Amyntas, A Tale of the Woods/Act I
ACT FIRST.
SCENE I.
DAPHNE AND SYLVIA.
DAPHNE.And would'st thou then indeed, dear Sylvia,Pass this young age of thineFar from the joys of love and would'st thou neverHear the sweet name of mother; nor beholdThy little children playing round about theeDelightfully? Ah think,Think, I beseech thee, do,Simpleton that thou art.
SYLVIA.Let others follow the delights of love, If love indeed has any. To my tasteThis life is best. I have enough to care forIn my dear bow and arrows. My delightIs following the chace; and when 'tis saucy,Bringing it down; and so, as long as arrowsFail not my quiver, nor wild deer the woods,I fear no want of sport.
DAPHNE.Insipid sportTruly, and most insipid way of life!If it is pleasant to thee, it is onlyFrom ignorance of the other. The first people,Who lived in the world's infancy, regardedWith like good sense, their water and their acornsAs exquisite meat and drink; but now-a-daysWater and acorns are but food for beasts;And grain and the sweet grape sustain humanity.Ah! hadst thou once, but once, Tasted a thousandth part of the delightWhich a heart tastes that loves and is beloved,Thou wouldst repent, and sigh, and say directly,‘Tis all but loss of timeThat passes not in loving.O seasons fled and gone,How many widowed nights,And solitary daysWhich might have been wrapt round with this sweet life,Have I consumed in vain!A life, the more habituate, the more sweet!Think, think, I pray thee do,Simpleton as thou art.A late repentance is at least no pleasure.
SYLVIA.When I shall come to thee with penitent sighs,And say the words which thou hast fancied for me, And rounded off so sweetly, then, why then,The running river shall turn home again,And wolves escape from lambs, and hounds from hares,And bears shall love the sea, dolphins the hills.
DAPHNE.I know too well this girlish waywardness.Such as thou art, I was; so did I bearMy fortune and my careless countenance;And so were my fair locks; and so vermilionEven was my mouth; and so the white and redWas mingled in my ripe and delicate cheeks.'Twas then my highest joy (a foolish joy,Now I think of it) to go spreading nets,And setting snares for birds, and sharpening darts,And tracking to their haunts wild animals;And if I saw a lover look at me,I dropt my little wild and rustic eyes, Half blushes and half scorn. His kindlinessFound no kind thoughts in me; and all that made mePleasing to other eyes, displeased myself;As if it was my crime, my shame, my scorn,To be thus looked at, and thus loved, and longed for.But what can time not do? And what not doA faithful lover, and importunate,Forever serving, meriting, entreating?I yielded, I confess; and all that conquered me,What was it? patience, and humility,And sighs, and soft laments, and asking pardon.Darkness, and one short night, then shewed me more,Than the long lustre of a thousand days.How did I then reproach my blind simplicity,And breathe, and say,—Here, Cynthia, take thy horn;Here, take thy bow; for I renounce at once Thy way of life, and all that it pursues.—And thus I still look forward to the day,When thy Amyntas shall domesticateThy wildness for thee, and put flesh and bloodInto this steel and stony heart of thine.Is he not handsome? does he love thee not?Is he not loved by others? does he alter soFor love of them, and not for thy disdain?Or is his fault an humbler origin?Thou, it is true, art daughter to Cydippe,Whose father was the god of this great river;Yet he is son of old Sylvanus too,Whose father was the shepherds’ god, great Pan.There’s Amaryllis:—if thou has at any timeBeheld thee in some fountain’s glassy mirror,She is as fair as thou: and yet he fliesAll her delicious arts, to follow theeAnd thy poor scorn. Suppose (and yet heaven grant The supposition never may come true)That wearied out with thee, he should reposeHis joys in her who sees so much in him:How would thy heart feel then? or with what eyesSee him become another's? happy inAnother's arms, and laughing thee to scorn?
SYLVIA.Pray let Amyntas with himself and his lovesDo what he pleases. It concerns not me.He is not mine; let him be whose he chuses.Mine he can not be, if I like him not;And if he were mine, I would not be his.
DAPHNE.Whence springs all this disliking?
SYLVIA.From his love.
DAPHNE.A blessed father of a child so cruel! But come, come; when were tygers ever bornOf the kind lamb, or crows of lady swans?Thou dost deceive me, or thyself.
SYLVIA.I hateHis love, because it hates my honesty.I loved him well enough, as long as heWished nothing but what I wished.
DAPHNE.Thou didst wishThine evil. All that he desired of theeWas for thee too.
