Chapter V: Part 5

_Th._ Why make so much of shame? If thou despise
The pleasure of the earth, why not the shame?

_Ach._ I wrong, too, this old king.

_Th._ His daughter more,
If thou desert her.

_Ach._ But ’twould hurt her less
To lose me now than know me when disgraced.

_Th._ I plead not in her name, nor charge thee, son,
With loving her in my contempt. A dream
Of mortal fancy or honour may becloud
Thy mind awhile, but ne’er canst thou forget
Thy bond to me; the care that never left thee 730
Till thou wert out of hand; the love that dared
To send thee from my sight when thou wast able,
And to strange lands; my secret visitings
There, and revisitings; the dreams I sent thee,
Warnings of ill, and ecstasies of pride;
The thousand miracles I wrought to save thee,
And guard thee to thy prime;—and now men say
Thou art the first of the Greeks: their homaged kings
The gods condemn to death if thou withhold 739
Thy single arm. Why so? What hast thou done?
Where have men seen thee? Hast thou ruled like Nestor?
Conquered like Agamemnon, fought like Ajax?
What is thy prowess, what thy skill but this,
That thou art son of Thetis? Disobey not,
Nor question now my bidding. Must I kneel,
Embrace thy knees, or melt before thy face
In supplicating tears? O if thy birth
Did cost the tenderest tears that god e’er shed,
Make not those bitter drops to have flowed in vain.
Whate’er fate portion thee my joy is this— 750
That thou dost love me. Dost thou cease to love,
I am most miserable.

_Ach._ O fear not that,
Mother and goddess! Pardon me, weep not.
Let all men curse me, be my name abhorred,
Rather than thou be grieved. ’Twas anger moved me:
I will forget this, and obey thee. Say
What I must do, how best avoid these men:
And how refuse their call if I be found.

_Th._ Kiss me, my son. By the gods’ life, I love thee:
My grief is to deny thee. But there’s need 760
Of counsel, for the day is critical
And glides apace. And first if they should find thee,
Then ’tis thy fate to go: I cannot stay thee.
And since to bear thee hence were sure betrayal,
I urge thee to be true to thy disguise.
And better to escape thy foes, learn now
Whom most to dread. Of all the Argives shun
Ulysses; come not near him in the halls;
And should he speak to thee, answer no word.
Him thou wilt know by his preëminence: 770
In person he is beardless yet, and smooth
Of face and tongue, alluring, gentle in voice
But sturdy of body, and ’neath his helm his locks
O’er a wide brow and restless eye curl forth
In ruddy brown; nor less for his attire
Notable is he, wearing the best of all,
His linen broidered, and broad jewels to hold
A robe of gray and purple.

_Ach._ He shall not spy me.
But if by any warning from the gods
He know and call to me, how then to escape 780
The shame of this Ionian skirt?

_Th._ That chance
I can provide for, and shall give thee now
A magic garment fitting to thy body,
Which worn beneath thy robe will seem as weft
Of linen thread, but if it meet the light
’Twill be a gilded armour, and serve well
In proof as show. Come, I will set it on thee.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter Deidamia and Chorus._

_Deid._ The ground is clear, we have deceived them mightily,
Running around.

_Ch._ Where is our queen?

(_2_) Not here.

_Deid._ I’ll call her. Pyrrha!—Call all together.

_Ch._ Pyrrha!

_Deid._ She will come presently.—Did ye not mark
How resonant this glade is? that our voices 792
Neither return nor fly, but stay about us?
It is the trunks of the trees that cage the sound;
As in an open temple, where the pillars
Enrich the music. In my father’s hall
The echo of each note burdens the next.
’Twould be well done to cut a theatre
Deep in some wooded dale. Till Pyrrha come,
Alexia, sing thou here.

_Ch._ What shall I sing? 800

_Deid._ There is a Lydian chant I call to mind
In honour of music-makers: it beginneth
With praise of the soft spring, and heavenly love—
’Twill suit our mood, if thou remember it.

_Chorus._

The earth loveth the spring,
Nor of her coming despaireth,
Withheld by nightly sting,
Snow, and icy fling,
The snarl of the North:
But nevertheless she prepareth 810
And setteth in order her nurselings to bring them forth,
The jewels of her delight,
What shall be blue, what yellow or white;
What softest above the rest,
The primrose, that loveth best
Woodland skirts and the copses shorn.

2.

And on the day of relenting she suddenly weareth
Her budding crowns. O then, in the early morn,
Is any song that compareth
With the gaiety of birds, that thrill the gladdened air
In inexhaustible chorus 821
To awake the sons of the soil
With music more than in brilliant halls sonorous
(—It cannot compare—)
Is fed to the ears of kings
From the reeds and hirèd strings?
For love maketh them glad;
And if a soul be sad,
Or a heart oracle dumb,
Here may it taste the promise of joy to come. 830

3.

For the Earth knoweth the love which made her,
The omnipotent one desire,
Which burns at her heart like fire,
And hath in gladness arrayed her.
And man with the Maker shareth,
Him also to rival throughout the lands,
To make a work with his hands
And have his children adore it:
The Creator smileth on him who is wise and dareth
In understanding with pride: 840
For God, where’er he hath builded, dwelleth wide,—
And he careth,—
To set a task to the smallest atom,
The law-abiding grains,
That hearken each and rejoice:
For he guideth the world as a horse with reins;
It obeyeth his voice,
And lo! he hath set a beautiful end before it:

4.

Whereto it leapeth and striveth continually,
And pitieth nought, nor spareth: 850
The mother’s wail for her children slain,
The stain of disease,
The darts of pain,
The waste of the fruits of trees,
The slaughter of cattle,
Unbrotherly lust, the war
Of hunger, blood, and the yells of battle,
It heedeth no more
Than a carver regardeth the wood that he cutteth away:
The grainèd shavings fall at his feet, 860
But that which his tool hath spared shall stand
For men to praise the work of his hand;
For he cutteth so far, and there it lay,
And his work is complete.

5.

But I will praise ’mong men the masters of mind
In music and song,
Who follow the love of God to bless their kind:
And I pray they find
A marriage of mirth—
And a life long 870
With the gaiety of the Earth.

_Ch._ There stands an old man down beneath the bank,
Gazing, and beckoning to us.

