THE SORCERESS
A monologue by Theocritus
| NOTE: This monologue is reprinted from Theocritus. Trans. C. S. Calverley. London: Bell and Daldyl, 1869. |
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- SORCERESS: Where are the bay-leaves, Thestylis, and the charms?
- Fetch all; with fiery wool the caldron crown;
- Let glamour win me back my false lord's heart!
- Twelve days the wretch hath not come nigh to me,
- Nor made enquiry if I die or live,
- Nor clamoured (oh unkindness!) at my door.
- Sure his swift fancy wanders otherwhere,
- The slave of Aphrodite and of Love.
- But I'll charm him now with charms.
- So shine out fair, O moon! To thee I sing
- My soft low song: to thee and Hecate
- The dweller in the shades, at whose approach
- E'en the dogs quake, as on she moves through blood
- And darkness and the barrows of the slain.
- All hail, dread Hecate: companion me
- Unto the end, and work me witcheries
- Potent as Circe or Medea wrought,
- Or Perimede of the golden hair!
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- First we ignite the grain. Nay, pile it on:
- Where are thy wits flown, timorous Thestylis?
- Shall I be flouted, I, by such as thou?
- Pile, and still say, 'This pile is of his bones.'
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- Delphis racks me: I burn him in these bays.
- As, flame-enkindled, they lift up their voice,
- Blaze once, and not a trace is left behind:
- So waste his flesh to powder in yon fire!
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- E'en as I melt, not uninspired, the wax,
- May Mindian Delphis melt this hour with love:
- And, swiftly as this brazen wheel whirls round,
- May Aphrodite whirl him to my door.
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- Next burn the husks. Hell's adamantine floor
- And aught that else stands firm can Artemis move.
- Thestylis, the hounds bay up and down the town:
- The goddess stands i' the crossroads: sound the gongs.
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- Hushed are the voices of the winds and seas;
- But O not hushed the voice of my despair.
- He burns my being up, who left me here
- No wife, no maiden, in my misery.
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- Thrice I pour out; speak thrice, sweet mistress, thus:
- "What face soe'er hangs o'er him be forgot
- Clean as, in Dia, Theseus (legends say)
- Forgat his Ariadne's locks of love."
- Turn, magic, wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- The coltsfoot grows in Arcady, the weed
- That drives the mountain-colts and swift mares wild.
- Like them may Delphis rave: so, maniac-wise,
- Race from his burnished brethren home to me.
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- He lost this tassel from his robe; which I
- Shred thus, and cast it on the raging flames.
- Ah baleful Love! why, like the marsh-born leech,
- Cling to my flesh, and drain my dark veins dry?
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- From a crushed eft tomorrow he shall drink
- Death! But now, Thestylis, take these herbs and smear
- That threshold o'er, whereto at heart I cling
- Still, still--albeit he thinks scorn of me--
- And spit, and say, ''Tis Delphis' bones I smear.'
- Turn, magic wheel, draw homeward him I love.
- (Bethink thee, mistress Moon, whence came my love.)
- "Scares, mischief-mad, the maiden from her bower,
- The bride from her warm couch." He spake: and I,
- A willing listener, sat, my hand in his,
- Among the cushions, and his cheek touched mine,
- Each hotter than its wont, and we discoursed
- In soft low language. Need I prate to thee,
- Sweet Moon, of all we said and all we did?
- Till yesterday he found no fault with me,
- Nor I with him. But lo, to-day there came
- Philista's mother--hers who flutes to me--
- With her Melampo's; just when up the sky
- Gallop the mares that chariot rose-limbed Dawn:
- And divers tales she brought me, with the rest
- How Delphis loved, she knew not rightly whom:
- But this she knew; that of the rich wine, aye
- He poured 'to Love;' and at the last had fled,
- To line, she deemed, the fair one's hall with flowers.
- Such was my visitor's tale, and it was true:
- For thrice, nay four times, daily he would stroll
- Hither, leave here full oft his Dorian flask:
- Now--'tis a fortnight since I saw his face.
- Doth he then treasure something sweet elsewhere?
- Am I forgot? I'll charm him now with charms.
- But let him try me more, and by the Fates
- He'll soon be knocking at the gates of hell.
- Spells of such power are in this chest of mine,
- Learned, lady, from mine host in Palestine.
MORE MONOLOGUES BY THEOCRITUS
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