SYLVIA.Daphne, be still, I pray;Or speak of something else, if thou would'st haveAn answer.
DAPHNE.Oh pray mark her airs! Pray mark The scornful little lass! Give me, however, One answer more. Suppose another loved thee, Would'st thou receive his love in the same way?
SYLVIA. In the same way would I receive all love, That came to undermine my honesty; For what thou callest lover, I call enemy.
DAPHNE. And callest thou the sheep then The enemy of his female? The bull of the fair heifer? Or of his dove the turtle? And callest thou sweet spring-time The time of rage and enmity, Which breathing now and smiling Reminds the whole creation,The animal, the human, Of loving! Dost thou see not How all things are enamoured Of this enamourer, rich with joy and health? Observe that turtle dove,How toying with his dulcet murmuring He kisses his companion. Hear that nightingale, Who goes from bough to bough,Singing with his loud heart, I love! I love! The adder, though thou know'st it not, forgets Her poison, and goes eagerly to her love; Headlong the tygers go;The lion's great heart loves; and thou alone, Wilder than all the wild,Deniest the boy a lodging in thy breast. But why speak I of tygers, snakes, and lions, Who have their share of mind? The very treesAre loving. See with what affection there, And in how many a clinging turn and twine, The vine holds fast its husband. Fir loves fir, The pine the pine; and ash, and willow, and beech,Each toward the other, yearns, and sighs, and trembles.That oak tree which appearsSo rustic and so rough,Even that has something warm in its sound heart;And hadst thou but a spirit and sense of love,Thou hadst found out a meaning for its whispers.Now tell me, wouldst thou beLess than the very plants, and have no love?Think better, oh think better,Simpleton that thou art.
SYLVIAWell, when I hear the sighings of the plants,I’ll be content to fall in love myself.
DAPHNEThou mockest my kind council, and mak'st game Of all I say to thee,—O deaf to love,As thou art blind. But go:—the time will come,When thou wilt grieve thou didst not mind my words.Then wilt thou shun the fountains, where so oftThou makest thee a glass, perhaps a proud one;Then wilt thou shun the fountains, for mere dreadOf seeing thyself grown wrinkled and featureless.This will most surely be; but not this only;For though a great, ‘tis but a common evil.I’ll tell thee what Elpino, t’other day,The wise Elpino, told the fair Lycoris;Her, whose two eyes can do as much with him,As his sweet singing ought to do with her;If ought were good in love. He told it herIn hearing both of Battus and of Thyrsis,Great masters they of love;—they were conversingWithin Aurora’s cavern, over which 'Tis written, "Far be ye, profane ones, far."He told her,—and 'twas told to him, he said,By that great name that sung of Arms and Loves,And who bequeathed him, dying, his own pipe,That underneath there, in the infernal depth,Is a black den, which breathes out noisome smokeFrom the sad furnaces of Acheron;And there, in everlasting punishment,With moaning, and tormenting hold of darkness,Are kept ungrateful and denying women.There then expect a proper dwelling placeFor thy fierce hardness.It will be just and well, that the harsh smokeShall wring the stubborn tears out of those eyes,Since never pity yet could draw them down.—Follow thy ways, go follow,Obstinate that thou art.
SYLVIA.But what pray did Lycoris? and what answerMade she to this?
DAPHNE.Thou car'st not what thou dost,And yet would'st fain be told what others do.She answered with her eyes.
SYLVIA.Why how could oneAnswer without?
DAPHNE.They turned with a sweet smile,And answered thus:—Our heart, and we, are thine;More thou should'st not desire; nor may there beMore given. And surely this is all-sufficientFor a chaste lover, if he holds those eyesTo be sincere as beautiful, and gives themPerfect belief.
SYLVIA.And why not so believe them?
DAPHNE.Knowest thou not what Thyrsis went aboutWriting, the time he wandered in the forestsOut of his wits, and moved the nymphs and shepherdsTo mirth and pity at once? No things wrote heWorthy of laughter, whatsoe’er his deeds.He wrote it on a thousand barks, to growVerses and barks together; and one I read:False faithless lights, ye mirrors of her heart,Well do I recognise the tricks ye play!But to what profit, seeing I cannot fly?
SYLVIA.I waste the time here, talking. I forget,That I must join the accustomed chase to-dayAmong the olive trees. Now pray wait for me, Just while I bathe in our old fountain here,And rid me of the dust I gathered yesterdayIn following that swift fawn, which neverthelessI overtook and killed.
