The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman’s weeds, spinning with Omphale.
Jason. Our business was to Theban Hercules.
’Twas told us, he remain’d with Omphale,
The Theban Queen.
Telamon. Speak, which is Omphale? or which Alcides?
Pollux. Lady, our purpose was to Hercules;
Shew us the man.
Omphale. Behold him here.
Atreus. Where?
Omphale. There, at his task.
Jason. Alas, this Hercules!
This is some base effeminate Groom, not he
That with his puissance frighted all the earth.
Hercules. Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon,
Atreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend?
We are the man.
Jason. Woman, we know thee not:
We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules,
That in his cradle strangled Juno’s snakes,
And triumph’d in the brave Olympic games.
He that the Cleonean lion slew.
Th’ Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon.
The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart.
Telamon. We would see the Theban
That Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed,
And to his horses hurl’d stern Diomed
To be devoured.
Pollux. That freed Hesione
From the sea whale, and after ransack’d Troy,
And with his own hand slew Laomedon.
Nestor. He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell;
He that Œcalia and Betricia won.
Atreus. That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht,
With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes,
And captived there his beauteous Megara.
Pollux. That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell,
Great Achelous, the Stymphalides,
And the Cremona giants: where is he?
Telamon. That trait’rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt.
Strangled Antheus, purged Augeus’ stalls,
Won the bright apples of th’ Hesperides.
Jason. He that the Amazonian baldrick won;
That Achelous with his club subdued,
And won from him the Pride of Caledon,
Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in Thebes
For absence of the noble Hercules!
Atreus. To him we came; but, since he lives not here,
Come, Lords; we will return these presents back
Unto the constant Lady, whence they came.
Hercules. Stay, Lords—
Jason. ’Mongst women?—
Hercules. For that Theban’s sake,
Whom you profess to love, and came to seek,
Abide awhile; and by my love to Greece,
I’ll bring before you that lost Hercules,
For whom you came to enquire.
Telamon. It works, it works—
Hercules. How have I lost myself!
Did we all this? Where is that spirit become,
That was in us? no marvel, Hercules,
That thou be’st strange to them, that thus disguised
Art to thyself unknown!—hence with this distaff,
And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires;
And let me once more be myself again.
Your pardon, Omphale!
I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by his wretched Mother.
My flame encreaseth still—Oh father Œneus;
And you Althea, whom I would call Mother,
But that my genius prompts me thou’rt unkind:
And yet farewell!
What is the boasted “Forgive me, but forgive me!” of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words?
C. L.