than a swan's,
Charmeth his object with his dazzling gaze,
Fencing his shifts as valour doth contend
With certain fear, seizing his faint regard
Until the victim yields to nature's law:
The valiant prisoner with the yellow spurs
Drops from his prey, is prey'd upon in turn.
And now behold! the guard come scouring in
With slacken'd bow athwart the shoulder slung,
Cross'd by the taper lance, whose pennon red
Plays like a flickering flame upon the wind.
Three times they note upon the drowsy horn,—
Joyful announce that water is at hand.
The o'erwrought camels by their eagerness
Had long proclaim'd the presence of fresh springs;
Never more welcome was the cry of land
To mariners bewilder'd on the main.—
And now farewell fatigue and languishment;
The many gaps that weariness had made
In their long line of march were soon fill'd up,
And silence dull was chang'd to cries of joy.
As the wild hymn to Isis shakes the air
The kneeling camels yield their burdens up,
And scour away a swift instinctive course
To crop the rare and straggling tufts of grass
In the vicinity of water pools.
The tents are pitch'd, the horses are all stak'd,
And the square bales of merchandise up-pil'd,
Show like a circling compact city wall.
Now as a swarm of bees when an eclipse
Surprises them with artificial night,
Come pouring in, wedging the entrance up,
Encumbering all the wax-built avenues
And golden galleries of their citadel,—
So here, oh! wonder, where so late entwin'd
Young Silence and old Time slept side by side,
On this forlorn and barren wilderness
A populous city on a sudden springs,
Teeming with man and beast all full of life,
Bustle and movement in their enterprise.
Now nature's cravings being satisfied,
Behold Fatigue, so lately scared aloof,
Once more approaching with a stealthy step,
And all, enamour'd of its soft embrace,
Yield to entrancèd slumber, shadowy dreams,
Fantastic reflex of their wanderings,
Form'd of the vastness of the elements;
Light now becomes more solid, never dark
When blinded by a heavy summer dew,
Barely opaque, and nature's murmurings,
Or rather the mysterious life of night,
Mingling is lost in an oblivious calm.
Thus gentle night into day's mantle glides;
It is no more than if the golden day
Enfolded her within a silver veil,
Or when the diver 'mid the coral rocks
Sees many a fathom through the liquid main.
And now with wakeful and accustom'd eye
The guards, attended by their wary dogs,
Form a wide circle round the encampèd host
To keep their weary watch: and as the hours,
Though to the sleepers but a single link,
To them an endless ever-dragging chain,
Touch close upon the middle of the watch,
The dogs give sign of interruption.
No sound, or near or distant, strikes the ear
Upon the velvet carpet of the sands.
See yonder sombre mass advancing swift!
Is it the fleeting shadow of a cloud,
Or else a compact herd of prowling beasts?
Perhaps, dire danger on these barren plains,
Banded marauders on their wingèd steeds,
Who, having track'd their victims through the day,
Come now to fall upon them in their sleep,
And fill the air with cries of blood and death.
But suddenly they stop in mid career
As though aware of man's vicinity,
These nightly wanderers in the wilderness,
Seeking from far a change of pasturage;
The guard whose heart beats fast and audibly
Already hath his horn upon his lips,
And the keen hound, scarce by a gesture stay'd,
Crouches half buried in the indented sand.
All needless caution, for the intruders turn
With rapid flight towards the mountain'd west,
Are sudden lost in dim obscurity
But though the camp still slumbers undisturb'd,
'Tis not for long this sweet oblivion
For the vex'd guard who rocks him to and fro
On the uncertain balance of his spear,
At odds with sleep, with eyes weigh'd down, subdued,
Whose sense of hearing lingers on the edge
And painful confines of half consciousness,
And blendeth with its fading powers:—a noise
Like a loud whispering hangeth in the air!
As it approaches nearer it becomes
Like the north wind when rushing through the trees,
Thence to a roaring and a hissing sound
As when the storm makes havoc in the sails
And cordage taut of some be-tossèd ship,
In answering discord to the seething waves;
Now he looks up, behold, in darken'd space,
As a huge dragon stretching many a rood,
The birds of night as blended into one,
In the obscurity themselves have made,
Bent on their measur'd migratory flight,
Wing their slow way across the desert sands,
Aweary of the forage they have left,
Shunning the inhospitable Dead Sea shore,
Where fish nor fowl make willing residence,
Shaping their course with oblique certitude
Towards the ever-teeming fruitful Nile.
And now the advance guard wheels above the camp,
Sweeps a wide circle and descends more near,
With a prolong'd and simultaneous cry,
Gives notice to the myriads who respond
With deafening clamour warping on the air,
Rise higher and hold on their safer course.
The camp is rous'd in wild bewilderment,
All rush in terror madly to their arms,
As sudden fallen on the day of doom.
The morning sees them once more on the march,
And many a weary day and lingering night
Is still betwixt them and their journey's end.
At length they cross and leave the unctuous flood;
Dreamy Egyptians in the outer field
Scatter the grain in swolten idleness,
And yonder towers and turrets now arise
From parchèd Egypt's city, rude and old.
The Egyptian shouted and to Joseph spake:
‘Since I do find you worthy of your hire,
Courteous and willing in your servitude;
Withal endued with a fair knowledge, far
Beyond your young experience and your years,
I shall dispose you to some officer,
Some man of state and good ability;
Whereby the comfort of your life to come
Will be increas'd by trust and fair regard,
E'en as you rise in favour with your lord:
And I shall gain a profit better worth
Than were you barter'd at the common mart
For common hire.’—Young Joseph but replied:
‘God's will be done.’—But this benign intent
Was thwarted by the malice of the chief
Into whose hands young Joseph fell by lot,
And as if fatally he was decreed
To drain the cup of anguish to the dregs,
Was without mercy driven to the mart
With every mark of barbarous cruelty.
Might it not be design'd by Providence
That Joseph's patience and humility
Should merit the reward and dignities
Reserv'd for his high exaltation?
To an Egyptian lord of great estate
Nam'd Potiphar, the captain of the guard
Of Pharaoh, king of Egypt—unto him
Was Joseph sold a bondsman to his will.
But Potiphar (a man of gentle blood),
Seeing young Joseph's merit, put him straight
Into some trust, and by degrees increas'd
His favour and regard (following desert).
So Joseph lived in honourable bonds,
The steward of his household and affairs.
Meanwhile his grievèd father mourn'd his loss
As tho' he had been ravish'd from the earth.

Scene I.

—Potiphar's House.
Potiphar and Joseph.
Potiphar.
Wear this gold chain.

Joseph.
You honour me, my lord.

Potiphar.
Young man, my pride is lesser than my truth,
And fair desert should be respected well,
But most of all when native in a slave.
This chain I give thee, not to pay thy worth,
Only to honour it; for I have found
Since thou hast had mine office in thine hand,
Thy government has brought me more respect,
More honour and renown, than ever yet
Did wait upon mine own; and hence I know
Thy God is with thee, that thy office thrives,
And I am made partaker of the good;
Wherefore I love and honour thee as much
As wert thou born my brother. Thy respect
Has been to me as great as ever child's
Was to its sire:—Faith, it is very strange—
It seems man's pleasure is allied to tears,
For my eyes burn to talk upon thy love,
As tho' I did not leave thee here in trust,
But were about to quit thee without date,
Forecasting final separation.

Joseph.
My most just lord!

Potiphar.
I must go hence to-night:
The king doth send me on an embassy;
Yet I go not while thou remain'st behind;
Therefore the offices and trusts I leave
Sleep in my ear as things already done.
Use my house freely; tend my lady's will:
Thou'lt find obedience in my trusty slaves,—
Therefore command thy pleasures. Thou hast earn'd
A fair and honour'd fellowship with me,
Wherein I gain: so fare thee well, and peace
Be ever with thee, guardian of my house.

[Exit.
Joseph.
How have I earn'd a happiness like this?
Patience, great God, was all my quality;
Thou hast rewarded me beyond my worth.—
Ah! 'tis the way of bounteous Providence
With those whose stubbornness doth cede to peace:
And he who bears repeated trials well,
With gentle and rebukeless temperance,
Under the angel's wing doth take his stand;
And for his faith and human fortitude
Meets his reward on earth.—Oh! patience,
I never will forsake thee, though this joy
Were turn'd into a moan—protect me still.

[Exit.