DAPHNE.I’ll wait for thee;Perhaps will join thee in the bath; but firstI must go home. The hour is not so lateAs it appears. So wait for me at homeThyself, and I’ll come speedily. And prayBethink thee, the mean-time, of what imports theeMuch more than fawns or fountains. If thou knows't it not,Know thy own ignorance, and trust the wise.
SCENE II.
AMYNTAS AND THYRSIS.
AMYNTAS.In my lamentings I have found A very pity in the pebbly waters; And I have found the trees Return them a kind voice;But never have I found,Nor ever hope to find, Compassion in this hard and beautiful—What shall I call her? Woman or wild animal?But she herself denies the name of woman,In thus denying pity To one, whom nought else under heaven denies it.
THYRSIS.The grass is the lamb's food, the lamb the wolf's; But cruel love delights to feed on tears, And seems to satiate never.
AMYNTAS.Alas! Alas!Love has drained all my tears; it is my bloodWhich he must thirst for now. I hope and trust,He and this impious one will have it shortly.
THYRSIS.Amyntas! dear Amyntas! talk not so:'Tis idle. Take good heart. This cruel one May treat thee ill; but thou can'st find another.
AMYNTAS.Ah me, another! I have lost myself. How can I find me joy, myself being gone?
THYRSIS.Do not despair. Thou'lt win her heart at last. Patience and time enabled man to putHis rein on lions and Hyrcanian tygers.
AMYNTAS.The miserable cannot bear to waitLong time for death.
THYRSIS.The time will not be long. Woman is soon offended, soon appeased,Being a thing by nature moveable More than the boughs by the wind, or than the topsOf quivering corn. But prythee, dear Amyntas,Let me more inwardly into the heart Of this your troubled love. Thou hast assured me Many a time, that thou did'st love me well,And yet I know not where thy yearnings lie. A faithful friendship, and the common study Of the sweet muses, make me not unworthyOf knowing what thou may'st conceal from others.
AMYNTAS.Thyrsis, I am content to let thee hear What the woods know and what the mountains know,And what the rivers know, and man knows not.For to my death I feel myself so nigh, 'Tis fit I leave behind me one to tellThe reason why death took me. He can write itUpon a beech tree near where they will bury me; And when that hard one passes by the place,She shall rejoice to trample my poor clay With her proud foot, and say within herself, "This is indeed a triumph!" and rejoice To think how all, whom chance conducts that way, Native or stranger, shall behold her victory.And there may come a day, (alas! it is Too great to hope) but there may come a day, When moved with tardy pity, she may weep For one, when dead, whom when alive, she killed;And say, "Ah, would that he were here, and mine!" Now mark me. THYRSIS.Pray speak on. I listen eagerly, Perhaps to better purpose than thou thinkest.
AMYNTAS.While yet a boy, scarce tall enough to gather The lowest hanging fruit, I became intimate With the most lovely and beloved girl, That ever gave to the winds her locks of gold. Thou know'st, the daughter of Cydippe and Montano, that has such a store of herds,Sylvia, the forest's honour, the soul's firer? Of her I speak. Alas! I lived one time, So fastened to her side, that never turtleWas closer to his mate, nor ever will be. Our homes were close together, closer stillOur hearts; our age conformable, our thoughts Still more conformed. With her I tended netsFor birds and fish; with her followed the stag, And the fleet hind; our joy and our success Were common: but in making prey of animals I fell, I know not how, myself a prey. There grew by little and little in my heart, I know not from what root,But just as the grass grows that sows itself, An unknown something, which continually Made me feel anxious to be with her; and thenI drank strange sweetness from her eyes, which left A taste, I know not how, of bitterness.Often I sighed, nor knew the reason why; And thus before I knew what loving was,Was I a lover. Well enough I knewAt last; and I will tell thee how; pray mark me.
THYRSIS.I mark thee well.