_Deid._ He is a stranger,
That burdened with some package to the palace
Hath missed his way about, and fears to intrude.
Go some and show him. [_Some run out._
Meanwhile what do we?
We have no sport when Pyrrha is away.
Our game is broken. Come, a thought, a thought!
Hath none a thought?

_Ch._ We have never built the bower.

_Deid._ Ye idled gathering flowers. Now ’tis too late.

_Ch._ Let us play ball.

_Deid._ The sun is still so high. 881
I shall go feed my doves.

(_Re-enter one of Chorus._)

_Ch._ The old man saith
That he is a pedlar, and hath wares to sell
If he may show them. Shall he come?

_Deid._ Now Hermes,
The father of device and jugglery,
Be thanked for this; ’tis he hath sent him.—Call him.
His tales may be good hearing, tho’ his pack
Repay not search. But be advised: beware,
Lest he bear off more than he bring: these fellows
Have fingers to unclasp a brooch or pin 890
While the eye winks that watches. There was one
Who as he ran a race would steal the shoes
Of any that ran with him. The prince of all
Was merry Autolycus.

_Enter, with those who had gone out, Ulysses as a pedlar._

Good day, old man.
Come, let us see thy wares.

_Ul._ I have no breath left,
Wherewith to thank you, ladies; the little hill
Has ta’en it from me.

_Deid._ Rest awhile, and tell us
Whence thou art come.

_Ul._ In a Greek ship this morn.
I pray you, that I lack not courtesy,
Art thou the princess of this isle?

_Deid._ I am. 900

_Ul._ My true and humble service to your highness.

_Deid._ In turn say who art thou, and whence thy ship.

_Ul._ Fair, honoured daughter of a famous king,
I have no story worthy of thine ear,
Being but a poor artificer of Smyrna,
Where many years I wrought, and ye shall see
Not without skill, in silver and in gold.
But happiness hath wrecked me, and I say
’Tis ill to marry young; for from that joy
I gat a son, who as the time went on, 910
Grew to be old and gray and wise as I;
And bettering much the art which I had taught him
Longed to be master in my place, for which
He grew unkind, and his sons hated me:
And when one day he wished me dead, I feared
Lest I should kill myself; and so that night
I made me up a pack of little things
He should not grieve for, and took ship for Greece.
There have I trafficked, lady, a year and more,
And kept myself alive hawking small ware 920
From place to place, and on occasion found
A market for my jewels, and be come here
Making the round of the isles in any ship
That chances: and this last I came aboard
At Andros, where I was: but whence she hailed
I have even forgot. May it please thee see my wares?

_Deid._ Thy tale is very sad. I am sorry for thee.
Why would thy son, being as thou sayst so skilled,
Not ply his trade apart?

_Ul._ My house in Smyrna
Was head of all the goldsmiths: ’twas for that, 930
Lady, he envied me. See now my wares.

_Deid._ What beauteous work! I’m glad thou’rt come. I’ll buy
A trinket for myself, and let my maids
Choose each what she may fancy. Hear ye, girls?
I’ll make a gift to each.

_Ch._ O thanks.—To all?—
And may we choose?

_Deid._ Yes.

_Ch._ Anything we please?

_Deid._ Why, that is choosing.

_Ch._ O we thank thee.

_Ul._ Now
I see, princess, thou’rt of a bounteous blood,
To make all round thee happy.

_Deid._ What is this brooch?

_Ul._ If for thyself thou fancy a brooch, I’ll show thee
The best jewel in my box, and not be shamed 941
To say I have no better.

_Ch._ See, oh, see!
What lovely things!—A rare old man!

_Ul._ Here ’tis.
What thinkest thou?

_Deid._ Is’t not a ruby?

_Ul._ And fine!

_Deid._ I think thy son will have missed this.

_Ul._ Nay, lady:
I had it of a sailor, who, poor fool,
Knew not its worth; and thou mayst buy it of me
For half its value.

_Deid._ May I take these two
To view them nearly?

_Ul._ All take as ye will.
Ye do me honour, ladies.

_Deid._ Hear ye, girls, 950
Make each her choice. I will o’erlook your taste
When all is done.

_Ul._ Come, buy my wares: come buy.
Come, come buy; I’ve wares for all,
Were ye each and all princesses.
Clasps and brooches, large and small,
Handy for holding your flowing dresses.

_Ch._ What is this little box for?

_Ul._ Open it.

_Ch._ What is this vial?

_Ul._ Smell it. Buy, come buy!
Charms for lovers, charms to break,
Charms to bind them to you wholly. 960
Medicines fit for every ache,
Fever and fanciful melancholy.

_Ch._ O smell this scent.—Here be fine pins.—See this!

_Ul._ (_aside_). I spy none here to match my notion yet.

_Ch._ I have found amber beads.—What is it is tied
In little packets?

_Ul._ Toilet secrets those,
Perfumes, and rare cosmetics ’gainst decay.

_Deid._ (_to one apart_). Alexia, see. I will buy this for Pyrrha.
’Tis pity she is not here. What thinkest thou of it?
He said it was his best. This other one 970
I’ll give to thee if thou find nothing better.
Go see. I will seek Pyrrha. [_Exit._

_Ul._ Buy, come buy!
Tassels, fringes, silken strings,
Girdles, ties, and Asian pockets,
Armlets, necklaces and rings,
Images, amulets, lovers’ lockets.

_Ch._ Pray, what are these, good man?

_Ul._ Of soft doe-skin
These gilded thongs are made for dancers’ wear,
To tie their sandals.

_Ch._ And is this a pin,
This golden grasshopper?

_Ul._ Ay, for the hair. 980
The Athenian ladies use nought else. See here
This little cup.

_Ch._ Didst thou make that?

_Ul._ Nay, ladies.

_Ch._ Show us some work of thine which thou didst make
Thy very self.

_Ul._ See then this silver snake.
Fear not. Come near and mark him well: my trade is,
Or was, I should say, in such nice devices.
’Twill coil and curl, uncoil, dart and recoil. [_Showing._

_The Chorus crowd about him, when enter unperceived
by him Achilles and Deidamia._

_Deid._ Come, come, there never hath been one like him here.
Hark! see the girls: they crowd and chatter round
As greedily as birds being fed. I bade them choose
Each one a present, but I took the best, 991
This ruby brooch. Look at it: ’tis for thee.
Let me now put it on thee. I’ll unclasp
Thy robe and set it in the place of the other.