Scene II.

—A Chamber in Potiphar's House.
Enter Phraxanor and Joseph.
Phraxanor.
Ha—ha—ha!—
I check in my laughter; dost thou notice it?
Can'st tell me why?

Joseph.
Madam, I have not thought.

Phraxanor.
Wert thou to guess on the left side of me
Thou'dst wake the knowledge.

Joseph.
How so?—I do not see.

Phraxanor.
Because my heart doth grow on the left side.—
A grievèd spirit oft beguiles itself
With laughter and affected idleness;
But all this while a perilous weight will hang
About the breast, threatening its boasted peace;
And, like Time's finger on the dial's hand,
Will stop it at the hour.—Ah, me!—alas!
My mirth was of my head, not of my heart,
And mock'd my patience.

Joseph.
I am griev'd at this.

Phraxanor.
Nay, no physician e'er did heal a wound
By grieving at the hurt. Yet a white hand
O'erspreaded by the tendril veins of youth
Hath quieted a lady's gentle side,
And taught her how to smile.

Joseph.
Madam, indeed
A simple thing that's honourably fair
Doth match my understanding and my wit.
A complex riddle I could never learn,
And am amaz'd at your astrologers,
Who fancy they foretel the act of Fate,
By virtue of their gravity and beards,
With pondering eye still searching in a cloud,
With consecrated wand of ebon wood
Still groping for the jewel in the straw.

Phraxanor.
Oh! wise on the wrong side. If you would learn
Strange matters, never choose a woman's tongue;
For I perceive you still do swerve aside
From tutoring of theirs.

Joseph.
Would I could catch
The motive of your words. My duty bids
To answer you becoming my estate.

Phraxanor.
You might be pleas'd to catch it from my eyes—
Do they look anger'd?

Joseph.
Gentle, to a fault.

Phraxanor.
They match my heart, for I have passions, sir;
And did I catch them pregnant with a spleen,
Fiery or tame, or when I would command
Their lustre to be tempting with encouragement,
To any friend that's dear unto my breast,
I'd pluck them out.

Joseph.
Madam?

Phraxanor.
They are fair eyes—
I know they are. For I have often paus'd
At eve of sinking to the silken bath
With maiden admiration at their power
Reflected in the water like twin stars;
Yours bear upon their colour.

Joseph.
Madam, you did
Command me to your presence, and I pray
If you have cause for my attendance here
Yet make it known unto your servant's ear.
I've learn'd of my lord's kindness the respect
Due to your honour'd service, and believe
That though he is far distant from his home,
His heart remains with me and my good trust.

Phraxanor.
Joseph, no more of that!

Joseph.
Madam, alas!

Phraxanor.
Thou dwell'dst in Canaan, said'st thou?

Joseph.
Madam, I did.

Phraxanor.
What kind of air?

Joseph.
Warm and congenial.

Phraxanor.
Indeed?—I've generally heard that men
Are favour'd of the climate where they live.
Bethink thee—surely our hot Egypt has
Swolten thy recollection of the place.
Thou'rt like a man that's nurtur'd upon ice,
Fed with a spongy snow, and rear'd upon
A mountain's top where winds do freeze the air.—
Congenial, said'st thou?—There's no drop that's warm
Coursing another round those purple veins.—
Here, let me touch thy hand—it is cold—cold—
I've Egypt's sun in mine.

Joseph.
Pure fire indeed.
You do mistake; my hand is not so cold;
Though I confess I've known it warmer far,
For I have struggled against heated blood,
And am proficient in forbearances.

Phraxanor.
Indeed? Are women's wits, then, merely dust
Blown by a puff of resolution
Into their doting eyes?

Joseph.
Wit is but air—
For dust the queen becomes; if she be good,
She breaks to gold and diamond dust, past worth,
The proper metal of a perfect star:
If she be not, embalming is no cure.

Phraxanor.
Come, Joseph, how you play upon my words—
Nay leave this wrangling—thy small mouth in sooth
Was made for sweeter talk. Nay, throw aside
This ponderous mask of gravity you wear,
Or give it me, and I will cast it forth
To where my husband governs his affairs;
It will not reach him, nor be recognis'd
More than if he were blind.—Come here, I say—
Come here.

Joseph.
What would you, madam? I attend.

Phraxanor.
Why, put your fingers on my burning brow
That you have stirr'd into this quenchable heat,
And touch the mischief that your eye has made—
Do it, I say, or I will raise the house.—
Why, that is well. Now I will never say
A sudden word to startle thee again,
But use the gentlest breath a woman has.—
Aye, now you may remove your hand—yet stay—
I did not say withdraw it—you mistake:—
You are too jealous of the wondrous toy;
Leave it with me and I will give you mine;
I hold it as a bird that I do love
Yet fear to lose.—Fie on that steward's ring—
Now should it slip, 'twill fall into my neck.

Joseph.
My lord did order, ere he left the house,
That certain merchants should be furnish'd forth
Of the king's stores, and of his proper trust:
They do attend me, and I must not let
The keys rust idly at the steward's side.
To honourable service I am bound,
By duteous love unto our honour'd lord;
And this is just; therefore I take my leave.

[Exit.
Phraxanor.
Scar'd like a timid dove when suddenly
A human face looks in upon its nest!
Now should I be reveng'd of mine own face,
And with my nails dig all this beauty out,
And pit it into honeycombs.—Yet, no:
I will enjoy the air, feed daintily,
Be bountiful in smiles, and grace my charms,
As the blown rose is beautified by leaves,
Which else shows barely 'mongst the barren twigs:
For he who will not stoop him for desire,
Strides o'er that pity which is short of death.
What! to be pitied where I would be lov'd!—
Go to—I rather would be scorn'd outright,
Nor lose myself in looking for my loss.
The spring is full of flowers where to choose;
And independence is the art of love,
As giving no temptation unto power,
Which in the untouch'd heart grows to contempt.
She is a fool who beats her milky breast
To find the pleasure which her lover wears
As careless as the feather in his cap.
This boy is young, honest, and virtuous:
But he is also beautiful to see.
It cannot be that honesty which lives
Like to a beggar—or a miser, more—
Minute by minute weighing of itself,
Should quench the property of youthful blood.—
I'll hang my arms, love's trophies, round his neck;
No premature dull winter in his hand
Will strike the citron from so fair a tree;
Nor will autumnal languishment decaying
Leave me to sicken on so fair a stalk.—
Vaporous desire like a flame delay'd
Creeps with my pulse and babbles of its bounds,
Too mean, too limited a girth for it.
Impatience frets me—yet I will be proud,
And muse upon the conquest ere 'tis won—
For won it shall be.—Oh! dull Potiphar,
To leave thy wife and travel for thy thrift,
While such a spirit tendeth her her wine.
Ho—give me music, there!—play louder—so!

[Exit.

Scene III.

—Potiphar's House.
Enter Phraxanor and Attendant.
Phraxanor.
Dost thou despise love, then?

Attendant.
Madam, not quite;
A ruby that is pure is better worth
Than one that's flaw'd and streakèd with the light:
So is a heart.

Phraxanor.
A ruby that is flaw'd
Is better worth than one that's sunk a mile
Beneath the dry sand of some desert place:
So is a heart.

Attendant.
Then, madam, you would say
That there is nothing in the world but love.

Phraxanor.
Not quite: but I would say the fiery sun
Doth not o'ershine the galaxy so far;
Nor doth a torch within a jewell'd mine
Amaze the eye beyond this diamond here,
More than the ruddy offices of love
Do glow before the common steps of life.

Attendant.
It is a knowledge worth the stooping for.

