“ Ariadne. So I do— I banish them: but still there clings to me Something of earth. Bacchus. I love you best for that. A goddess born is tame, secure of heaven, And there is nothing to endow her with; But you derive divinity from me, Yet keep the passionate heart that mortals have.— Now, I am at the morn I found you here: Come, Ariadne, leap into the past. Ariadne. I cannot. Bacchus. See, the flying traitor's sail! Ariadne. No, no! This night—this hour is in my blood. The brine, the sea-pinks, and the soaring moon Seem thoughts of mine which now I body forth ”
Summary
The Plays, credited to an unnamed author, is a collection of dramatic works rich in mythological and romantic themes, examining the interaction between divine and mortal spheres. Featuring characters such as Bacchus, Ariadne, and the Countess of Buchan, the text interlaces motifs of wine, the moon, and fairy-like enchantment, frequently contrasting celestial power with human vulnerability.
Dialogues shift between heavenly splendor and earthly yearning, as seen in exchanges between lovers and jesters, while passages suggest profound reflections on identity and longing. The work’s composition and subject matter place it within classical and romantic dramatic conventions, illustrating an interest in legend, emotion, and the ephemeral quality of human life.
Quotes from Plays ()
“ Has any other, sir, petitioned you? Rupert. You will not understand me. This request That I should share with you May's flowery throne, Is, say, the utterance of a hundred hearts, Well-purged and sweetened to the May-queen's prayer, And she, the hundred first, breathes only air. Eulalie. Air, only air, prince, for these hundred hearts: I speak for them; beseech you, be their king. Rupert. The May-queen would not have me for her consort? Eulalie. O yes, my lord, I would. My own heart's throbs Are prayers beseeching you to take it all— To reign, to tyrannise, to enslave, to kill. ”
“ Smith. No need; We've reached the summit: see, the circling world! Does this seem madness still? Magdalen. Mad happiness: I know we should be here. Ah! there's a man! Smith. My friend, the poet. He has chosen well: The cream-white moon, this high peak of the earth— The earth, itself the one Parnassus-mount. Magdalen. And have you climbed the hill only for him Bearing me half the way? But answer not: I only wish to feel that I am yours; And that this knowledge may be fully mine, Call me my name. You do not know my name? Smith. And wish not: you are woman; I am man. ”