AMYNTAS.One day, Sylvia and Phillis Were sitting underneath a shady beech, I with them; when a little ingenious bee, Gathering his honey in those flowery fields, Lit on the cheeks of Phillis, cheeks as redAs the red rose; and bit, and bit again With so much eagerness, that it appeared The likeness did beguile him. Phillis, at this, Impatient of the smart, sent up a cry; "Hush! Hush!" said my sweet Sylvia, "do not grieve;I have a few words of enchantment, Phillis, Will ease thee of this little suffering. The sage Artesia told them me, and hadThat little ivory horn of mine in payment,Fretted with gold." So saying, she applied To the hurt cheek, the lips of her divine And most delicious mouth, and with sweet humming Murmured some verses that I knew not of. Oh admirable effect! a little while,And all the pain was gone; either by virtue Of those enchanted words, or as I thought, By virtue of those lips of dew, That heal whate'er they turn them to. I, who till then had never had a wishBeyond the sunny sweetness of her eyes, Or her dear dulcet words, more dulcet farThan the soft murmur of a humming stream Crooking its way among the pebble-stones, Or summer airs that babble in the leaves,Felt a new wish move in me to apply This mouth of mine to hers; and so becomingCrafty and plotting, (an unusual art With me, but it was love's intelligence)I did bethink me of a gentle stratagemTo work out my new wit. I made pretence, As if the bee had bitten my under lip; And fell to lamentations of such sort,That the sweet medicine which I dared not ask With word of mouth, I asked for with my looks. The simple Sylvia then, Compassioning my pain, Offered to give her help To that pretended wound; And oh! the real and the mortal wound,Which pierced into my being,When her lips came on mine. Never did bee from flowerSuck sugar so divine, As was the honey that I gathered then From those twin roses fresh.I could have bathed in them my burning kisses, But fear and shame withheldThat too audacious fire, And made them gently hang.But while into my bosom's core, the sweetness, Mixed with a secret poison, did go down, It pierced me so with pleasure, that still feigningThe pain of the bee's weapon, I contrivedThat more than once the enchantment was repeated. From that time forth, desireAnd irrepressible pain so grew within me, That not being able to contain it more, I was compelled to speak; and so, one day, While in a circle a whole set of us,Shepherds and nymphs, sat playing at the game, In which they tell in one another's ears Their secret each, "Sylvia," said I in her's, "I burn for thee; and if thou help me not, I feel I cannot live." As I said this,She dropt her lovely looks, and out of them There came a sudden and unusual flush,Portending shame and anger: not an answer Did she vouchsafe me, but by a dead silence, Broken at last by threats more terrible. She parted then, and would not hear me more, Nor see me. And now three times the naked reaperHas clipped the spiky harvest, and as often The winter shaken down from the fair woodsTheir tresses green, since I have tried in vainEvery thing to appease her, except death. Nothing remains indeed but that I die!And I shall die with pleasure, being certain, That it will either please her, or be pitied; And I scarce know, which of the two to hope for. Pity perhaps would more remunerateMy faith, more recompence my death; but stillI must not hope for aught that would disturb The sweet and quiet shining of her eyes, And trouble that fair bosom, built of bliss.
THYRSIS.And dost thou think it possible she could hearSuch words as these, and love thee not some day?
AMYNTAS.I know not, and believe not. She avoids me,As asps avoid enchantment.
THYRSIS.Trust me now,It gives me heart to try, and make her hear thee.
AMYNTAS.She will not grant thy wish, nor if she does,Will she grant any thing to me for speaking.
THYRSIS.Why such extreme despair?
AMYNTAS.I have good reason. Wise Mopsus prophecied my unlucky chance; Mopsus, who knows the language of the birds, And what the herbs can do, and what the fountains.
THYRSIS.What Mopsus dost thou speak of? Of that Mopsus, Who with a tongue of honey, and a grin Of friendship on his lips, is hollow at heart, And holds a dagger underneath his cloak? Now be thou of good heart. These evil omens, Which with that solemn brow of his he sells the unwary,Will never come to pass; and to convince thee, I tell thee that I know it. The very evilHe has predicted, gives me joyful hope Of seeing thy love happy.
AMYNTAS.If thou knowestAught that might comfort me, I pray thee speak.