Phraxanor.
The soul's supremacy admits no sex:
I am a woman, and am proud of it.
We are content that man shall take the lead,
Knowing he ever will look back on us
With doting eye, not caring how he steps.
Walking thus blindly, we may guide him so
That he shall turn which way shall please us best:
So we can beckon him where'er we will,
And lead him ever round about his grave,
And in whene'er we list.—
All matters that are greater than ourselves
Do trace their secret graces to our hands.
For glory captains struggle in the fight,
And play against the bulwark of the foe
The o'erbrowing engines in the stubborn siege;
But love doth brace the garland on his head,
Making proud victory sweeter than it is.
What warlike prince did doff his laurel yet
But he did cast it in some fair maid's lap,
Saying, ‘My greatness I commit to thee,
Mistress of it, and me, and my proud heart’?
He who has won whate'er he still desir'd,
Strewing his path with flowers of sweet success,
Is yet a poor and melancholic man,
Sad as a beggar craving in a porch,
Being denied the woman he does love.
Love doth attach on independency:
Bravery of suits enriching the bright eye,
Sweetness of person, pleasure in discourse,
And all the reasons why men love themselves;
Nay, even high offices, renown and praise,
Greatness of name, honour of men's regard,
Power and state and sumptuous array,
Do pay a tribute at the lips of love,
Fetching their freshness and their darling grace
From woman's approbation,—waiting still
Close to her elbow till she please to smile
Upon the cause whereof the man is proud,
And say that it is well: our witchery
Doth claim their rarity, as our prime jest:
Tho' but the footstool of a royal king,
When we betray and trip him to the earth
His crown doth roll beneath us.—Horses have not
Such power to grace their lords or break their necks
As we, for we add passion to our power.
They think us gentle, second unto them,
And blind them to the wheels whereon we work.
Our will is the strong rudder to our bark;
Our wit, the sails; beauty, the swelling tide;
Caprice, the tackle, serving to all winds,—
Tho' light as nothing, yet it tells like truth;
And constancy, the anchor that's upheav'd,
For ever falling and yet never struck.
Thus do we voyage o'er the fickle world,
Marking our image upon every wave,
Still moving onward to what port we will.
Ay, there it is! who can control our wills?
Judgment and knowledge, grey-beard wisdom, are
Devoted straw unto our burning will.—
We will not fear: and if we spy a toy
We'll reach it from the moon, with sudden hand—
Why—what shall stop us in our enterprise?

Attendant.
Madam, your speech is fire.

Phraxanor.
Doth it burn you?

Attendant.
I did not think that I had liv'd so long
As I have liv'd.

Phraxanor.
Indeed!—why do you blush?

Attendant.
Because I never dar'd to trust my thought,
And, lo! it has escap'd.

Phraxanor.
Do you, then, love?

Attendant.
In sooth I ever fear'd to call it love:
I knew a minstrel who had fallen in love,
And, though he sung the more his plaintive notes,
Yet never was he merry any more.

Phraxanor.
A wanton waste of frail mortality
To keep the portal of a sepulchre,
And wet a pleading lute with mellow tears,
And hoop the heart with melancholy strains!
That man does dote upon his very grief;—
The gaudy-colour'd story of his mind,
Imagination, is his bed-fellow;
The past and future being both forgot,
The precious present running all to waste.
There is an ancient fashion in the world,—
E'en sigh and choose again.

Attendant.
This may be well.

Phraxanor.
It is the fivefold custom of the day.

Attendant.
One flower in my bosom were enough,
And I have got one in my memory
I would not part with for a wilderness.
Oh! it is delicate and lovely too,
Beyond the grossness of this heartless world.
Your pardon, madam, in all your chronicles
I never knew you credit your own sex
For perfect truth.

Phraxanor.
Because it is a fable.

Attendant.
I hope not, madam.

Phraxanor.
Nay, it is a fable:
Give me your arm over these ivory steps,—
I'll sit in my lord's high seat, and prove it so.
Truth is sublime; the unique excellence;
The height of wisdom, the supreme of power,
The principle and pivot of the world,
The keystone that sustains the archèd heavens;
And Time, the fragment of Eternity,
Eternity itself, but fills the scale
In truth's untrembling hand. His votaries
Belong to him entire, not he to them;
The immolation must be all complete,
And woman still makes reservation.
Our feeling doth resemble the king's coin,
No counterfeit, for it doth bear our weight,
The perfect image, absolute, enthron'd:
Now, the king's coin belongs to many men,
And only by allowance is call'd his:
Just so our feeling stands with circumstance.
Whene'er the king doth give a golden mark,
The addition is the image of himself.
'Tis so with woman's feeling—mark me well;
'Tis true we have the power to love and hate,
Indulge antipathies and sympathies;
But power to pierce through thought to absolute truth,—
Man's reasoning imagination,—still
Is compromis'd in our maternal sex;
Ours is a present, not an abstract power;
And, with it, so much art, which, in a woman,
Did never fail to make a giant kneel.
If Art and Honesty do run a race,
Which tumbles in the mire? Ask those who starve.
Love is the purest essence of our souls,
And who can tell how many modest maids
Have paid its tribute in an early tomb,
The martyrs of our proper sacrifice!
Question the practice and I do avouch,
So marr'd is Nature, that this constancy
(The rarest jewel that the world can boast)
Is the fine failing of our weaker sex;
For men affirm, and I believe it too,
That Truth is greater than the world beside:
Therein we flag, herein our weakness faints:
Meekness and patience, tenderness and love,
These qualities are our inheritance;
Knowledge and wisdom, love of truth and power,
Are the strong engines in the heart of man.
Our chiefest virtue is our fortitude:
Yet maids who die in love do lack it much,
Showing the world a bauble to their griefs.
Our chiefest power is our stubborn will,
Which we do lack the constancy to check,
Seeing it is our agent and not Truth's,
A giant dwarf, to forage for ourselves.
Therefore, since Truth requires that I should lay
Me prostrate at her foot and worship her,
Rather than wield her sceptre and her power,
I shall be bold to follow mine own way,
And use the world as I find wit and means;
And as I know of nothing but old age
To bound my will, so nothing will I fear.—
But I waste words: you do not understand.

Attendant.
Madam, assuredly your speech doth sound
Like sense—I cannot tell—

Phraxanor.
Silence, no more.
Suppose you did expect the man you love
To wait on you about this place and time,
What habit and behaviour would you use?

Attendant.
Were I, like you, a lady of estate,
I would adorn my brow with a bright star
Of crusted diamond's lustre—stain'd with gold,
Like to a frosted sunflower, when the morn
Blinks in the east, and plays upon its front.
My hair should bear a tiara of bright gems;
And all my velvet should be loop'd about
With colours blending into harmony.
I would sip water fragranc'd with sweet gum,
To give my breathing sweetness. Half reclin'd,
I would receive him with a free discourse
Which he should lead, wherein I'd acquiesce.

Phraxanor.
Ah, child! there lies more mischief in a smile
Than in the king's own house, and all his waste
Of wreathèd gold and weighty jewelry.—
Come, help to dress me straight.

Attendant.
What fashion, madam?

Phraxanor.
The sultry hour well suits occasion;—
That silk of gossamer like tawny gold—
Throw it on loosely:—so, 'tis well; yet stay,—
See to the neck; fit thou some tender lace
About the rim. The precious jewel shown
But scantily is oft desired most,
And tender nets scare not the timid bird.
A little secret is a tempting thing
Beyond wide truth's confession.—Give me flowers
That I may hang them in my ample hair;
And sprinkle me with lavender and myrrh.
Zone me around with a broad chain of gold,
And wreath my arms with pearls.—So—this will do—
And in good time, for yonder Joseph comes,
[Aside.
Which saves me the command to bring him here:
Give me a cup of wine.

Attendant.
Amber or purple?

Phraxanor.
Amber with the spice of Araby.—
I hear his measur'd yet elastic step
Staidly advance along the corridor,
And from this damask'd alcove unobserv'd
Can contemplate his beauty as he comes.
What thoughtful wisdom in that face of youth,
Blending in sweetness and in harmony;
An eye that beams with gravity and fire,—
Too much of that:—that must be tam'd, subdued
To the great secret,—charm'd to oblivion:—
That marble front a veinèd tablet fair,
Whereon my lips shall trace my history;
His hair of that rare tint, nor black nor brown,
Of olive amber'd in the sun's bright rays,
That love to linger in its massy folds,
Which o'er his shoulders, like a vexèd wave,
Rolls in disorder'd order, gracefully
Meandering and curling on itself.
Youthful perfection, like a bursting rose,
Glows into manhood, and yet lingers still
In the proportions fine of moulding power,
Partaking of the flower and the bud.
A living grace, repose in action,
O'erclouds him like an element divine:
A fabled angel waiting for his wings,—
Surely this man's inspir'd!—
In his retiring modesty lies hid
A secret charm of native innocence.
Ah! too much virtue is a naughty crime
That never yet grew old in this grey world.
Oh! for an artist with a subtle hand,
A soul inflam'd, ahunger'd of renown,
To deck my chamber with this undrap'd grace!
Lo! I find nature is a novelty,—
The silken study of a courtier's life,
Fading before this youth's simplicity.

