Part 2 (1/2)

_Gycia._ Thou strange girl, to put on Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou hast fallen In love, as girls say--though what it may be To fall in love, I know not, thank the G.o.ds, Having much else to think of.

_Ire._ Prithee, dear, Speak not of this.

_Gycia._ Ah! then I know 'tis true.

Confess what manner of thing love is.

_Ire._ Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (_weeping_), Gycia; Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?

Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell By day and night on one fixed madding thought, Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget All that it loved before, faith, duty, country, Friends.h.i.+p, affection--everything but love.

Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it, Be happier than I.

_Gycia._ My poor Irene!

Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.

I do repent that I have tortured thee By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear, I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish To unburden to me thy unhappy heart, If haply I might bring thy love to thee.

Thou shalt his name divulge and quality, And I will do my best.

_Ire._ Never, dear Gycia.

Forget my weakness; 'twas a pa.s.sing folly, I love a man who loves me not again, And that is very h.e.l.l. I would die sooner Than breathe his name to thee. Farewell, dear lady!

Thou canst not aid me.

[_Exit_ IRENE.

_Gycia._ Hapless girl! Praise Heaven That I am fancy-free!

_Enter_ LAMACHUS.

_Lama._ My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect?

I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old The weary jealousies, the b.l.o.o.d.y feuds, Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City Have raged ere I was born--nay, ere my grandsire First saw the light of heaven. Both our States Are crippled by this brainless enmity.

And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens Destruction to our Cities, whom, united, We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness, Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run, To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late Politic envoys to our former foe, And now--i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem That I have lost my state-craft--comes a message.

The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus, Touches our sh.o.r.es to-day, and presently Will be with us.

_Gycia._ Oh, father, is it wise?

Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb; The tyrant with the peaceful commonwealth; Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war?

What union can there be 'twixt our fair city And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature To bid these opposite elements combine-- The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you, Send them away, with honour if you please, And soothing words and gifts--only, I pray you, Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us, And his false retinue of slaves.

_Lama._ My daughter, Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must, And with all hospitable care and honour, Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them A fitting welcome.

_Gycia._ Pardon me, my father, That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

[_Going._

_Lama._ Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

_Gycia._ Ay, thee, dear father.

_Lama._ Nay, I know it well.