_Ach._ Nay, Deidamia, unfasten not my robe!

_Deid._ Why, ’twould not matter if he looked this way.

_Ach._ Nay, prithee.—

_Deid._ Well, thou must take my gift.

_Ach._ Then must I give thee somewhat in return.

_Deid._ But ’tis my will to-day to give to all.

_Ach._ Then let me take my choice, some smaller thing. 1000

_Deid._ Come then ere all is ransacked.

_Ach._ (_aside_). I scarce escaped
The uncovering of my magic coat.—[_They go to Ulysses._

_Ul._ Come buy,
Needles for your broideries rare,
Dainty bodkins silver-hafted.
Pins to fix your plaited hair,
Ivory-headed and golden-shafted.

_Ach._ What hast thou in thy pack for me, old man?

_Ul._ There’s nought but trifles left me, lady, now,
As dice and dolls; the very dregs of the box.

_Deid._ Athenian owls. And who’s this red-baked lady
Clothed in a net?

_Ul._ Princess, ’tis Britomartis, 1011
The Cretan goddess worshipped at Ægina.

_Deid._ This little serpent too?

_Ul._ Nothing to thee:
But the Erechtheidæ use to fasten such
About their children’s necks. Nay, not a babe
Is born but they must don him one of these,
Or ever he be swaddled or have suck.

_Deid._ This blinking pygmy here, with a man’s body
And a dog’s head, squatting upon a button...
What’s he?

_Ul._ ’Tis an Egyptian charm, to ban 1020
The evil spirits bred of Nilus’ slime.

_Deid._ And this?

_Ul._ That. See, ’tis a Medusa, lady,
Cut in an oyster-shell, with flaming snakes.

_Deid._ These are all nothings. Thou must have the brooch.
See, now ’tis thine; thou hast it. (_Pins it upon Achilles’ robe._)
(_To Ul._) What is its price?
(_To Ach._) Nay, be content.

_Ul._ To thee I’ll sell it, lady,
For a tenfold weight of gold.

_Ach._ Oh! ’tis too much.
Spend not such store on me. And for the ruby,
’Tis dark and small.

_Ul._ The purple is its merit:
Were it three times the size and half the tint, 1030
’Twere of slight cost.

_Ach._ So might I like it better.
And that—what’s that, which thou dost put aside?
Is that a toy?

_Ul._ Nay, lady; that is no toy.
’Tis a sharp sword. But I will show it thee
For its strange quality: the which methinks
Might pass for magic, were’t not that an Arian,
Late come to Sardis, knows the art to make it.
Tho’ wrought of iron, look ye, ’tis blue as flint,
And if I bend it, it springs back like a bow:
’Tis sharper too than flint; but the edge is straight,
And will not chip. Nay, touch it not; have care!

_Ach._ Pray, let me see it, and take it in my hand.

[_Takes it and comes to front._

_Ul._ (_aside_). This should be he.

_Ach._ (_aside_). My arm writhes at the touch.

_Ul._ There is a hunter, with his game, a lion,
Inlaid upon it: and on the other side 1045
Two men that fight to death.

_Ach._ ’Tis light in the hand.

_Deid._ (_to Ach._). Canst thou imagine any use for this?

_Ach._ (_to Deid._). Not when thy father dies?

_Ul._ Ladies, have care.
For if the sword should wound you, I were blamed.

_Ach._ Why, thinkest thou ’tis only bearded men
Can wield a sword? The queen of the Amazons
Could teach thee something maugre thy white hair.

_Ul._ (_aside_). The game hath run into the snare;
He is mine.

_Ach._ See, Deidamia, here’s my choice; buy this
If thou wilt give me something; thou dost like 1055
The ruby; if thou wilt let me give thee that,
Thou in return buy me this little sword.

_Deid._ Such presents are ill-omened, and ’tis said
Will shrewdly cut in twain the love they pledge.

_Ach._ But we may make a bond of this divider.

_Deid._ Wilt thou in earnest take it for thy choice?

_Ach._ If thou wert late in earnest, thou couldst do
No better than arm all thy girls with these.
The weapon wins the battle, and I think
With such advantage women might be feared.
(_To Ul._) Old man, I like thy blade; and I will have it.
I see ’twould thrust well: tell me if ’tis mettle
To give a stroke. Suppose I were thy foe,
And standing o’er thee thus to cut thee down
Should choose to cleave thy pate. Would this sword do it? 1070

_Ul._ (_aside_). He knows me!

[_Pulling off his beard and head-dress and leaping up._

Achilles!

_Deid. and Ch._ Help! help! treachery!

[_They fly._

_Diomede comes out of bushes where he stands unseen
by Achilles._

_Ach._ Beardless—and smooth of face as tongue:
In voice
Gentle, but sturdy of body: ruddy locks,
And restless eye .. Ulysses!

_Ul._ Thou hast it.

_Ach._ I knew that thou wert here, but looked to meet thee1075
Without disguises, as an honest man.

_Ul._ Thou needest a mirror, lady, for thyself.

_Ach._ (_suddenly casts off his long robe and appears in
shining armour, still holding the sword_).

Behold!.... Be thou my mirror!

_Ul._ If I be not,
’Tis shame to thee, the cause of my disguise.

_Ach._ I own thee not. I knew thee for a prince,
But seeing thee so vilely disfigured...

_Ul._ Stay! 1081
We both have used disguise: I call for judgment
Upon the motive. Mine I donned for valour,
And care for thy renown; thine was for fear.

_Ach._ Fear! By the gods: take up thy beard again,
And thy mock dotage shield thee.

_Ul._ Nay, Achilles;
If I spake wrong I will recall the word.

_Ach._ Thou didst unutterably lie. Recall it.

_Ul._ Wilt thou then sail to Aulis in my ship?

_Ach._ I can sail thither and not sail with thee.

_Ul._ But wilt thou come?

_Ach._ I answer not to thee
Because thou questionest me: but since I know
What will be, and hear thee in ignorance
Slander fair names, I tell thee that Achilles
Will come to Aulis.

_Ul._ Wherefore now so long 1095
Hast thou denied thyself to thy renown?