Enter Joseph.
Joseph.
Madam, so please—

Phraxanor.
I'll hear thee by and by.
Myrah, depart; yet stay, and first arrange
My sandal, that unseemly doth escape.
Higher still there, where the transparent silk
Tapers towards the ankle. Have a care;
Let me not have to chide this fault again.

[Exit Attendant.
Joseph.
Madam, I have a message from my lord.

Phraxanor.
Put that to rest. Give me that golden box,
Tis fill'd with precious spikenard, queen of scents.

[She spills it on his head.
Joseph.
Madam, what must I say? My state is low,
Yet you do treat me as you might my lord
When he besought your hand.

Phraxanor.
Must I get up,
And cast myself in thy sustaining arms,
To sink thee to a seat?—Come, sit thou here.
Now I will neighbour thee and tell thee why
I cast that ointment on thee.

Joseph.
I did not
Desire it.

Phraxanor.
You did ask me for it.

Joseph.
Madam!

Phraxanor.
You breath'd upon me as you did advance,
And sweets do love sweets for an offering.
My breath is sweet and subtle, yet I dar'd
Not put my lips half close enough to thine
To render back the favour; so I say
The obligation did demand as much—
Why, what amaze is now upon thy face—
Will nothing please?

Joseph.
Madam, your arm—pray move.

Phraxanor.
You peevish bird—like a sick eagle I
Could fain devour, but may not.

Joseph.
I beseech you,
If you respect your place, or my fair name,
Undo your prisoning arms and let me go.

Phraxanor.
Tremble to fear the woman you might love.

Joseph.
Indeed, I would far sooner honour her.

Phraxanor.
Cold, cold, still cold; I eye you like to one
That dieth in my arms: beware you chill
Me too: you do a wrong, and herein court
Much danger. I would risk the world for you;
But blow me cold with your sharp frosty breath,
And these same arms that gird you round about
May turn to bitter chains. We are most dear
In our affections; in vengeance most resolv'd.

Joseph.
Madam, I have a spirit beyond fear.
God knows the duty that I owe your lord
Would break my heart did I commit this sin.
But madam, hear the reason that I have,
Why my lord's honour dearer is than life.
I do remember me, when first I came
Into this land of Egypt, fugitive,
Forlorn, and wretched, bruisèd at the heart,
An iron collar round about my neck,
Degrading mark of bitter servitude,
Stall'd in the press of slaves upon the mart,
Brimful of misery unto the crown,
Forlorn, cast out, abandon'd, and bereav'd,
A certain man did look into my face,
As though to penetrate my very soul.
By slow degrees conviction work'd on him,
And through my sufferings he read my heart,
And all his features melted at the sight.
A sacred pity stole into his eyes,
That dwelt on me in gentle tenderness.
Oh! balm of sweetness, what a holy joy
Pour'd like a flood into my thousand wounds
Of soul and body's sore affliction,
Whereof I languish'd in my pilgrimage!
With his own hands he drew my collar off,
Nor barter'd with the merchant for my price.
He took me to his house, put me in trust,
Justly and wisely kept his eyes on me,
Weighing with care my actions and desert,
And by degrees receiv'd me to his breast,
O'erloaded me with benefits, and chang'd
A chain of iron for a chain of gold,
A wolf-skin kirtle for a purple cloak,
A life of wretchedness for one of peace,
A broken heart to love and tenderness.
This man, so full of human charities,
Had many precious treasures, which he gave
To me in trust, but far above the rest
Was one in which all others were absorb'd,
As in a holy consecrated shrine,
Source of his life, his honour's nourishment,
The loss of which would be a fell decree
Of shame, despair, and infamy, and death.
Madam, this honour'd, honourable man,
Was noble Potiphar, your lord and mine.
Need I add more?—
I pray you let us talk on common things.

Phraxanor.
Neither I am not beautiful, perhaps,—
Set up to be the universal fool.
Why, here's a waste of parti-colour'd words—
High-sounding phrases, empty eloquence.
‘My lord! my lord.’ It scenteth of reproach.
Sir, have a care—blood waits on insult, ha!
One way or other I will have your heart.

[Aside.
Joseph.
This wondrous creature is of faultless mould,
And grace plays o'er the movement of her limbs,
Her marvellous beauty irresistible,
A double charm, abandons languishment,
In soft repose, hints at oblivion.
In motion her imperious dignity,
At secret hours, might dictate to the king.
A most unscrupulous voluptuousness
Mars Nature in her marvellous qualities;
A fascinating monster, fatal equally
In action or reaction of her love;
Fair flower of poisonous perfume born to kill.
Never the demon had an agency
Where he had nought to do in work that's done.
Take pity on yourself, on me, on him—
[Aloud.
On me, for you would hate me mortally
When once you were awaken'd from this dream,
To see the hideous monster you had made.
So utterly impossible this seems,
That I am prone to think it is a feint
To try my truth and prove my honesty.

Phraxanor.
Ah! 'tis a feint that burns my body up,
And stirs my spirit like a raging sea.
Think you to pay in words?—deeds—deeds!
For I can tell you that you have in hand
One who will have no debts.

Joseph.
It is enough.
'Tis time this hopeless contest had an end.
I have borne this besieging patiently,
Still hoping to arouse your modesty.
Oh! do not force the loathing that lies hid
Within my gall to rush into my face.

Phraxanor.
This is the greatest blessing that you shun.

Joseph.
Or the worst sin.

Phraxanor.
Oh! weigh not with such scales.

Joseph.
Oh! madam, have a care.

Phraxanor.
Listen, or else
I'll set my little foot upon thy neck;—
Thou art like a beautiful and drowsy snake,
Cold, and inanimate, and coil'd around
Upon a bank of rarest sun-blown flowers.
My eye shall be the renovating sun—

Joseph.
Madam, forbear: I'm sick to think on it.

Phraxanor.
You overdo this art, for Nature sure
Never did put disgust upon a lip
So near a woman's: an empoison'd cup
Might curdle all the features of thy face;
But this same blandishment upon my brow
Could never chase the colour from thy cheeks.

Joseph.
Love, being forc'd, so sickeneth the sense,
That dull monotony is nothing to it.—
A pallid appetite is sweeter far
Than shockèd modesty and fierce distaste.

Phraxanor.
You are too dead a weight.

Joseph.
Why, let me go.

Phraxanor.
My arms are faint; smile thou, they're ribs of steel.

Joseph.
The sun ne'er shinèd in a pitch-black night.

Phraxanor.
Oh! ignorant boy, it is the secret hour
The sun of love doth shine most goodly fair.
Contemptible darkness never yet did dull
The splendour of love's palpitating light.
At love's slight curtains, that are made of sighs,
Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand
Like to a flower closèd in the night;
Or, like a lovely image drooping down
With its fair head aslant and finger rais'd,
And mutely on its shoulder slumbering.
Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear,
And blended fragrance in his startled breath
Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew.
All outward thoughts, all common circumstance,
Are buried in the dimple of his smile:
And the great city like a vision sails
From out the closing doors of the hush'd mind,
His heart strikes audibly against his ribs
As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage,
Forcing the blood athro' the erampèd veins
Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide
Cours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore I say
Night-blooming Ceres, and the star-flower sweet,
The honeysuckle, and the eglantine,
And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red wine,
Together with all intertwining flowers,
Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each other,
And form the bower of all-precious Love,
Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and leaves
From jealous interception of Love's gaze.—
This is Love's cabin in the light of day—
But oh! compare it not with the black night,—
Delay thou sun, and give me instant night—
Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours;
The whitest clouds are pillows to bright stars,
Ah! therefore shroud thine eyes.

Joseph.
Madam, for shame!—

Phraxanor.
Henceforth, I'll never knit with glossèd bone,
But interlace my fingers among thine,
And ravel them, and interlace again,
So that no work that's done content the eye,
That I may never weary in my work.

Joseph.
Would that my lord were come!

Phraxanor.
Thy hair shall be
The silken trophy of the spirit of Love,
Where I will lap, fair chains, my wreathèd arms.

Joseph.
What's to be done? Madam, give way, I pray you.

Phraxanor.
Beware! you'll crack my lace.

Joseph.
You will be hurt.

Phraxanor.
Oh! for some savage strength!