THYRSIS.Most willingly. When first my fortune brought me Into these woods, I knew him; and I thought him Then, what thou thinkst him now. One day meanwhile, Having necessity as well as wishTo go where the great city, queen-like, holdsThe banks of the river, I told him my journey.This was his answer: "Thou art going thenTo the great spot, where keen and crafty citizens,And courtiers in their malice, laugh at us,Cutting vile jokes on our simplicity.Therefore, my son, take my advice. AvoidThe places where thou seest much drapery,Coloured and gold; and plumes, and heraldries,And such new-fanglements. But above all,Take care how evil chance, or youthful wanderingBring thee upon the house of Idle Babbling.""What place is that?" said I, and he resumed;"Enchantresses dwell there, who make one seeThings as they are not, aye, and hear them too.That which shall seem pure diamond and fine gold,Is glass and brass; and coffers that look silver, Heavy with wealth, are baskets full of bladders.The very walls there are so strangely made, They answer those who talk; and not in syllables, Or bits of words, like Echo in our woods,But go the whole talk over, word for word, With something else beside, that no one said. The tressels, tables, bedsteads, curtains, lockers, Chairs, and whatever furniture there isIn room or bed-room, all have tongues and speech,And are for ever tattling. Idle babblings Are always going about in shape of children: And should a dumb man enter in that place,The dumb would babble in his own despite. And yet this evil is the least of allThat might assail thee. Thou mightest be arrested In fearful transformation to a willow,A beast, fire, water,—fire for ever sighing,Water for ever weeping." Here he ceased: And I, with all this fine foreknowledge, wentTo the great city, and by heaven's kind will, Came where they live so happily. The first soundI heard was a delightful harmony,Which issued forth, of voices loud and sweet:Syrens, and swans, and nymphs, a heavenly noise Of heavenly things; which gave me such delight, That all admiring, and amazed, and joyed, I stopped awhile quite motionless; there stood Within the entrance as if keeping guardOf those fine things, one, of a noble presence, And stout withal, of whom I was in doubtWhether to think him better knight or leader.He with a look at once benign and grave, In royal guise invited me within, He, great and in esteem; me, lorn and lowly. Oh the sensations, and the sights, which then Came on me! Goddesses I saw, and nymphs Graceful and beautiful, and harpers fineAs Linus, or as Orpheus; and more others All without veil or cloud, bright as the virgin Aurora, when she glads immortal eyes,And sews her beams and dew drops, silver and gold. And fertilizing there, I saw act round Apollo and the Nine; and with the NineElpino sat; and at that moment, I Felt myself greater, gifted newly, and full Of sudden deity; and I sung of wars And chiefs, and trampled the rude pastoral song.And though as it pleased others, afterwards I came home to these woods, I yet retainedSomething of that great spirit, nor did my pipe Speak with its old humility; but loud And loftier-toned filled the wide-echoing woods,The rival of the trumpet. Mopsus heard;And eying me with a malignant stare, Smote fascination on me; whence I grewHoarse in my song, and for long time was mute. The shepherds thought that I had seen a wolf; And so I had; but then the wolf was he.I tell thee this, to shew how little worthy He is of thy belief. And now pray hope. The more, because he would have kept thee hopeless.
AMYNTAS.What thou hast told me, comforts me to hear:To thee then I commit the only care For which I live.
THYRSIS.I will take care of it.Do thou be here again in half an hour.
CHORUS.O lovely age of gold! Not that the rivers rolledWith milk, or that the woods dropped honey dew; Not that the ready ground Produced without a wound,Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew; Not that a cloudless blueFor ever was in sight, Or that the heaven which burns, And now is cold by turns,Looked out in glad and everlasting light;No, nor that ev'n the insolent ships from far Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse than war: But solely that that vain And breath-invented pain,That idol of mistakes, that worshipped cheat, That Honour,—since so calledBy vulgar minds appalled,Played not the tyrant with our nature yet. It had not come to fretThe sweet and happy fold Of gentle human-kind; Nor did its hard law bindSouls nursed in freedom; but that law of gold, That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted,Which Nature's own hand wrote,—What pleases, is permitted.
Then among streams and flowersThe little winged Powers Went singing carols without torch or bow: The nymphs and shepherds sat Mingling with innocent chat Sports and low whispers; and with whispers low Kisses that would not go. The maiden, budding o'er,Kept not her bloom uneyed, Which now a veil must hide,Nor the crisp apples which her bosom bore: And oftentimes, in river or in lake,The lover and his love their merry bath would take.
'Twas thou, thou, Honour, first That didst deny our thirstIts drink, and on the fount thy covering set: Thou bad'st kind eyes withdrawInto constrained awe,And keep the secret for their tears to wet: Thou gatheredst in a net The tresses from the air,And mad'st the sports and plays Turn all to sullen ways,And put'st on speech a rein, in steps a care. Thy work it is,—thou shade that wilt not move,—That what was once the gift, is now the theft of Love.
Our sorrows and our pains, These are thy noble gains! But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer,Thou conq'ror of the crowned, What dost thou on this ground,Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere? Go and make slumber dearTo the renowned and high:We here, a lowly race, Can live without thy grace, After the use of mild antiquity. Go; let us love: since yearsNo trace allow, and life soon disappears. Go; let us love: the daylight dies, is born; But unto us the light Dies once for all; and sleep brings on eternal night.