_Eri._ Why! fool of kings, could thy weak soul imagine
That 'tis within the grasp of heaven or hell
To enforce love? Why, know love dotes the fates,
Jove groans beneath his weight: mere[369] ignorant thing,
Know we, Erictho, with a thirsty womb, 10
Have coveted full threescore suns for blood of kings.
We that can make enraged Neptune toss
His huge curl'd locks without one breath of wind;
We that can make heaven slide from Atlas' shoulder;
We, in the pride and height of covetous lust,
Have wish'd with woman's greediness to fill
Our longing arms with Syphax' well-strung limbs:
And dost thou think, if philters or hell-charms
Could have enforced thy use, we would have deigned[370]
Brain sleights? No, no. Now are we full 20
Of our dear wishes. Thy proud heat, well wasted,
Hath made our limbs grow young! Our love, farewell!
Know he that would force love, thus seeks his hell.
[ERICTHO _slips into the ground, as_ SYPHAX
_offers his sword to her_.
_Sy._ Can we yet breathe? Is any plagued like me?
Are we--let's think--O now contempt, my hate
To thee, thy thunder, sulphur, and scorn'd name!
He whose life's loath'd, and he who breathes to curse
His very being,[371] let him thus with me
[SYPHAX _kneels at the altar_.
Fall 'fore an altar, sacred to black powers,
And thus dare heavens! O thou whose blasting flames
Hurl barren droughts upon the patient earth, 31
And thou, gay god of riddles and strange tales,
Hot-brainèd Phoebus, all add if you can
Something unto my misery! if aught
Of plagues lurk in your deep-trench'd brows,
Which yet I know not,--let them fall like bolts,
Which wrathful Jove drives strong into my bosom!
If any chance of war, or news ill-voiced,
Mischief unthought of lurk, come, give't us all,
Heap curse on curse, we can no lower fall! 40
[_Out of the altar the ghost of_ ASDRUBAL _ariseth_.
_Asd._ Lower--lower!
_Sy._ What damn'd air is form'd
Into that shape? Speak, speak, we cannot quake!
Our flesh knows not ignoble tremblings. Speak!
We dare thy terror. Methinks hell and fate
Should dread a soul with woes made desperate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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