Joseph.
Away! away!

Phraxanor.
So, you are loose—I pray you kill me—do!

Joseph.
Let me pass out at door.

Phraxanor.
I have a mind
You shall at once walk with those honest limbs
Into your grave.

Joseph.
Are you a lady, madam?

Phraxanor.
I was so, but I am a dragon now:
My nostrils are stuff'd full of splenetive fire;
My tongue is turn'd into a furious sting,
With which I'll strike you—Ha! be sure I will.

Joseph.
Madam, I did desire you no offence.

Phraxanor.
Death and perdition, no!

Joseph.
Your love is lost on me,
And I refus'd your offer; which was wise.

Phraxanor.
Oh! was it so? have you so much scorn left?
Unload it in my lap—let me have all,
That I may hate with cause. Malice is proud,
Nor yields to trifles—nay, despise me more.

Joseph.
I ne'er despis'd the lady of my lord,—
Only her vice.

Phraxanor.
My lord—my lord—canst thou
Not mouth that word distinctly from my lady?
My lord!—He surely shall be paid full home
That honours lords above a lady's love.
Thou hast no lord but me,—I am thy lord:
And thou shalt find it, too—fool that I was
To stoop my stateliness to such a calf
Because he bore about a panther's hide.
That is not blood which fainteth in thy veins,
But only infant milk. Thou minion!
Bought up for drudgery with idle gold,
How dar'st thou look or wink thy traitorous eye,
Much less to think, when I command thy will?
Oh, impudence! to scorn a noble dame!
Were't not that royalty has kiss'd my hand
I'd surely strike thee.

Joseph.
Madam! be temperate.

Phraxanor.
Who bade thee speak, impudent slave? beware!
I'll have thee whipp'd.—Oh! I am mad to think
That ever I should bring myself to scorn
For such a stubborn minion as thou art.
Ha!—thou mere shadow—wretched atomy!—
Fill'd full of nothing—making a brave show,
Like to a robe blown with the boastful wind—
Thou worse than ice, for that melts to the sun—
Disgrace to Egypt and her feverish air—
Thou shalt not stay in Egypt.

Joseph.
I grieve at that.

Phraxanor.
I am chang'd. Thou shalt stay here—and since I see
There is no spirit of life in all this show,
Only a cheat unto the sanguine eye,
Thou shalt be given to the leech's hands
To study causes on thy bloodless heart
Why men should be like geese.—A pretty pass
I've brought my dauntless spirit to. These knees,
That ne'er did bend but to pluck suitors up,
And put them out of hope—Oh! I am mad—
These feet by common accident have trod
On better necks than e'er bow'd to the king;
And must I tie them in a band of list
Before a slave like thee?

Joseph.
Still I look honestly.

Phraxanor.
Thy looks are grievous liars, like my eyes;
They juggled me to think thou wert a man.
If seeming make men thou art one indeed.
Seeming, forsooth! Why, what hadst thou to do,
When thou might'st feast thy lips on my eyelids,
To hang thy head o'er thy left shoulder thus
(Like to a madman doting on a straw
Past the wide wonder of the precious world),
Blinking at Honesty, and so beguil'd
With its full semblance stuff'd with nothing real;
While I, like a congealèd icicle
Or some dull yew-tree brooding o'er a grave,
Was shunn'd avoidably?—Thou Honesty!
Like the arm'd tooth within the gilded snake,
Making its beauty fear'd and yet admir'd,
For that its poison is of precious use,
Thou that mak'st nothing of a dame like me,
Show me thy proper pet, that when one such
In all her soberness may meet my eye,
I may prepare to burn her with my gaze,
And twit her with my scorn.

Joseph.
Honest women
Are made of tender stuff, and yet too tough
To warp or quail before the eye of vice.
Madam, have you no shame?

Phraxanor.
Nor will not have:
When crownèd with success, shame laughs aloud;
When conquer'd, shame is of itself asham'd.
I am grown childish and inconsequent;
[Aside.
Why, what have I to scan that's critical?
My wounded spirit is benumb'd and bruis'd,
And seeks to lose itself in wandering.
I may be vanquish'd, but never will be weak.
Thou art not form'd to love, but ever to be lov'd.

[Aloud.
Joseph.
[Aside.
This fascinating danger walls me round,
Leaving no door that's open to escape.
She's gone too far for one who ne'er recedes,
And her blind passion, as a torch illum'd,
Will ne'er recoil before explosion.
A single hope remains invisible,
A silken thread to carry all this weight.
Could I allume a virtuous fire in time,
We were all sav'd! Ah! feeble enterprise,
Dangerous as hopeless: Eloquence and Truth
Befriend me in this dire extremity!
'Tis true there is a common name call'd love;
[Aloud.
But love and love is union opposite,
Two flames of different colour and of heat,
One that consumes and one again that charms,
Pure element of continuity.
Fancy's inconstant idol still remains,—
All is not love in sensuality,—
A day's beginning and a month to end.

Phraxanor.
Why, here is heyday logic! 'tis this hour
That I am born; through all my flowery youth
I have been following a miracle,
A solid, consequent, substantial dream;
Ha! ha! forgive me, Joseph, that I laugh;
Thou art the strangest nothing I e'er saw.

Joseph.
As nothing, then, let me be entertain'd,
And leave me to my own oblivion.
Seeing that nothing can commit no sin,
Enough for me my insignificance.

Phraxanor.
I am not curious, yet fain would catch
This light aerial exposition.

Joseph.
And to what end? Alas! it were in vain;
In measure we advance our roads divide,
And only tend to the Antipodes.
Your soul and body own but one idea,
Nor mine: each tendance,—light and darkness dire!

Phraxanor.
Now by all nature I am curious.
Lest you suppose me taken in your net
Of phrases form'd of silken gossamer,
I pray you deign to aid my ignorance.

Joseph.
The first great attribute is modesty,
Source of self-government and self-respect:
'Tis ever delicate—in giving all
Seems to give nothing, hence equality;
Consciousness absorb'd in sympathy
Is ever present abnegation,
And therefore generous in tenderness;
The fire that burns is intellectual,
So mind and body are combin'd in one—
Altar of constancy, high honour's throne,
Where reigns in confidence its lord elect.
This said, 'tis virtue,—all unsaid is vice,
Be it within or else without the laws;
The heart is not a gallery to hang
A line of portraits equal fair and false,
A gaudy history of sin and shame.

Phraxanor.
Is there still more of this most precious woof?
The spinning out would take a summer's day.

Joseph.
Yes, madam, there is more: still a last word
To waste like those that have preceded it,
One supreme thought that you have never had,
One that my courage fails me to divulge
Without your special approbation.

Phraxanor.
Joseph lack courage?—Joseph's courage fail?
I of all beings cannot credit that;
But since you say in doleful verity
I am the source of this fine energy,
Not only I consent, but do command.

Joseph.
Wedlock, altho' abandon'd and forgot,
Still lives in archives and in chronicles;
Word of reproach to all duplicity.
Why marry, being free? Is't that to-morrow
May mock to-day,—that the reputed son
Should shame the sire,—a living lie to all
Posterity,—inheriting the curse,
Dishonouring the line of ancestry?
Passion cosmopolite poisons the eye,
And demons pass for gods,—the vicious,
The vile, the abandon'd, and perchance the slave!
Depository of a glorious race,
There breathes not on the earth a nobler man
Than your large-hearted and confiding lord.
Think on your vows! Be constant and be wise!

Phraxanor.
Well, have you ended? Is there nothing more?

Joseph.
Or rather, madam, nothing has been said.

Phraxanor.
Grace! Grace! You grow so dull and tedious
That if it were not for my traitorous eyes
You'd cure me of this passion thro' my ears.
Speak, and be brief.—

Joseph.
There lacks equality:
If, madam, with a virgin heart you woo'd,
Unknowing all in native innocence,
Seeking a virgin heart to correspond,
Tho' somewhat bold, a fascination still
Might breed compassion, sympathy, and love
Wherein a shock'd imagination
Had neither rival nor co-partnership.
Yet you ask all; and think it much to give
(Enthron'd on your offended dignity)
A yet divided subdivided half,—
A soul beyond a body, if you will,
But rather say a soulless body's zest,—
A self-consuming sacrificing fire
Without an echo to its egotism—
(Still I insist there's no equality)—
A flickering and vacillating flame,
Feeding the summer embers of the blood,
Where spring and autumn are alike unknown,
And winter waits with palsied icy hand,
Eager to gather up the parchèd bones,
And prematurely cast them to a grave
Where gapes eternity!—
I am not the senseless creature you suppose,
But stand upon my honour, and will have
Substance unshadow'd—either all or none.

