 | Cymon and Iphigenia |  |
Scene Third.
—A Sequestered Spot—In a bower opposite to where Cymon lies asleep Iphigenia is discovered in a magic slumber—She has a bouquet in her hand.Mer.
(touching Iphigenia's nosegay with his wand)
That magic touch would to those flowers impart,
A charm, to make like touchwood Cymon's heart;
Now to some sort of sense awake he may.
(Exit)
Apr.
Some other sort of nonsense, he would say.
Music—Cymon awakes, rubs his eyes, gets up, and stares about him vacantly—then taking up his staff, walks away whistling, till he comes close to Iphigenia—he starts, rubs his eyes again, and stands gazing in astonishment at her, leaning on his staff.
59
“The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,
“And gaping mouth, that testified surprise.”
Hem! Dryden! There's the very situation—
Of glorious John, a lively illustration.
The youth, completely posed, beholds the fair,
Reposing sweetly, 'mid the poses there.
Composing altogether, so to speak,
Really a most imposing pose plastique.
Cym.
What's here? 'tis something fallen from the skies,
Or am I dreaming' still with open eyes?
'Tis like a woman—but so wondrous fair—
'Tis something like a woman, I declare!
What in my breast is bobbing so about?
It must be what they call my heart, no doubt!
Apr.
He never knew he had one till this minute,
And now, he can't think what the plague is in it.
Cym.
Oh! dear! how it is thumping just at present!
Apr.
He finds it odd, but not at all unpleasant.
Iph.
(waking)
Ah!
Cym.
(retreating)
Oh! it is alive—and speaks! Oh! my,
What eyes!
Iph.
Who's there?
Cym.
(timidly)
Me.
Iph.
Who may “me” be?
Cym.
I!
Iph.
Have you no name?
Cym.
They call me Cymon.
Iph.
Oh!
May be you're simple Cymon, then?
Apr.
Just so.
(Exit April)
Iph.
And to our great Queen you belong.
Cym.
I do.
But I much rather would belong to you.
Nobody'd call me “simple Cymon” then!
Iph.
(aside)
He's not more simple than are most young men—
And better looking than I yet saw any!
(aloud)
I've heard of you, young gentleman, from many.
What are you staring at?
Cym.
You—
60
But you shouldn't!
Cym.
But I can't help it—could you if you couldn't?
I never saw your like! are you a fairy?
Iph.
Oh! dear, sir, no, indeed—quite the contrary.
Cym.
Quite the contrary—what's that? I can't guess.
Iph.
Only a poor Arcadian shepherdess.
Cym.
I'm not so sure of that—Urganda's charms
Ne'er caused within my breast such fond alarms.
You have bewitched me—I'm transformed—enchanted!
In short, I'm quite another creature.
Iph.
Granted.
For you are one beside yourself, I vow!
You've lost your wits.
Cym.
I'd none to lose till now.
Tell me your name?
Iph.
Sylvia.
Cym.
Sylvia! how sweet!
Sylvia my tongue for ever could repeat!
Iph.
Farewell!
Cym.
Nay, do not go!
Iph.
I must, indeed!
Bless you, I've got a flock of sheep to feed.
Cym.
When shall we meet again?
Iph.
This afternoon.
Cym.
In half-an-hour?
Iph.
Nay, that will be too soon—
Say, in three quarters of an hour, at least.
Cym.
I will be there, before the chimes have ceased.
Iph.
But where is there?
Cym.
Oh! anywhere you please.
Iph.
Down by the river, then, beneath yon trees.
Cym.
In the meanwhile, that nosegay let me treasure.
Iph.
In change for yours?
Cym.
Oh! with the greatest pleasure!
Duet—Iphigenia and Cymon—Bishop.
Iph.
Take this nosegay, gentle youth!
Cym.
And you, sweet maid, take mine;
Iph.
Unlike these flowers, be thy fair truth;
Cym.
Unlike these flowers, be thine.
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Will soon decay;
Together
Be sweet till noon,
Then pass away.
Fair, for a time, their transient charms appear;
But truth, unchang'd, shall bloom for ever here.
(Exeunt Cymon and Iphigenia)
Enter April.
Apr.
Now this is what bards have thought worthy their strains,
And how Cymon's supposed to have come by his brains;
When, really, I think that one needn't be clever
To prove he's a much greater fool now than ever.
Here's a wench, till this morning, a sight he'd ne'er got of,
That he'd rush into church with, not knowing a jot of
Her family tree, or her family acres,
Or who is to pay even butchers and bakers!
