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SCENE.—A lighted Hall. Soft music playing without. A Bed placed in an alcove among flowers.
Enter MYRON, OLYMNIOS, RUFUS, LYSIS, and others. Myr. Move me that jasmine further from the bed: | |
| The perfume’s sweetest coming faint through air. | |
| That ’s well. And shut the nearest casement close: | |
| The breeze is almost chill. Throw that one wide: | |
| Let waking stars peep at their mimics here. | 5 |
| Now, Rufus, art thou ready? | |
| Ruf. ’T is, Art thou? | |
| Myr. Give me the cup, good Lysis. | |
| Pure wine first. | |
| I drink to the Good Genius [drinks], whom, perchance, | 10 |
| I shall know presently by some nearer name. | |
| Now, Lysis, that blent wine whose name is Sleep. [Drinks. | |
| [To Rufus.] So, thou hast seen me drink, and know’st what draught, | |
| Who saw’st it mix’d; no need methinks to watch. | |
| Go, prithee, try again my vintage wine: | 15 |
| I doubt thou wilt not ask to taste this brew. | |
| Ruf. No, ’faith! my thirst can wait a wholesomer tap. | |
| I am sorry for thee, too. | |
| Myr. Well, go, my man; | |
| Thou canst come by-and-by and see ’t was sure. [Exeunt all but MYRON, OLYMNIOS, and LYSIS. | 20 |
| Now quick, boy! fetch Klydone. [Exit LYSIS. | |
| ’T is most strange | |
| How death that is of all we know most sure, | |
| Of all we know seems most impossible. | |
| I shall not live an hour; my mind grants that, | 25 |
| But grants it as a stage of argument, | |
| Gives it but such belief as when, being told | |
| “So many fathomless miles to reach that star,” | |
| We learn the count unquestioning it for true, | |
| But cannot shape conception of its reach. | 30 |
| I cannot, quick life still within my veins, | |
| I cannot feel a faith that presently | |
| My cold oblivious body shall lie there, | |
| Void of the soul, an ended nothingness. | |
| Olymn. Thou art too young, and death unnatural. | 35 |
| Myr. Klydone thinks all death unnatural. | |
| Olymn. If nature stood for perfectness, it were. | |
| And therein is the better after-hope: | |
| For perfectness must be, since we conceive it, | |
| And, not being here, ’t is in some second life. | 40 |
| Myr. I ’ll think my soul shall, like the sunward swallows, | |
| Having known but summer here, renew it there. | |
| Klydone comes not. | |
| Olymn. That ’s for want of wings. | |
| Myr. I would she had them, to flee hence and rest. | 45 |
| ’T is a wild, long journey. Ah, poor child, poor child! | |
| May the gods send her happy. | |
| Olymn. If they will; | |
| Pray rather they may send her as is best. | |
| Myr. Let her not brood upon my death too much, | 50 |
| And most of all persuade her from remorse; | |
| Tell her ’t was destin’d, had she never spoken; | |
| Hush her from her own blame till, by-and-by, | |
| It takes the strangeness of unworded thoughts | |
| That fade like bodiless ghosts beyond our ken. | 55 |
| Olymn. No, Myron. Self-blame ’s a shrewd counsellor; | |
| I will not help Klydone from that good. | |
| Myr. She is such a woman as some griefs could kill. | |
| Olymn. Better to die by an ennobling grief | |
| Than to live cheerful in too low content. | 60 |
| Myr. But spare her, if it be but for my sake. | |
| Olymn. Whom dost thou ask? I spare not nor chastise; | |
| That ’s God’s to do, who makes our self his means: | |
| Her sorrowing or her comfort lie in her. | |
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Enter LYSIS.
Lys. Klydone, sir, Klydone—[Stops. | 65 |
| Myr. Comes she not? | |
| Tell her to make more speed, for I grow heavy. | |
| Lys. She comes; she bade them carry her; she ’s half dead. | |
| Myr. I am awake, I think. Say it again. | |
| Half dead? | 70 |
| Lys. She took the poison at due time; | |
| She said ’t was at due time by thine own count; | |
| She said thou shouldst have call’d her in an hour, | |
| And she was ready then: but ’t was too long, | |
| More than an hour, and so she must go first | 75 |
| That did but mean to follow thee afterwards. | |
| Olymn. Well, ’t is her right. | |
| Myr. Is it a message, boy? | |
| Lys. She said it by gasps; then bade me, if she died, | |
| Tell it thee for her, and thou ’dst know and pardon. | 80 |
| She is coming. | |
| Myr. She go first! Klydone die! | |
| Olymnios, hast thou heard? | |
| Olymn. I blame her not; | |
| Nor weep her going with thee. ’T is the best. | 85 |
| Myr. I would have had her live: she hated death. | |
| But we go hand in hand, husband and wife. | |
| Lysis, go bid them hasten, lest she sleep, | |
| Or I, past waking, ere she come to me. | |
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Enter Servants carrying KLYDONE on a couch.
A Servant. ’T is over. She still breath’d a minute since; | 90 |
| But now ’t is over. | |
| Second Serv. ’T was but just “Too soon!” | |
| As if she sigh’d in sleep; then only breath’d, | |
| And now ’t is over. | |
| Myr. Oh, how fair she lies! | 95 |
| She should have kept that smile to look on me. | |
| Sweet, canst thou see me still? How fair she is! | |
| Smile on, Klydone, death has wedded us. | |
| Wife, wilt thou love me there, whither we go? [Exit OLYMNIOS. | |
| Lys. Master, she stirr’d. | 100 |
| Myr. ’T was but my breath, my boy, | |
| That mov’d that straying gossamer of her hair. | |
| [To the Servants.] Come, lift her gently, lay her on the bed. | |
| So. | |
| Olymn. [Without.] Both! oh, both! | 105 |
| A Servant. Hark! ’T was a fall. Go see. [Exeunt some Servants. | |
| Myr. Where is Olymnios? | |
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Reënter a Servant.
What ’s the noise we heard? | |
| Serv. Olymnios, master. | |
| Myr. Yes? | 110 |
| Serv. He died and fell. | |
| Myr. When sorrow swells these ironpent hearts they break. | |
| Go, all of you. Keep stillness, wake me not. | |
| I have room beside thee, love. [Lies down on the bed.] Go now, my friends. | |
| Lysis, not thou. Sit where I do not see thee. | 115 |
| Send hence that music, and thou, sing me asleep. | |
| Is it moonlight yet? | |
| Lys. Yes. | |
| Myr. Throw the curtains back. | |
| Put out those lights. Now sing until I sleep. [Exeunt Servants. | 120 |
| No dirges, boy; that song Klydone lov’d, | |
| Philomel and the aloe flower, sing that. | |
| Lys. [Sings.] Joy that ’s half too keen and true | |
| Makes us tears. | |
| Oh the sweetness of the tears! | 125 |
| If such joy at hand appears, | |
| Snatch it, give thine all for it: | |
| Joy that is so exquisite, | |
| Lost, comes not new. | |
| (One blossom for a hundred years.) | 130 |
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| Grief that ’s fond, and dies not soon, | |
| Makes delight. | |
| Oh the pain of the delight! | |
| If thy grief be Love’s aright, | |
| Tend it close and let it grow: | 135 |
| Grief so tender not to know | |
| Loses Love’s boon. | |
| (Sweet Philomel sings all the night.) | |
| Myr. [Drowsily.] Fair dreams, Klydone. Waken me at dawn. [Sleeps. | |
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