Phraxanor.
The great magician has laid by his wand,
The circle of his magic art is run.
Would you have my opinion of all this?
'Tis—that we waste our time on idle words.
Oh! I have been a fool to rave about—
I have mistook my passion all this while.
Thou implement of honesty, it is
Not scorn but laughter that is due to thee.
I'll keep thee as an antic, that when dull
Thou may'st kill heavy time.—Look up, thou slave:
A woman's pity lodges by remorse:
I never knew a danger I did fear.
Think'st thou that honesty will save thee now
From ignominious death?

Joseph.
God knows, not I;
I never will be guilty of disgrace;
If it do come, I'll bear it as I've borne
Your burthens; sweat I may,—never complain.

Phraxanor.
Dry as a wild boar's tongue in honesty—
And yet that hath an essence tending to
Its savage growth. Thou shock of beaten corn!
Thou hollow pit, lacking a goodly spring,
Tempting the thirsty soul to come and drink,
Then cheating him with dust and barrenness!
Thou laughable affection of man's form!

Joseph.
Madam, you beat the air; your sarcasm keen
Preceding your revenge touches me not;
Your wrath still glances o'the dangerous side,
And hits yourself.

Phraxanor.
Are all these Canaanites
Like you? ha!

Joseph.
An they were, 'twere no disgrace.

Phraxanor.
I'll prick my arm, and they shall suck the blood,
To make men of them—for a need, I trow.
Ah! you poor temperate and drowsy drone—
You empty glass—you baulk to eyes, lips, hands—
Ha, ha! I will command the masons straight
Hew you in stone and set you on the gate,
Hard by the public walk where dames resort;
Therein you shall fool more admiring eyes
(A plague upon the embers in my throat),
For you fool'd mine, and I like company.
It is the proper stuff whereof you're made,
Your colour and your heat are counterfeit,
Like a stone image, fit to be admir'd,
But rather to be mock'd than to be lov'd—
There shall you stand, the mark of my contempt.

Joseph.
You do me bitter wrong—unlady-like—
A scourgeable, a scarlet-hooded wrong,
When thus you pack my shoulders with your shame.

Phraxanor.
Ha! have I touch'd thee? art thou sensible?
I prythee do not fret, my pretty lute;
I shall shed tears, sweet music, if thou fret.
Thou shalt be free, like a rare charmèd snake,
To range a woman's secret chamber thro'—
Here, take my mantle, gird it o'er thy loins,
And steep thy somewhat brownèd face in milk:
I have a sister, a young tender thing,
To her I will prefer thee, a she-squire,
To brace her garments, and to bleach her back
With sweet of almonds. A dull parrot thou!
Tiring her idle ear, and gaping for
An almond for thy pains. May the huge snake
That worships on the Nile, enring and crush thee!

Joseph.
This may be well, but it affects not me.

Phraxanor.
Oh! madam, do not fret—madam, I say.

Joseph.
Oh, peace! you pass all bounds of modesty.

Phraxanor.
Pray write upon thy cap ‘This is a man’—
A plague and the pink fever fall on thee!
I am thrown out: thou'st nettled me outright.—
Who knocks there? wait awhile, the door is fast—
Nay, stand thou here! I will not let thee pass.

Enter Attendant.
Attendant.
Madam, the noble Potiphar's return'd.

Joseph.
My business was to tell you of this thing,
But your great passion still o'erflooded it.

Phraxanor.
I'm sick of two extremes, both desperate.
[Aside.
Tameness doth lodge in dove-cots in a farm;
Spleen, with wild eagles, in the mountain pines.
I'll purchase nothing of this pale tameness:
I cannot sue again without disgrace.—
Yet I would sooner conquer on my knee
Than yield me with a crown upon my head
To the blank issue of my foil'd desire.
I am unus'd to this weak tenderness,
This soft return where folly mocks itself:
With closèd eyes I laugh myself to scorn,—
Open I dote past life's identity.
My passive blood springs sudden to my heart,
Seeking for Joseph in each burning vein.
Oh! dream personified of waking sleep,
Enchaining charm of body and of mind,
Breaking all bounds, flying to either pole,
Twining for ever in a circling spell,—
Ah! Joseph, all my fierce disgust lies dead:
At sight of thee I e'er return forlorn.
Oh, tyrant Love, thy tyranny is mine!
Bethink thee friend, be merciful in time,
[Aloud.
Nor over cruel to thyself and me;—
The past shall fade,—memory expire in hope!
The spark still burns of all this mighty fire,
And love possesses me, that I have lov'd.
The setting sun with fiery galaxy
O'erfloods the fulgent west with dying gaze,
And still I yearn to bathe in such a light.
There is a second childhood in departing love,—
No tenderness so keen as that adieu;
The blood of Joseph ebbeth from my heart!—
My other self, if you will take my hand,
I'll whisper you hereafter.

Joseph.
Madam, no!

Phraxanor.
Oh! fool, you tie a stone about your neck,
And cross the yawning gulf upon a reed.
Hark! 'tis the main roars hoarsely underneath.

[A pause. Phraxanor kneels to Joseph in apparent supplication.
Joseph.
Madam, for shame! Rise, I beseech thee, rise!
Kneel to thy husband, and I'll kneel to thee.

[She springs to her feet.
Phraxanor.
By all our altars and their leaping flames,
The searching malice of our angry gods,
But I will be reveng'd upon thee, slave!
Could I have wrung from him a tardy ‘yes’
[Aside.
The echo of my laughter had been heard
Hence to the desert pyramids and back;
For now I loathe him in my inmost soul,—
The flame rejected by this wall of ice
Returns for ever to consume myself,
Withering in my own remorseful fire,
Baffled, besham'd, humiliated, lost;
But I will be reveng'd!—
This is a bitter silence for thee, slave!
[Aloud.
My mind is active.

Joseph.
Would your heart were so.

Phraxanor.
My heart, that was so red, is black as night;
I muse on the unfathom'd mystery
Of the profound profoundest of the sea,
A dwelling of eternal solitude,
Confine of life, and realm of mute despair,
A spell ne'er broken, save by monsters dire,
Unknown to man's imagination,
Prowling the desert of this liquid world.
For combat or for prey such prison must
Be found out, or invented cunningly,
The measure of my hatred and revenge.
By what fierce means I'll drive thee to thy grave,
Or shroud thy life to come in misery,
I will not speak; so the discovery,
Being unsure, will work more bitterly.

Joseph.
Oh! dangerous woman, where will all this end?

Phraxanor.
Woman!—Woman to me!—
[She loosens a little dagger at her waist.
Assuredly I shall lay hands on you—
A common insult in a common name!
Sir, I am Phraxanor, of royal blood,
The beautiful, the courted, the ador'd,
Who, for the first and last time in her life,
Hath vail'd her pride before a slave.—Ha! Woman!
A word thy blood shall wash away.—He comes!—
An empty urn followeth in his train,
Whereon is writ, in crimson characters,
‘Joseph the Canaanite, the slave of slaves,
The vilest of this country and his own.’
He comes! He comes! my injuries rejoice!
I turn my back on thee as on the dead.

Enter Potiphar and Attendants.
Phraxanor.
—Ah! give me breath!

Potiphar.
How fares it with my lady?
Do you rather choose to strike your gentle breast
With violence than press that breast to mine?

Phraxanor.
You return merrily, my lord.

Potiphar.
Why not?
I urg'd my horses onward for thy sake.

Phraxanor.
The bird doth whistle over hill and dale,
Leaving its roost for food and exercise,
And joyously it whistles back again;
But all its mirth is turn'd into a moan
When in its nest the weasel is espied
Sucking its speckled eggs.

Potiphar.
Why, what is this?
Some witch, or some magician has been here.
Your speech is idle, but your look is fierce.—
How is this? Steward, is my household sound?
I will not ask, for never at thy hands
Have I found aught but equal justice yet,
Duty, and due respect. Embrace me, madam.

Phraxanor.
Stand off! impurity doth 'witch my form,
Which blood must wash away. I'm haunted here
With a loose demon waiting to be chain'd.

