University of Virginia Library

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.