_Ach._ Thou saidst for fear; nor hast recalled the word.

_Ul._ ’Twas first thy taunt which drew my mind from me:
But, if it wrong thee, I recall the word.

_Ach._ I think thou hast judged me by thyself, Ulysses.
When thou wast summoned to the war,—who wert
Not free to choose as I, but bound by oath
To Menelaus to help him,—what didst thou?
Why thou didst feign; and looking for disguise
Thy wit persuaded thee that they who knew thee
Would never deem that thou wouldst willingly
Make mock of that: so thou didst put on madness,
Babbling and scrabbling even before thy friends:
And hadst been slavering on thy native rocks
Unto this day, had not one fellow there 1110
Lightly unravelled thee, and in the furrow,
Which thou with dumb delusion, morn and eve,
Didst plough in the sea sand (that was thy trick),
He placed thy new-born babe. That thou brok’st down
Then in thine acting, that thou drav’st not on
The share thro’ thine own flesh, is the best praise
I have to give thee.

_Ul._ Distinguish! if I feigned,
’Twas that I had a child and wife, whose ties
Of tenderness I am not ashamed to own.

_Ach._ I say thou wentest not unto this war 1120
But by compulsion, thou, that chargest me
With fear. ’Tis thou that art the stay-at-home,
Not I; my heart was ever for the war,
And ’gainst my will I have been withheld: that thou
Mistakest in this my duty for my leaning,
Is more impeachment of thy boasted wits,
Than was thy empty husbandry. Are not
The Argive chiefs more subject, one and all,
To this reproach of fear? Why need they me
A boy of sixteen years to lead them on? 1130
Did they lack ships or men, what are my people
In number? who am I in strength? what rank
Have I in Hellas? Where’s the burly Ajax?
Where is the son of Herakles? and Nestor
The aged? Teucer and Idomeneus?
Menestheus, Menelaus? and not least
Where’s Diomede?

_Dio._ (_coming forward_). By chance he’s here.

_Ach._ Ah! now
I hear a soldier’s voice. Brave Diomede,
I give thee welcome, tho’ thou comest behind.

_Dio._ Hail, son of Thetis, champion of the Greeks!

_Ach._ Anon, anon. What dost thou here? Wert thou 1141
Sat in an ambush or arrived by chance,
As thou didst say?

_Dio._ By heaven I cannot tell.
I serve Ulysses, and he serves the gods:
If thou’rt displeased with them, gibe not at me.

_Ach._ I see the plan—The pedlar here in front,
The lion behind. And so ye thought to seize me.

_Ul._ Have we not done it?

_Ach._ Nay.

_Ul._ Thou canst not scape.

_Ach._ I give that back to thee.

_Ul._ What wilt thou now?

_Ach._ Diomede and I have swords: thou mayst stand by 1150
Until ’tis time thou show me how to escape.
I’ll drive you to your ship.

_Ul._ (_aside to Dio._).
Answer him not. He cannot leave the isle:
When the king learns of our discovery
He must deliver him up. Let’s to the palace.

_Dio._ (_to Ul._). Nay, I must speak—

_Ul._ Thou wilt but anger him.
He will yield better if we cross him not.

_Dio._ (_to Ach._). Brave son of Thetis, I’d not yield
to thee
In any trial of strength, tho’ thou be clad
In heavenly armour; but I came not here 1160
To fight, and least with thee: put up thy sword.
And since I heard thee say thou wilt to Aulis,
Our mission is accomplished, nought remains
But to renounce our acting, and atone
For what we have ventured. First I speak thee free
To follow thine own way. Unless the king
Or other here be in thy secrecy,
None know but we, nor shall know: be it thy will,
My lips are sealed, and in whatever else
Thou wilt command me, I shall be glad to obey.

_Ach._ Thank thee, good Diomede. What saith Ulysses? 1171

_Ul._ I’ll do whate’er will knit thee to our cause.
(_Aside._) Yet shall men hear I found thee.

_Ach._ Return then to your ship; and when Ulysses
Is there restored proceed ye to the court.
But what in the surprise and consequence
Of my discovery to the king, as well
As to some others may arise, I know not;
Nor can instruct your good behaviours further.
Time grants me but short counsel for myself. 1180

_Ul._ We too should study how to meet the king.

_Ach._ Stay yet, Ulysses. Thou hast parted here
With goods appraised to them that meant to buy.
I have a full purse with me. Be content,
Take it. I’d give as much for the little sword.
Now let me do this favour to the ladies.

_Ul._ (_taking_). ’Tis fit, and fairly done. I did not think
To go off robbed. The sword is worth the gold.
We part in honest dealing. Fare thee well. 1189

_Dio._ (_aside_). Thrashed like a witless cur!
(_To Ach._) Farewell, Achilles.
An hour hence we will meet thee at the palace.

[_Exeunt Ul. and Dio._

_Ach._ In spite of warning taken in a silly trap,
By the common plotter! Thus to be known Achilles—
To have my wish forced on me against my will
Hath rudely cleared my sight. Where lies the gain?
The dancing ship on which I sailed is wrecked
On an unlovely shore, and I must climb
Out of the wreck upon a loveless shore,
Saving what best I love. ’Tis so. I see
I shall command these men, and in their service
Find little solace. I have a harder task 1201
Than chieftainship, and how to wear my arms
With as much nature as yon girlish robe:
To pass from that to this without reproach
Of honour, and beneath my breastplate keep
With the high generalship of all the Greeks
My tenderest love. ’Tis now to unmask that,
And hold uninjured. I’ll make no excuse
To the old king but my necessity,
And boldly appease him. Here by chance he comes.

_Enter hurriedly Lycomedes and Abas._

_Lyc._ Was it not here, they said? 1211
An insolent ruffian: Let me come across him!
By heav’n, still here! And armed from head to foot!
(_To Ach._) Young man,—as now thou’lt not deny to be—
Thou’st done—ay, tho’ thou seem of princely make—
Dishonour and offence to me the king
In venturing here to parley with the princess
In mock disguise, for whatsoever cause,
Strangely put on and suddenly cast off,
I am amazed to think. I bid thee tell me 1220
What was thy purpose hither.

_Ach._ O honoured king,
Tho’ I came here disguised I am not he
Thou thinkest.

