THEO. Ah, Eugeny! how happy were that last Age of a man, when long experience Has taught him knowledge, taught him temperance, And freed him from so many loose desires In which rash youth is plung'd, were not this vice-- But hark, hark, friend! what ravishing sound is that?
EUG. Ha! wondrous sweet! 'tis from th' adjoining thicket.
_This is not the Elysian grove;_ _Nor can I meet my slaughter'd love_ _Within these shades. Come, Death, and be_ _At last as merciful to me,_ _As in my dearest Scudmore's fall,_ _Thou show'dst thyself tyrannical._ _Then did I die when he was slain;_ _But kill me now, I live again,_ _And shall go meet him in a grove_ _Fairer than any here above._
_O, let this woful breath expire!_ _Why should I wish Evadne's fire,_ _Sad Portia's coals, or Lucrece' knife,_ _To rid me of a loathed life?_ _'Tis shame enough that grief alone_ _Kills me not now, when thou art gone!_ _But, life, since thou art slow to go,_ _I'll punish thee for lasting so;_ _And make thee piecemeal every day_ _Dissolve to tears, and melt away._
THEO. Ah, Eugeny! some heavenly nymph descends To make thee music in these desert woods, To quench or feed thy baleful melancholy: It is so sweet, I could almost believe, But that 'tis sad, it were an angel's voice.
EUG. What, in the name of miracle, is this?
THEO. Remove not thou; I'll make discovery Within this thicket.
EUG. Ha! what means thy wonder? What dost thou see?
THEO. I know not how to tell thee: Now I could wish myself to be all eyes, As erst all ears. I see a shape as fair, And as divine, as was the voice it sent; But clouded all with sorrow: a fair woman, If by a name so mortal I may term her. In such a sorrow sat the Queen of Love, When in the wood she wail'd Adonis' death, And from her crystal-dropping eyes did pay A lover's obsequy.
THEO. Sure, black is Cupid's colour; Death and he Have chang'd their liveries now, as in the fable They did their quivers once.[12]
EUG. Ah, Theodore! my guilt Pursues me to the woods! No place can keep The monuments of my misdeeds away.
EUG. It is Matilda, The slaughter'd Scudmore's love, his virtuous love, Whose life by me unhappily was spilt. The sad, melodious ditty, which so late Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note Of this fair turtle for her slaughter'd mate; In which perchance, amidst her woes, she sends Black curses up against my spotted self. But I with prayers and blessings will repay Whate'er thou vent'st 'gainst me. O, do not wish More wretchedness to my distracted soul Than I already feel! Sad sighs and tears Are all the satisfaction that is left For me to make to thy dead love and thee.