As bright Apollo to the summer air,
You play your part well: who has taught you As larks are to the morn, or bats to eve,
Nay pr'ythee; this Is folly surely young Lysander, howHow shall I credit you? some maids have given (High born as I am: pale Enone did) Their hearts to mortals, but the men they graced Forgot the favours quickly.
If your heart prompt you.
Then by thundering Jove,
And all his minist' ring spirits tend
Obedient round his chair, that fixed stands
On grey Olympus. By
What have you done
To merit love? I am not wont to give
My heart unmerited. Triton's sons have striven
To gain me to their arms, and Faunus oft
Hath woo'd me, youth, ere now.
'Tis certain: Oh! they must have done't, and I
Have left my quiet home o' nights, to sing
Your name beside the chafing sea, and hearken
If in the tumult of the waters you
Whisper'd in answer. I have come here at noon,
On dusky evenings, and on darkest nights,
To seek you. I have let my fleeced sheep
Wander unguarded o'er the mountains. I
Have left my father (yet I love him) to
Weep o'er my nightly absence-quitted all
Our village feasts and calm domestic meetings,
To resort here and call on you, Ione.
LYSANDER.
Again, again, Ione.
Say it again, for my sake.
Or as the nightingale-when the maiden May Dies on the breast of June. Oh! fear it not.
I will not, dear Lysander. I have mark'd
Your growing qualities many a long, long year,
And think you worthy of a sea maid's love,
Abash'd on Ida, when the heavenly queens
And-ay, stand thus, for thus the Trojan stood,
Claim'd the immortal fruit, decreed at last
To beauty. You and I-why how you smile-
Will haunt these woods together: you shall pass
The sultry hours amongst the hills, and tend
Your father's flock; I in my ocean cave
Must linger out the day, but ever at night
I'll come here, dear Lysander, and when fate
Shall lift you to the stars, to those dark waves
That stream below the upper billows, I
Will take my journey, till Jove calls me up
To live with you for ever. Now, farewell.
Stand I now cursing and considering, when The tamest fool would do-I will be sudden, And she shall know and feel, love in extremes Abused, knows no degree of hate.
MASSINGER-Duke of Milan.
I come, Death! I obey thee,
Yet I will not die raging: for alas!
My whole life was a frenzy.—
Bury me with Marcelia;
And let out epitaph be-
There is a story somewhat similar to this sketch told in (I believe) Gil Blas.
The Gardens belonging to a Spanish Castle
The night grows foul: and the thick air doth stir
A beating at my heart, like passion: Hark!
How the winds draw the curtains of the night,
Like ministers to lust. Queen Dian now
Is with her paramour.
Forgot: no matter, there's time: now leave me,
And place the lamp upon the dial yonder,
And draw the shade around the flame-Go, go.
[Boy goes out.
A song; 'twill drive some blacker thoughts away. Now then I am alone. There's not a sound
To startle or to cheer me. It is dark
As though the grave imprison'd me.
Shall be my colleague in a desperate act;
And the blue visiting lightnings, and the winds,
And muttering thunder shall give help; the one
Light if I wish 't, and one shall blow about
To the four quarters of the skies my deed
Of justice, and the last shall celebrate
With its immortal noises all I do
(My bloody victory over love.) A step!
She comes then: not alone: ah! not alone-
Now for my hiding-place.
[He retires
But not a jot of kindness: burning passion,
No more yes, headlong folly-flames that parch
And wither up the heart: fierce jealousy,
And horrid rage, and-ay, then you may tell
How she you loved was false, and that you grew
Mad, and a murderer: any thing.
Was beautiful as Sin, and that her eyes
Shone like the morning; that her arms were
smooth,
And gracefully turn'd, and that her figure seem'd
Shaped from the mould of Dian's. If you can,
You then may tell how her white bosom rose
And sunk voluptuously to the music of
Her beating, passionate heart.-But, out on this.
I'll have no music now; my soul's untuned,
And I've no relish for it, yet I could
Bear well some frightful discord, and might laugh
Haply if heaven's bright rolling stars were driven
Spell-struck from out their paths, and rush'd
against
Each other grating, till this vile earth shook
At its foundations. Boy, when went my wife
hence?
She sleeps at last, then: yet I will not kill
The frail thing sleeping. Why did I delay?
I feared (ah! was that guilt?-no, no) to face
The eye of her whom justice bade me smite.
-Oh! what a beautiful piece of sin is there :
They fabled well who said that woman won
Man to perdition: hark! the thunder mutters
In anger as it seems; then 'twas not fable.
Be silent for a time ye ministers
Of death or darkness (for your voicing doth
Bespeak ye terrible agents:) I am come
To save ye a worthless task. Now then, my soul!
Rise up, Olympia: she sleeps soundly. Ho!
Stirring at last: rise-Fair Olympia, you
Have much to do to-night. The fates have writ
Your doom upon their brazen book, and I
Stand here to do their bidding.
Vengeance within me-Olympia! this night You'll take your leave o' the earth: the fates have said it,
And who may turn the fates! Yet ere you die I'll tell you how I loved you-doated-oh! Grew guilty for you-guilty! do you hear?
Most perfect, and my mind sinks.
Ere you married I loved you; that you know: your father shook A poor petitioner away; and you, Although you own'd to love, forsook me. Then I tried my fortune in the wars: you gave
Your hand to old Ramirez.
Oh! your mind is fill'd I slew him, harlot! stabb'd him through and
With terrors. Let us home, dear Juan, now: We'll talk to-morrow of it.
Fool! to believe that common villains struck Him dead and robb'd him not.
Now by the wasting passion that doth stir
Now laugh: yet if thou dost it will be at
My misery likely: I deserve not that.
'Twas all for you, for you, and now you have
Call'd back the love I bought at such a price,
And sold it to another.
OLYMPIA.
Sir, 'tis false:
You are all false. Oh! how I abhor you now!
Hearken, Don Juan; I have loved you (how
You will remember quickly;) 'twas an error;
For had I known his blood was spilt by you,
I would have cast you off, as now I do,
For ever; ay, for ever.
So, where am I? Olympia-she is false:
Dead? Ah, some villain has been busy here.
By heav'n the golden hair I used to twine
About my finger's bloody, and her eye
Has lost its beautiful meaning. Life and love
Were struck and fled together-to the grave.
Oh! I have cut those sweet blue veins asunder,
And filled her breast with blood: there's not a
touch
Of colour in her lip (so red once,) and her hand
Lies nerveless like a common lump of flesh.
For ever. What a voice she had! 'tis silent: could it die
In a single groan ?-impossible.
One brief look from the sun. The guiding light
Is out that glanced on me, and here I stand
Lost, and in terrible darkness near my tomb;
And hovering shadows and fierce shapes that
On no good errand beckon me. I smote-
The story hangs upon my tongue. Diego!
I smote the noblest woman in the land,
And with my cruel dagger cut a way
To-(I was shrined there too, but knew it not)
Her heart. Ay weep, Diego: thou mayst weep;
But for myself, my eye stands fix'd and burning:
The socket's dry as dust. Your hand, old friend,
For all are equal in the grave; you used
To carry me when a boy; do it once more;
And when I lie stiff on my marble bed
Let no one scoff or curse me. Bless you!-Now
Open your arms, Olympia! [Stabs himself.
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