_Lyc._ Nay I think not who thou art.
All wonders that I have seen are lost in thee.

_Ach._ Thou takest me for Ulysses.

_Lyc._ Nay, not I.

_Ach._ I am Achilles, sire, the son of Thetis.

_Lyc._ Achilles! Ah! Thou sayst at least a name
That fits thy starlike presence, my rebuke
Not knowing who thou wert. But now I see thee
I need no witness, and forget my wonder 1230
Wherefore the Argives tarry on the shore
And the gods speak thy praise. Welcome then hither,
Achilles, son of Thetis; welcome hither!
And be I first to honour thee, who was
Most blamèd in thine absence.

_Ach._ Gracious sire,
Thy welcome is all kingly, if it bear
Forgiveness of offence.

_Lyc._ To speak of that,
Another might have wronged me, but not thou.
Tho’ much I crave to learn both how and why 1239
Thou camest hither. Was’t in the Argive ship?

_Ach._ Nay, king, I came not in the Argive ship:
Nor am I that false trespasser thou seekest.

_Lyc._ Whether then hast thou mounted from the deep,
Where the sea nymphs till now have loved and held thee
From men’s desire; or whether from the sky
Hath some god wrapt thee in a morning cloud,
And laid thee with the sunlight on this isle,
Where they that seek should find thee?

_Ach._ A god it was
Brought me, but not to-day: seven times the moon
Hath lost her lamp with loitering, since the night
She shone upon my passage; and so long 1251
I have served thee in disguise, and won thy love.

_Lyc._ So long hast thou been here! And I unknowing
Have pledged my kingly oath—The gods forbid—

_Ach._ Yet was I here because a goddess bade.

_Lyc._ Have I then ever seen thee?

_Ach._ Every hour
Thou hast seen me, and sheltered me beneath thy roof.
But since thou knewest me not, thy royal word
Was hurt not by denial.

_Lyc._ Who wert thou? Say.

_Ach._ I was called Pyrrha. 1260

_Lyc._ O shame.

_Ach._ Yet hearken, sire!

_Lyc._ Wast thou the close attendant of my daughter,
Her favoured comrade, and she held it hid
’Neath a familiar countenance before me,
So false unto her modesty and me?
Alas! alas!

_Ach._ O sire, she hath known me but as thou, and loved
Not knowing whom.

_Lyc._ Thou sayst she hath not known?

_Ach._ For ’twas a goddess framed me this disguise.

_Lyc._ And never guessed?

_Ach._ Nay, sire. Nor blame the goddess
Whom I obeyed: nor where I have done no wrong,
Make my necessity a crime against thee. 1271

_Lyc._ Can I believe?

_Ach._ ’Tis true I have loved her, sire:
And by strange wooing if I have won her love,
And now in the discovery can but offer
A soldier’s lot,—she is free to choose: but thee
First I implore, be gracious to my suit,
Nor scorn me for thy son.

_Lyc._ My son! Achilles!
This day shall be the feast-day of my year,
Tho’ I be made to all men a rebuke
For being thy shelter, when I swore to all 1280
Thou wert not here. Now I rejoice thou wert.
Come to my palace as thyself: be now
My guest in earnest: we will seal at once
This happy contract.

_Ach._ Let me first be known
Unto the princess and bespeak her will.

_Lyc._ She is thine, I say she is thine. Stay yet; that pedlar,
Was he Ulysses?

_Ach._ So he stole upon us;
And when I bought this sword he marked me out.

_Lyc._ I cannot brook his mastery in deceit.
Where is he now?

_Ach._ I sent him to the ship, 1290
To find a fit apparel for thy sight.

_Lyc._ Would I had caught him in his mean disguise!

_Ach._ So mayst thou yet. Come with me the short way
And we will intercept him.

_Lyc._ Abas, follow.
Thou too hast played a part I cannot like.

_Ab._ My liege, I have but unwittingly obeyed.
I have no higher trust.

_Lyc._ Now obey me. [_Exeunt._

_Enter Deidamia and Chorus._

_Deid._ Pyrrha, where art thou, Pyrrha?

_Ch._ She turned not back.—
They are not here.—She would not fly.—

_Deid._ Pyrrha, Pyrrha! 1300

_Ch._ She hath driven the ugly pedlar and his pack
Home to his ship—would we had all been by!
Would we had joined the chase!

_Deid._ He was no pedlar: I could see his face
When he pulled off his beard.

_Ch._ There as she stood,
Waving the sword, I feared
To see a mortal stroke—
He hath fled into the wood—
Had he no sword too, did none spy, 1310
Beneath his ragged cloke?

_Deid._ Alas, alas!

_Ch._ What hast thou found?

_Deid._ Woe, woe! alas, alas!
Pyrrha’s robe torn, and trampled on the ground.
See! see! O misery!

_Ch._ ’Tis hers—’tis true—we see.

_Deid._ Misery, misery! help who can.

_Ch._ I have no help to give.—
I have no word to say. 1320

_Deid._ Gods! do I live
To see this woe? The man
Like some wild beast hath dragged her body away,
And left her robe. Ah, see the gift she spurned,
My ruby jewel to my hand returned;
When forcing my accord
She chose the fatal sword.
The fool hath quite mistook her play.

_Ch._ He will have harmed her, if she be not slain.
Ah, Pyrrha, Pyrrha! 1330
Why ran we away?

_Deid._ Why stand we here?
To the rescue: follow me.

_Ch._ Whither—our cries are vain.
Maybe she lieth now close by
And hears but cannot make reply.
’Tis told how men have bound
The mouths of them they bore away,
Lest by their cry
They should be found.— 1340
Spread our company into the woods around,
And shouting as we go keep within hail.—
Or banding in parties search the paths about:
If many together shout
The sound is of more avail.
Once more, together call her name once more.
(_Calling._) Pyrrha—Pyrrha!

_Thetis_ (_within_). Ha!

_Deid._ An answer. Heard ye not?

_Ch._ ’Twas but the nymph, that from her hidden grot
Mocks men with the repeated syllables 1350
Of their own voice, and nothing tells.
Such sound the answer bore.

_Deid._ Nay, nay.
Hark, for if ’twere but echo as ye say
’Twill answer if I call again.
(_Calls._) Pyrrha, come! Pyrrha, come!