Potiphar.
What dost thou say?

Phraxanor.
Listen. Stand forth, thou slave!—
Thou Hebrew bondman unto Potiphar,
I do forgive thee that thou ap'st the step
Of honesty, for thou hast frugal need
Of all the good belonging to thy soul,
And all the art that thou canst conjure up
To get thine evil drift accredited.

Potiphar.
I hop'd to find a steward of good trust,
A wholesome household of good government,
And a fair wife content and unaggriev'd.
These things I left; but here, alas! I find
Some perilous rottenness instead of peace.

Phraxanor.
Pray give me leave. Bondman, report thyself.
I do believe thy honesty so great
Unto this noble lord, thy master, here,
That of the stream of gold from the king's treasury,
Which thro' thy hands did course to other men's
Around the suburbs and the city mart,
No doit did ever stick unto thy palm
Tending to thy particular behoof;
Nor e'er did gild thy honest fingers more
Than in its passage through them; yea, I think
That thou hast prun'd his interest jealously,
Hast kept his cares still crouching at his feet,
And (rarity of servants) still hast made
His interest thine; and his fair name abroad
Hast dew'd as freshly as if all his shame
Should have been reap'd by thee. Is not this true?
I do believe it. Speak,—and nothing fear.

Joseph.
This is a little—yet I do not see
Why you should wish to prattle of my good.

Phraxanor.
Right—right.

Joseph.
But since I have no cause to fear
Or any act or accident of mine,
My tongue shall show the record of my heart,
Just as my deeds did only want a name.
When I was brought a stranger to this land
And sold unto the chain of my dear lord,
Out of an honest bosom I besought
That in His mercy God would pity me,
And lift me up a little from the dust;
Whereat this Master of the universe
Did turn my lord's eye in his servant's face;
And he was pleas'd, and tied his trust on me,
E'en as a man descending in a pit
Doth brace his rope about the safest tree.
Fair trust begetteth confidence, for men
Do waste the precious treasures of the spring
Still looking onward to the spring to come:
Therefore my lord did hand me these his keys
That never yet had left his proper side.
And soundly slept upon my stewardship.
Nor ever yet hath act of mine arous'd
The peaceful slumber that he hath enjoy'd,
Nor spotted—

Phraxanor.
You grow tedious; let me
Finish the goodly picture of your work.
Your trust was pure as silver, bright as flame,
Forg'd in your equity, fin'd in your truth,
Stubborn in honesty as stapled iron.
Your charity was wise, like soaking rain
That falleth in a famine on that ground
That hath the seed lock'd up—so far all honour:
Your love and duty to my lord were like
A mine of gold—but out, alas! the fault—
You fell in twain like to a rotten plank
When he was tempted in to trust his wealth—
There was no bottom to't, he broke his neck.
—Will you praise him, my honour'd lord?

Potiphar.
Why so?

Phraxanor.
Because he never must be prais'd again.
A howling dirge for ever in his ears
Buries this praise. Steward, give up thy keys.

Joseph.
Obedience ever was my fault, my lord.
Here I do lay them at your gracious foot:
If I did e'er deserve to lose them thus,
May they fall unto chains and hug me round
Like some vile reptile crushing out my life!

Phraxanor.
I have a mind to haul thee by the hair,
Singular idiot, that cannot fear—
My indignation, that should burn thee up,
Doth fall like fire on water. Tell me, thou slave,
Arise, and front my wrong'd nobility,
Nor slink in wonder on thy craven knees,
In what part of my body canst thou spy
The name impure? wherein do I look false?—
My lord—my lord—the man that you did love
Hath much abus'd me.

Potiphar.
Ha!—if it be so—

Phraxanor.
If!—
When Phraxanor has said there is no if.
Your doubt implied is all excusable,
And bred of his profound hypocrisy.
But hear us out: simplicity and truth
The steward knows command conviction.
Say I would change the vintage for the room,
Still in the passage I did find him there,
Like to a lobbied spaniel that mistakes
Some stranger for his owner; like that dog
He still would wind about my hasty step,
And feign as he would leap into my lap.
Whene'er I chanc'd to air me in the street,
Still was this steward going the same way.
Whene'er I call'd attendance from my slaves,
They were employ'd, and he straight started forth.
The chamber where you sleep he did invade,
But cries and threats yet held him in the slips
And scar'd his purpose from him.—If it be so!
Why on this spot, and at this very time
You take him laying shameful hands on me.

Potiphar.
Wherefore did you not give him to the guard?

Phraxanor.
Aye, there it is: his art and guile are such
(Being more dangerous because unknown)
That I dar'd trust my honour in no hand
But my dear lord's; and therefore I bore all
(Tho' somewhat ruffled) patient as I could.

Potiphar.
So honest and so vile? This is most strange.

Phraxanor.
Oh! not at all—no whit—'tis nothing strange.
The fox doth never steal into the fold
Till he hath forecast all his premises.
The thief that scorns your money and is bent
To crop the blossom of your secret peace,
Comes crown'd with flowers like May, as sweet as June,
And with a mask stolen from the wardrobe of
Fair honesty, and glean'd of other men.
He is the adder both in sight and touch—
Beautiful malice, glistening, deadly wretch,
I will example you: a man so acts
Fair with himself and fairer still to you:
He passes all his offices and trust,
And gleaneth honour in each enterprise.
This may not be all honour in the main;
Perchance his face is feign'd. He hath some end
Worth all this pains to him in answering.
Grant that a base man may live honestly;
Wherein detect him, and how find him out?
Why, when the secret end for which he works
Is laid unguarded 'fore his greedy eyes
He draws him to a point: and, let me ask,
Is not a woman mettle for this trail?
And does not all this pompous virtue blind
Her lord's keen eye, engaging hers the while
To lodge him in her thought for his behalf?
Am not I fair? is not the steward good?
Pleasing my lord with his fair services?—
My lord, away; the steward's goodness curds:
He casts lascivious eyes unto my bed;
Lays nets about my feet, stuns my sick ears
With protestations and beseechings, urg'd
With oaths enough to undermine a tower;
As tho' my lord were dead and in his grave,
Or loosely wiv'd.—Oh! it is very plain.
Marvel not I am so completely learn'd
In all the meanness of this vicious course;
I have had time to think upon the cause
Who bore the penalties.

Potiphar.
Away, away!
Speak not unto me. Oh! thou shameful boy,
Were it not for the virtue of my wife
Thou hadst wrung my heart in grief, with less remorse
Than vultures draw the entrails of their prey.
Thou most ignoble boy! lowness, I see,
Be it e'er so cherish'd or exalted, will
Still turn to its own bias.—Wretched knave,
Thou dost abuse sweet nature in thy form;
Proficient in low craft, not honesty—
Artful deceiver to all good men's eyes—
Bred, none know where, 'mongst wretched villanies,
And nurtur'd by the worst of human kind.
Thy father surely was some ruffian knave—

Joseph.
Cut me to pieces, or imprison me,
I will not say a word to grieve thine ear,
For I do love thee, sir, dear as my life—
But by the holy God who reigns above
I'll not stand tamely by, these arms unbound,
And hear my sire abus'd, for I love him
Dearer than the respect I owe to you.

Phraxanor.
Ah! a filial virtue added to the rest.
Who was thy father, didst thou ever know?
Or dost mistake some honest man for him?

Joseph.
A man who was a herdsman in the vales
Of gentle Canaan, full of woods and streams;
Who, thro' his industry and honest thrift,
Hath oxen, ploughs, and granaries, and tents,
Cattle, and bondmen, and a goodly flock
Of noble sons who honour his grey head;
Wherein he feels more happy than a king,
Ruling of love, not power.

Phraxanor.
You were resolv'd,
Howe'er you love perfection in your sire,
To choose a certain and a sudden way
To find disgrace, and end your wretched life
Despis'd, unnoted, wicked, and forlorn.

Joseph.
Madam, pray peace. Oh! is it not enough
That you do lead me in a silken string,
Like a young heifer to a sacrifice,
But you must goad my willingness along,
Not my delay?

Phraxanor.
What means the slave? I trow
This is some cunning trick to wind about.
I do not think that any honest man
Could e'er be sire to one so base as thou.

