Carpophorus. 
                             There
All are teachers, all are learners. 
The sole wish to be of use
Has on this occasion led me
From my home.  Inform me then
How Chrysanthus is affected.

Polemius. 
With an overwhelming sadness;
Or to speak it more correctly
(Since when we consult a doctor
Even suspicions should be mentioned),
He, my son, has been bewitched;—­
Thus it is these Christian perverts
Take revenge through him on me: 
In particular an elder
Called Carpophorus, a wizard . . . 
May the day soon come for vengeance!

Carpophorus. 
May heaven grant it . . . (aside, For that day
I the martyr’s crown may merit). 
Where at present is Chrysanthus?

Polemius. 
He is just about to enter:—­
You can see him; all his ailment
In the soul you ’ll find is centered.

Carpophorus. 
In the soul then I will cure him,
If my skill heaven only blesses. [Music is heard from within.

Claudius. 
That he ’s leaving his apartment
This harmonious strain suggesteth,
Since to counteract his gloom
He by music is attended. 
(Enter Chrysanthus richly dressed, preceded by musicians playing and
singing, and followed by attendants.)

Chrysanthus. 
Cease; my pain, perchance my folly,
Cannot be by song diverted;
Music is a power exerted
For the cure of melancholy,
Which in truth it but augmenteth.

A musician. 
This your father bade us do.

Chrysanthus. 
’T is because he never knew
Pain like that which me tormenteth. 
For if he that pang incessant
Felt, he would not wish to cure it,
He would love it and endure it.

Polemius. 
Think, my son, that I am present,
And that I am not ambitious
To assume your evil mood,
But to find that it is good.

Chrysanthus. 
No, sir, you mistake my wishes. 
I would not through you relieve me
Of my care; my former state
Seemed, though, more to mitigate
What I suffer:  why not leave me
There to die?

Polemius. 
               That yet I may,
Pitying your sad condition,
Work your cure:—­A great physician
Comes to visit you to-day.

Chrysanthus (aside). 
Who do I behold? ah, me!

Carpophorus. 
I will speak to him with your leave.

Chrysanthus (aside). 
No, my eyes do not deceive,
’T is Carpophorus that I see! 
I my pleasure must conceal.

Carpophorus. 
Sir, of what do you complain?

Chrysanthus. 
Since you come to cure my pain,
I will tell you how I feel. 
A great sadness hath been thrown
O’er my mind and o’er my feelings,
A dark blank whose dim revealings
Make their sombre tints mine own.