_Thetis_ (_within_). I come, I come.

_Deid._ Heard ye not then?

_Ch._ I heard the selfsame sound.

_Deid._ ’Twas Pyrrha. Why she is found.
I know her voice. I hear her footing stir. 1360

_Ch._ True, some one comes.

_Deid._ ’Tis she.

_Enter Thetis._

Pyrrha! O joy.

_Th._ Why call ye her?

_Deid._ Pyrrha! Nay.
And yet so like. Alas, beseech thee, lady
Or goddess, for I think that such thou art,
Who answering from the wood our sorrowing call
Now to our sight appearest,—hast thou regard
For her, whom thou so much resemblest, speak
And tell us of thy pity if yet she lives 1368
Safe and unhurt, whom we have lost and mourn.

_Th._ ’Tis vain to weep her, as ’twere vain to seek.
Whom think ye that ye have lost?

_Deid._ Pyrrha, my Pyrrha.
As late we all fled frighted by a man,
Who stole on us disguised, she stayed behind:
For when we were got safe, she was not with us.
So we returned to seek her; but alas!
Our fear is turned to terror. Lady, see!
This is her garment trampled on the ground.

_Th._ And so ye have found her. There was never more
Of her ye have callèd Pyrrha than that robe.
The golden-headed maiden, the enchantress, 1380
And laughter-loving idol of your hearts
Had in your empty thought her only being.
When ye have played with her, chosen her for queen,
And leader of your games, or when ye have sat
Rapt by the music of her voice, that sang
Heroic songs and histories of the gods,
Or at brisk morn, or long-delaying eve,
Have paced the shores of sunlight hand in hand,
’Twas but a robe ye held: ye were deceived;
There was no Pyrrha. 1390

_Ch._ What strange speech is this?
Was there no Pyrrha? What shall we believe!

_Deid._ Lady, thy speech troubles mine ear in vain.

_Th._ ’Tis then thine ear is vain; and not my speech.

_Deid._ My ears and eyes and hands have I believed,
But not thy words. A moment since I held her.
What wilt thou say?

_Th._ That eyes and hands and ears
Deceived thy trust, but now thou hearest truth.

_Deid._ Have we then dreamed, deluded by a shade
Fashioned of air or cloud, and as it seems
Made in thy likeness, or hath some god chosen
To dwell awhile with us in privity 1401
And mutual share of all our petty deeds?
Say what thy dark words hint and who thou art.

_Th._ I Thetis am, daughter of that old god,
Whose wisdom buried in the deep hath made
The unfathomed water solemn, and I rule
The ocean-nymphs, who for their pastime play
In the blue glooms, and darting here and there
Checquer the dark and widespread melancholy
With everlasting laughter and bright smiles. 1410
Of me thou hast heard, and of my son Achilles,
By prescient fame renowned first of the Greeks:
He is on this island: for ’twas here I set him
To hide him from his foes, and he was safe
Till thou betray’dst him—for unwittingly
That hast thou done to-day. The seeming pedlar,
To whom thou leddest Pyrrha, was Ulysses,
Who spied to find Achilles, and thro’ thee
Found him, alas! Thy Pyrrha was Achilles.

_Chorus._

O daughter of Nereus old, 1420
Queen of the nymphs that swim
By day in gleams of gold,
By night in the silver dim,
Forgive in pity, we pray,
Forgive the ill we have done.
Why didst thou hide this thing from us?
For if we had known thy son
We had guarded him well to-day,
Nor ever betrayed him thus.

For though we may not ride 1430
Thy tall sea-horses nor play
In the rainbow-tinted spray,
Nor dive down under the tide
To the secret caves of the main,
Among thy laughing train;
Yet had we served thee well as they,
Had we thy secret shared:
Nor ever had lost from garden and hall
Pyrrha the golden-haired,
Pyrrha beloved of all. 1440

_Th._ (_to Deid._). Dost thou say nought?

_Deid._ Alas, alas! my Pyrrha.

_Th._ Art thou lamenting still to have lost thy maid?

_Deid._ I need no tongue to cry my shame; and yet
Thy mockery doth not grieve me like my loss.

_Th._ I came not here to mock thee, and forbid
Thy grief, that doth dishonour to my son.

_Deid._ Nay, nay, that word is mine: speak it no more.

_Th._ Weepest thou at comfort? Is deceit so dear
To mortals, that to know good cannot match
The joy of a delusion whatsoe’er? 1450

_Deid._ What joy was mine shame must forbid to tell.

_Th._ Gods count it shame to be deceived: but men
Are shamed not by delusion of the gods.

_Deid._ Then ye know nothing or do not respect.

_Th._ Why what is this thou makest? the more ye have loved
The more have ye delighted, and the joy
I never grudged thee; tho’ there was not one
In all my company of sea-born nymphs,
Who did not daily pray me, with white arms
Raised in the blue, to let her guard my son. 1460
And for his birthright he might well have taken
The service of their sportive train, and lived
On some fair desert isle away from men
Like a young god in worship and gay love.
But since he is mortal, for his mortal mate
I chose out thee; to whom now were he lost,
I would not blame thy well-deservèd tears:
But lo, I am come to give thee joy, to call
Thee daughter, and prepare thee for the sight
Of such a lover, as no lady yet 1470
Hath sat to await in chamber or in bower
On any wallèd hill or isle of Greece;
Nor yet in Asian cities, whose dark queens
Look from the latticed casements over seas
Of hanging gardens; nor doth all the world
Hold a memorial; not where Ægypt mirrors
The great smile of her kings and sunsmit fanes
In timeless silence: none hath been like him;
And all the giant stones, which men have piled
Upon the illustrious dead, shall crumble and join
The desert dust, ere his high dirging Muse 1481
Be dispossessèd of the throne of song.
Await him here. While I thy willing maids
Will lead apart, that they may learn what share
To take in thy rejoicing. Follow me!

_Ch._ Come, come—we follow—we obey thee gladly—
We long to learn, goddess, what thou canst teach.