Joseph.
Still I am patient, tho' you're merciless.
Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch
There is no city feast, nor city show,
The encampment of the king and soldiery,
Rejoicings, revelries, and victories,
Can equal the remembrance of my home
In visible imagination.
Even as he was I see my father now,
His grave and graceful head's benignity
Musing beyond the confines of this world,
His world within with all its mysteries.
What pompless majesty was in his mien,
An image of integrity creates,
Pattern of nature, in perfection.
Lo! in the morning when we issued forth,
The patriarch surrounded by his sons,
Girt round with looks of sweet obedience,
Each struggling who should honour him the most;
While from the wrinkles deep of many years,
Enfurrow'd smiles, like violets in snow,
Touch'd us with heat and melancholy cold,
Mingling our joy, with sorrow for his age:
There were my brothers, habited in skins;
Ten goodly men, myself, and a sweet youth
Too young to mix in anything but joy;
And in his hands each led a milk-white steer,
Hung o'er with roses, garlanded with flowers,
Laden with fragrant panniers of green boughs
Of bays and myrtle interleav'd with herbs,
Wherein was stor'd our country wine and fruit,
And bread with honey sweeten'd, and dried figs,
And pressèd curds, and choicest rarities,
Stores of the cheerless season of the year;
While at our sides the women of our tribe,
With pitchers on their heads, fill'd to the brim
With wine, and honey, and with smoking milk,
Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the swell
Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise.
Thus would we journey to the wilderness,
And fixing on some peak that did o'erlook
The spacious plains that lay display'd beneath,
Where we could see our cattle, like to specks
In the warm meads, browsing the juicy grass,
There pitch our tent, and feast, and revel out,—
The minutes flying faster than our feet
That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice,
Making fatigue more sweet by appetite.
There stood the graceful Reuben by my sire,
Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun,
And, like him, stealing renovation
Into the darkest corner of the soul,
And filling it with light. There, women group'd,
My sisters and their maids, with ears subdued,
With bosoms panting from the eager dance,
Against each other lean'd; as I have seen
A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale
Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend,
While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some way off
My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for fame,
Each two with their two heifers harness'd fast
Unto the shaft, and labour'd till the sweat
Had crept about them like a sudden thaw.
Anon they tied an eagle to a tree,
And strove at archery; or with a bear
Struggled for strength of limb. These were no slaves—
No villain's sons to rifle passengers.—
The sports being done, the winners claim'd the spoil:
Or hide, or feather, or renownèd bow,
Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse.
And then my father bless'd us, and we sang
Our sweet way home again. Oft I have ach'd
In memory of these so precious hours,
And wept upon those keys that were my pride,
And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night.
Alas! God willing, I'll be patient yet.

Phraxanor.
This must be seen to, it grows dangerous;
[Aside.
The fool will steal away my husband's ears,
And mar my triumph. 'Tis a sweet report:
Thy kin, it seems, did never know of shame
[Aloud.
Till thou didst earn it.

Joseph.
Madam, did you speak?

Phraxanor.
Dull minion! yes, I did. Thou hast the blot
Of all thy family: their infamy
Is thy sole portion, and thou bear'st it well.

Joseph.
Vex me no more: I bend unto your wrench;
Pray you rest satisfied.

Phraxanor.
How came it, sir,
Since you have gone so daintily about
That you were sold to our Egyptian whips,
Far from your boasted family and friends?
It argued not their love or deep regard
To covet coin before your company.—
Or were you, peradventure, stolen thence?

Joseph.
Madam, to save a blush, I cannot lie.
My brothers sold me to the Midianites.

Phraxanor.
Go to—whose fault was this; or theirs, or thine?

Joseph.
Both theirs and mine, if I may judge aright.

Phraxanor.
Ha! have I track'd you? Some foul practices,
Some evil, like this gross one of to-day,
Expell'd you forth of their fair company—
You did do vilely.

Joseph.
No, upon my life.
Compassion, not reproof, is all that's due
To me for this mischance.

Phraxanor.
Humph!—I do fear it.

Potiphar.
Ah, Joseph! wherefore hast thou done this thing?
My choler's melted into burning tears
Which rise in sadness from my grievèd heart.
I had no children, and the love I bore
To thee was all paternal, and in spite
Of the unnatural wrong, I cannot wring
From out my bosom all the rooted love,
Lest it should leave a sore and dangerous wound
Too near my heart. What's to become of thee?

Joseph.
No matter, my good lord; but talk not thus,
Or you will break my heart.

Potiphar.
Oh! fie—fie—fie!—

Joseph.
If I did ever wrong thee in an act,
In thought, or in imagination,
May I taste bread never again.—Oh! God!
Try me not thus: my infirmity is love.
I can be dumb and suffer, but must speak
When there's a strife of love between two hearts.

Phraxanor.
Ha! thou still wear'st thy heart upon thy tongue,
And paint'st the raven white with cunning words:
Slave, thou art over-bold, because thou think'st
The grossness of thine outrage seals my lips:
But thou shalt be deceiv'd; behold this chain:
Say, did it fall in twain of its own weight,
Or was it broken by thy violence?
Speak—liar!

[She plucks him by the beard.
Joseph.
Madam, try rather at my heart.

Potiphar.
Phraxanor, you forget your dignity.

Phraxanor.
My lord, my indented lips still taste of his.
Myrah, bring water here and wash my hand—
It is offended by this leprous slave.
Passion is privileg'd. Did you but feel
My wrong as it doth rankle in my breast
You'd cleave him to the girdle.

Potiphar.
You shall have
Full justice for the injury, ne'er doubt.—
How durst thou do as thou hast been accus'd?

Phraxanor.
Thou hast denied me: what hast thou to say?

Potiphar.
And couldst thou deal so shamefully by me?

Phraxanor.
Put him to that; aye, let him answer that.

Joseph.
I'm like a simple dove within a net,—
The more I strive, the faster I am bound.
My wit is plain and straight, not crookèd craft;
The sight that reacheth heaven tires in a lane.

Phraxanor.
You will not answer; 'tis the strangest knave
I ever met or heard of in my time:
His impudence downright amazes me.—
Slave! do you know you've given me the lie,
And laid my honour open to be scorn'd?
How long, I pray you, must I wait at hand
Till you will condescend to cast my crimes
And mar my honesty?

Joseph.
The truth is this:
The character my lady hath bestow'd
Is borrow'd of herself and fix'd on me
To feed her disappointment and revenge.
She would have tempted me, but I refus'd
To heap up shame on my so honour'd lord.

Phraxanor.
Ha, ha!—there is your steward, honour'd lord—
His master-piece of wit is shown at last.
Ha, ha!—I pray you now take no offence,
But let him go, and slip your slight revenge.
Now that the man is known I have no fear.
Thus cunning ever spoileth its own batch—
Doth it not, steward? Hold him still in trust—
But for this fault he were a worthy man.
I take my leave, my lord, and shall retire:
You'll find me in my chamber: linger not,
Unless your company should charm your stay,
Which I shall take unkind. Steward, farewell;
For ever fare you well; and learn this truth—
When women are dispos'd to wish you well
Do not you trespass on their courtesy,
Lest in their deep resentment you lie drown'd,
As now you do in mine. I leave you, sir,
Without a single comfort in the world.

[Exit.
Joseph.
God is in heaven, madam! with your leave.

Potiphar.
I have a mind to cut thee all to pieces—

Joseph.
Patience, dear lord; thou wilt repent my blood.

Potiphar.
Or tear thee limb from limb, and strew thy bones
About the walk where executions are
Done in the city. Hark! sweet mercy's gate
Now jarreth in my breast to shut thee out,
A stranger thence for ever. Thou heldst my heart
In trust, but I am glad to find it is
Mine own again, since thou'dst have broken it.
For thy sake I will never trust to man,
Believe in gentle eyes, or honest brows,
Or years of service. If it please thine ear
(As being thy work of wit perchance it may)
Know thou hast broke my faith with the fair world,
And turn'd my eyes suspiciously upon
Most honest men: and ever from this hour
I do divorce thee, with the rest of men,
From my sore bosom,—looking upon all
As they did watch the moment to betray;
For I did right, yet wrong, in trusting thee.—
Go to thy dungeon, go.

[Exit.
Joseph.
Ah! go thy ways.—
The love I bear thee, noble Potiphar,
And loss of thine, doth grieve me far beyond
This woman's witchcraft and my own disgrace.—
Come, put me underground: though not quite dead,
For hope and patience keep me company.

[Exit guarded.