English

IDYLL III

The S ERENADE

I PIPE to Amaryllis; while my goats,
Tityrus their guardian, browse along the fell
O Tityrus, as I love thee, feed my goats:
And lead them to the spring, and, Tityrus, 'ware
The lifted crest of yon gray Libyan ram
Ah winsome Amaryllis! Why no more
Greet'st thou thy darling, from the caverned rock
Peeping all coyly? Think'st thou scorn of him?
Hath a near view revealed him satyr shaped

Act. 4. Scen: 1.

O: Horace. Camilla.

O: HORACE.

Go; no more breath for such a Coward loose;
Let him fly me, as he has done his Foes;
To save that wretched Life, he held so dear,
He has done little if he now appear.
Sabina may prevent it, or I vow,
By all the Pow'rs to which we Mortals bow; —

CAMILLA

Oh! Sir! this cruell thought no more pursue;
Or Rome her self will kinder be then you.

Act. 1. Scen. 1.

Sabina. Julia.

SABINA.

Excuse my weakness, & my Grief permit
In a distress, which so much merits it.
When such a storm does its approaches make,
It may become the strongest heart to shake.
And Constancy will now admit dispute,
Ev'n in the breast that is most resolute.
But yet, how rude so'êre the shock appear's,
Though not my sigh's, I can command my Tears.
Though violent sorrow may my heart surprize,
Yet Vertue still is regent in my Eys.

Translated from Mons r Corneille.

The Persons of the Play.

Tullus King of Rome
Old Horace A Roman Knight.
Horace His Son
Curiace A Gentlem n of Alba in Love w th Camilla.
Valerius A Roman knight in Love w th Camilla.
Sabina Wife of Horace, Sister of Curiace.
Camilla Sister of Horace, & Mistress of Curiace.
Julia A Roman Lady, confident of Sabina, & Camilla.
Flavian An Alban Souldier
Proculus A Roman Souldier

The Scene, in the house of Horace in Rome

O COME , my king, and fill the palaces
Where sceptred Loss too long hath held her state,
With courts of Joyaunce, and a laughing breeze
Of voices. — If thou willest, come; — I wait
Unquestioning, no servant, but thy slave.
I plead no merit, and no claim for wages,
Nor that sweet favour which my sovereign gave
In other days, of his own grace: but pages
Are privileged to linger at the door
With longing eyes, while nobles kiss the hand
Of him the noblest, though elect no more
To touch the train, or at the throne to stand.

A BOYISH friendship! No, respond the chimes,
The years of chimes fulfilled since we parted,
Since " au revoir" you said among the limes,
And passed away in silence tender-hearted.
I hold it cleared by time that not of heat,
Or sudden passion my great Love was born:
I hold that years the calumny defeat
That it would fade as freshness off the morn.
That it was fathered not by mean desire
Of eye and ear, doth cruel distance prove. —
My life is cleft to steps that lift it higher,
And with my growing manhood grows my Love.

I THANK thee, Love, that thou hast overthrown
The tyranny of Self; I would not now
Even in desire, possess thee mine alone
In land-locked anchorage: nay rather go,
Ride the high seas, the fruitless human seas,
Where white-winged ships are set for barren shores,
Though freighted all, those lovely argosies,
And laden with a wealth of rarest stores.
Go, draw them after thee, and lead them on
With thine own music, to the ideal west,
Where, in the youth of ages, vaguely shone
The term of all, the Islands of the Blest.

One night I dreamt that in a gleaming hall
You played, and overhead the air was sweet
With waving kerchiefs; then a sudden fall
Of flowers; and jewels clashed about your feet.
Around you glittering forms, a starry ring,
In echo sang of youth and golden ease:
You leant to me a moment, crying — " Sing,
" If, as you say, you love me, sing with these." —
In vain my lips were opened, for my throat
Was choked somewhence, my tongue was sore and dry,
And in my soul alone the answering note;

Act. 5. Scen. I.

Cornelia with a little Urne in her hand,

and Philip .

CORNELIA .

May I believe my Eyes? or does this sight
Delude me, with Chimera's of the Night?
Do I behold Thee Philip ? and didst Thou
Funeral rites to my lov'd Lord allow?
His Ashes does this Urne contain? O view!
At once so terrible and tender too!
Eternal Food of Sorrow and of Hate,
All of Great Pompey that is spar'd by fate.

Act. 4. Scen. I.

Ptolomy, Achillas, Photinus

PTOLOMY.

What? with that Hand, and with that Sword which had
A Victim of th'unhappy Pompey made,
Saw you Septimius , fled from Caesars hate,
Give such a bloody Period to his Fate?

ACHILLAS

He's Dead, Sir, and by that you may collect,
What shame (forseen by him) you must expect:
Caesar you may by this slow anger know,
The violent does quickly come and go:
But the consider'd Indignation grows