[_Exeunt Th. and Chor._

_Deid._ Rejoice, she bids me. Ah me, tho’ all heaven spake,
I should weep bitterly. My tears, my shame
Will never leave me. Never now, nevermore 1490
Can I find credit of grace, nor as a rock
Stand ’twixt my maids and evil; even not deserving
My father’s smile. Why honour we the gods,
Who reck not of our honour? How hath she,
Self-styled a goddess, mocked me, not respecting
Maidenly modesty; but in the path
Of grace, wherein I thought to walk enstated
High as my rank without reproach, she hath set
A snare for every step; that day by day,
From morn to night, I might do nothing well; 1500
But by most innocent seeming be betrayed
To what most wounds a shamefast life, yielding
To a man’s unfeignèd feigning; nay nor stayed
Until I had given,—alas, how oft!—
My cheek to his lips, my body to his arms;
And thinking him a maid as I myself,
Have loved, kissed, and embraced him as a maid.
O wretched, not to have seen what was so plain!
Here on this bank no later than this morn
Was I beguiled. There is no cure, no cure. 1510
I’ll close my eyes for ever, nor see again
The things I have seen, nor be what I have been.

[_Covers her face weeping._

_Enter Achilles._

_Ach._ The voices that were here have ceased. Ah, there!
Not gone. ’Tis she, and by my cast-off robe
Sitting alone. I must speak comfort to her,
Whoe’er I seem. O Deidamia, see!
Pyrrha is found. Weep not for her. I tell thee
Thy Pyrrha is safe. Despair not. Nay, look up.
Dost thou not know my voice? ’Tis I myself. 1519
Look up, I am Pyrrha.—Ah, now what prayer or plea
Made on my knees can aid me—If thou knowst all
And wilt not look on me? Yet if thou hearest
Thou wilt forgive. Nay, if thou lovedst me not,
Or if I had wronged thee, thou wouldst scorn me now.
Thou dost not look. I am not changed. I loved thee
As like a maiden as I knew: if more
Was that a fault? Now as I am Achilles
Revealed to-day to lead the Greeks to Troy,
I count that nothing and bow down to thee
Who hast made me fear,— 1530
Let me unveil thy eyes: tho’ thou wouldst hide me,
Hide not thyself from me. If gentle force
Should show me that ’tis love that thou wouldst hide ...
And love I see. Look on me.

_Deid._ (_embracing_). Ah Pyrrha, Pyrrha!

_Ach._ Thou dost forgive.

_Deid._ I never dreamed the truth.

_Ach._ And wilt not now look on me!

_Deid._ I dare not look.

_Ach._ What dost thou fear? A monster! I am not changed
Save but my dress, and that an Amazon
Might wear.

_Deid._ O, I see all.

_Ach._ But who hath told thee?

_Deid._ There came one here much like thee when we called,1540
Who said she was a goddess and thy mother.

_Ach._ ’Twas she that hid me in my strange disguise,
Fearing the oracle.

_Deid._ She praised thee well,
And said that thou wouldst come...

_Ach._ What didst thou fear,
Hiding thine eyes?

_Deid._ I cannot speak the name.
Be Pyrrha still.

_Ach._ Be that my name with thee.
Yet hath thy father called me son Achilles.

_Deid._ He knows?

_Ach._ There’s nought to hide: but let us hence.
He is coming hither, and with him my foe.
Let them not find us thus, and thee in tears. 1550

[_Exeunt._

_Enter Lycomedes, Ulysses, Diomede, and Abas._

_Lyc._ It may be so, or it may not be so:
You have done me an honest service ’gainst your will,
And must not wrest it to a false conclusion.
I bid you be my guests, and with your presence
Honour the marriage, which ye have brought about.
Ye need not tarry long.

_Ul._ Each hour is long
Which holds the Argive ships chained to the shore.
This is no time for marriage.

_Lyc._ There’s time for all;
A time for wooing and a time for warring:
And such a feast of joy as offers now 1560
Ye shall not often see. Scyros shall show you
What memory may delight in ’twixt the frays
Of bloody battle.

_Dio._ I am not made for feasts.
I join the cry to arms. But make your bridal
To-night, and I’ll abide it.

_Lyc._ I’ll have’t to-night.
So shall Achilles’ finding and his wedding
Be on one day. And hark! there’s music tells me
That others guess my mind.

_Enter Chorus with Ach. and Deid. following._

_Chorus._

Now the glorious sun is sunk in the west,
And night with shadowy step advances: 1570
As we,—to the newly betrothed our song addrest,
With musical verse and dances,
In the order of them who established rites of old
For maidens to sing this song,—
Pray the gifts of heaven to gifts of gold,
Joy and a life long.

_Ach._ Good king and father, see thy daughter come
To hear thee call me son.

_Lyc._ Son if I call thee,
I understand not yet, and scarce believe 1579
The wonders of this day. And thou, my daughter,
Ever my pride and prayer, hast far outrun
My hope of thy good fortune. Blessed be ye both:
The gods have made your marriage; let the feast
Be solemnized to-night; our good guests here
Whose zeal hath caused our joy, I have bid to share it.

_Chorus._

We live well-ruled by an honoured king,
Beloved of the gods, in a happy isle;
Where merry winds of the gay sea bring
No foe to our shore, and the heavens smile
On a peaceful folk secure from fear, 1590
Who gather the fruits of the earth at will,
And hymn their thanks to the gods, and rear
Their laughing babes unmindful of ill.
And ever we keep a feast of delight,
The betrothal of hearts, when spirits unite,
Creating an offspring of joy, a treasure
Unknown to the bad, for whom
The gods foredoom
The glitter of pleasure,
And a dark tomb. 1600

Blessèd therefore O newly betrothed are ye,
Tho’ happy to-day ye be,
Your happier times ye yet shall see.
We make our prayer to the gods.

The sun shall prosper the seasons’ yield
With fuller crops for the wains to bear,
And feed our flocks in fold and field
With wholesome water and sweetest air.
Plenty shall empty her golden horn,
And grace shall dwell on the brows of youth,
And love shall come as the joy of morn, 1611
To waken the eyes of pride and truth.

Blessèd therefore thy happy folk are we.
Tho’ happy to-day we be,
Our happier times are yet to see.
We render praise to the gods;

But chiefest of all in the highest height
To Love that sitteth in timeless might,
That tameth evil, and sorrow ceaseth.
And now we wish you again, 1620
Again and again,
His joy that encreaseth,
And a long reign.