By-the-bye—you mayn't know much about her yourselves,
Unless you have lately been dusting your shelves;
For who, upon earth, into Dryden now looks?
Or any such old musty poetry books;
So as Chorus my duty I'll do con amore,
And briefly run over the heads of the story.
Song—April—“The Hunting of the Hare.”
And how Cymon's supposed to have come by his brains;
When, really, I think that one needn't be clever
To prove he's a much greater fool now than ever.
Here's a wench, till this morning, a sight he'd ne'er got of,
That he'd rush into church with, not knowing a jot of
Her family tree, or her family acres,
Or who is to pay even butchers and bakers!
By-the-bye—you mayn't know much about her yourselves,
Unless you have lately been dusting your shelves;
For who, upon earth, into Dryden now looks?
Or any such old musty poetry books;
So as Chorus my duty I'll do con amore,
And briefly run over the heads of the story.
“Songs of shepherds and rustical roundelays,
Formed in fancy and whistled on reeds,
Sung to solace young nymphs upon holidays;”
You'll have lots as the drama proceeds.
But there's some history,
Magic and mystery,
Mix'd up in this story,
So if you'd be
Charm'd, enlightened,
Your intellects brightened,
And interest heighten'd,
Just listen to me.
Formed in fancy and whistled on reeds,
Sung to solace young nymphs upon holidays;”
You'll have lots as the drama proceeds.
But there's some history,
Magic and mystery,
Mix'd up in this story,
So if you'd be
Charm'd, enlightened,
Your intellects brightened,
And interest heighten'd,
Just listen to me.
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Once in Cyprus; it happen'd a time on, there
Dwelt a nobleman, wealthy to boot;
He'd a son, whom the people called Cymon, there,
Which, in plain English, was calling him “Brute.”
And 'twasn't a wonder,
For so did he blunder,
No schoolmaster under
The Cyprian sun,
So clever could be as
To teach young ideas
To shoot in this stupid young son of a gun.
Dwelt a nobleman, wealthy to boot;
He'd a son, whom the people called Cymon, there,
Which, in plain English, was calling him “Brute.”
And 'twasn't a wonder,
For so did he blunder,
No schoolmaster under
The Cyprian sun,
So clever could be as
To teach young ideas
To shoot in this stupid young son of a gun.
Queen Urganda, for some magic jugglery,
Culling of simples one morning hard by,
Thought, whilst making of simples a smugglery,
She might as well smuggle our friend, simple Cy.
A husband she wanted,
And took it for granted
He'd be quite enchanted
To make her his bride;
But for fear of refusal,
She tried to bamboozle
A famous old foozle,
Called Merlin, beside.
Culling of simples one morning hard by,
Thought, whilst making of simples a smugglery,
She might as well smuggle our friend, simple Cy.
A husband she wanted,
And took it for granted
He'd be quite enchanted
To make her his bride;
But for fear of refusal,
She tried to bamboozle
A famous old foozle,
Called Merlin, beside.
Now, you're aware, 'twas that same Mr. Merlin here,
(Whom for the simples Urganda had cut,)
Hooked, with a magical bouquet, a girl in here,
Out of joint the Queen's nosegay to put;
But, what you might never guess,
She is no shepherdess;
Though by her rustic dress
Taken for such.
Though Dorcas here brought her,
She's no more her daughter,
Than you, sir, in short are,
And that isn't much.
(Whom for the simples Urganda had cut,)
Hooked, with a magical bouquet, a girl in here,
Out of joint the Queen's nosegay to put;
But, what you might never guess,
She is no shepherdess;
Though by her rustic dress
Taken for such.
Though Dorcas here brought her,
She's no more her daughter,
Than you, sir, in short are,
And that isn't much.
Don't you imagine, though, she an impostor is,
Like so many you elsewhere have seen;
Prince, her father, of famed Famagosta is,
She's, of course, the Princess Iphigene.
But, though you have heard of it,
Don't say a word of it,
There mayn't be a third of it,
True, by the way.
(spoken)
—(For really authorities do so differ respecting historical facts that)
From Sir Walter Raleigh
To Mr. Macaulay,
One can't swallow all a
Chap chooses to say.
Like so many you elsewhere have seen;
Prince, her father, of famed Famagosta is,
She's, of course, the Princess Iphigene.
63
Don't say a word of it,
There mayn't be a third of it,
True, by the way.
(spoken)
—(For really authorities do so differ respecting historical facts that)
From Sir Walter Raleigh
To Mr. Macaulay,
One can't swallow all a
Chap chooses to say.
(Exit)
| Cymon and Iphigenia | |