_Ach._ Stay, stay! and thou, good king, and all here, hear me.
I would be measured by my best desire,
And that’s for peace and love, and the delights
Your song hath augured: but to all men fate
Apportions a mixed lot, and ’twas for me
Foreshown that peace and honour lay apart,
Wherever pleasure: and to-day’s event 1630
Questions your hope. I was for this revealed,
To lead the Argive battle against Troy:
Thither I go; whence to return or not
Is out of sight, but yet my marriage-making
Enters with better promise on my life
Thus hand in hand with glorious enterprise.
After some days among you I must away,
Tho’ ’tis not far.

_Ul._ Well said! So art thou bound.

_Dio._ The war that hung so long will now begin.

_Lye._ I ask one month, Achilles: grant one moon:
They that could wait so long may longer wait. 1641

_Chorus._

1.

Go not, go not, Achilles; is all in vain?
Is this the fulfilment of long delight,
The promise of favouring heaven,
The praise of our song,
The choice of Thetis for thee,
Thy merry disguise,
And happy betrothal?
We pray thee, O we beseech thee, all,
Son of Thetis, we counsel well, 1650
Do not thy bride this wrong.

2.

For if to-day thou goest, thou wilt go far,
Alas, from us thy comrades away,
To a camp of revengeful men,
The accursed war
By warning fate forbidden,
To angry disdain,
A death unworthy.
We pray thee, O we beseech thee, all,
Son of Peleus, we counsel well, 1660
This doom the oracle told.

_Lyc._ What said the oracle?

_Ach._ It darkly boded
That glory should be death.

_Lyc._ And so may be:
Nay, very like. Yet men who would live well,
Weigh not these riddles, but unfold their life
From day to day. Do thou as seemeth best,
Nor fear mysterious warnings of the powers.
But, if my voice can reckon with thee at all,
I’ll tell thee what myself I have grown to think:
That the best life is oft inglorious. 1670
Since the perfecting of ourselves, which seems
Our noblest task, may closelier be pursued
Away from camps and cities and the mart
Of men, where fame, as it is called, is won,
By strife, ambition, competition, fashion,
Ay, and the prattle of wit, the deadliest foe
To sober holiness, which, as I think,
Loves quiet homes, where nature laps us round
With musical silence and the happy sights
That never fret; and day by day the spirit 1680
Pastures in liberty, with a wide range
Of peaceful meditation, undisturbed.
All which can Scyros offer if thou wilt.—

_Ul._ This speech is idle, thou art bound to me.

_Ach._ I hear you all: and lest it should be said
I once was harsh and heedless, where such wrong
Were worse than cowardice, I now recall
Whate’er I have said. I will not forth to Troy:
I will abide in Scyros, and o’erlook
The farms and vineyards, and be lessoned well 1690
In government of arts, and spend my life
In love and ease, and whatsoever else
Our good king here hath praised—I will do this
If my bride bid me. Let her choose for me;
Her word shall rule me. If she set our pleasure
Above my honour, I will call that duty,
And make it honourable, and so do well.
But, as I know her, if she bid me go
Where fate and danger call, then I will go,
And so do better: and very sure it is, 1700
Pleasure is not for him who pleasure serves.

_Deid._ Achilles, son of Thetis! As I love thee,
I say, go forth to Troy.

_Ach._ Praised be the Gods,
Who have made my long desire my love’s command!

_Ch._ Alas! We have no further plea. Alas!
Her ever-venturous spirit forecasts no ill.

_Lyc._ Go, win thy fame, my son; I would not stay thee.
Thou art a soldier born. But circumstance
Demands delay, which thou wilt grant.

_Ach._ And thus
To-night may be the feast. To-morrow morn 1710
Do thou, Ulysses, sail to Aulis, there
Prepare them for my coming. If, Diomede,
Thou wilt to Achaia to collect my men,
The time thou usest I can fitly spend,
And for some days banish the thought of war.

_Dio._ I will go for thee, prince.

_Lyc._ ’Tis settled so.
Stand we no longer here: night falls apace.
Come to the palace, we will end this day,
As it deserves, never to be forgot.

NOTES

THE FIRST PART OF NERO

This play was not intended for the stage, as the rest of my plays are. It was written as an exercise in dramatic qualities other than scenic; and had its publication been contemplated, I should have been more careful not to deserve censure in one or two places: these however I have not thought it worth while to erase or correct. Owing to its inordinate length I have found it necessary, so that the volumes of this series might be of uniform size, to couple with it the shortest of the other plays. Hence

ACHILLES IN SCYROS

is here out of order. Instead of standing second it should come fifth, that is after _The Christian Captives_. The following note is taken from the first edition.

_Note to_ Achilles in Scyros.—After I had begun this play I came by chance on _Calderon’s_ play on the same subject, _El Monstruo de los Jardines_. The monster is _Achilles_; the gardens the same. Excepting an expression or two I found nothing that it suited me to use, and I should not have recorded the circumstance, if it were not that _Calderon’s_ play seemed to me to contain strong evidence that he had read _The Tempest_. This observation cannot be new, but I have never met with it; so I offer it to my readers, thinking it will interest them as it did me.

_El Monstruo de los Jardines_ opens with a storm at sea, and shipwreck of royal persons, similar as it is inferior to _Shakespeare’s_ (but compare also the Devil’s shipwreck in the second act of _El magicio prodigioso_, which may be read in _Shelley’s_ translation). _Stephano_ has his counterpart,

_Un cofrade de Baco, que ha salido, Por no hacerle traicion, del mar á nado Pues el no beber agua le ha escapado,_

and the whole play is then on a supposed desert island, which turns out to be strangely peopled. There is the monster _Achilles_, who in many respects remembers _Caliban_, and is even addressed as _Señor monstruo_: ’_Monsieur Monster_.’ There is _Thetis_, who is to her nymphs as _Prospero_ to his spirits; with musical enchantments, and voices in the air, and even a _fantastico bajél_. _Calderon_ has moreover hit upon the same device of imitative fancy as tempted _Dryden_ in like sad case, and pictured a man who had never seen a woman. The island is wandered on by the prince and his suite, and one of them says of it _Republica es entera_, &c. A curious reader might find more than I have here noticed: but _Calderon_ is as far from sympathy with _Shakespeare_, as he is from the Greek story, with his drums and trumpets and _El gran Sofí_.