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_THE BEST PLAYS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS._

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THOMAS OTWAY.

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_THOMAS OTWAY._

_From a Picture by Riley._

_THE BEST PLAYS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS._

THOMAS OTWAY

_WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_,

BY

THE HON. RODEN NOEL.

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"What things have we seen

Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been

So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,

As if that every one from whence they came

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,

And had resolved to live a fool the rest

Of his dull life."

_Master Francis Beaumont to Ben Jonson._

"Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?"

_Keats._

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CONTENTS.

PAGE

THOMAS OTWAY vii

DON CARLOS, Prince of Spain 1

THE ORPHAN 85

THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE 173

VENICE PRESERVED 287

APPENDIX 387

[Illustration]

_THOMAS OTWAY._

It is now a commonplace of criticism that the epoch of Charles II.

was an epoch of decline and degradation for the British drama. The

complacent self-felicitations of Dryden in his early days on the

superior refinement of his own age, and the consequent superiority of

his own plays to those of Elizabeth and James, dispose us to insist

upon the contrary view with somewhat emphatic asperity. Yet later,

Dryden did ample justice to "the giant race before the flood"--the

pre-rebellion poets, by himself so named--expressly repudiating French

influence moreover. Indeed, the great wave of dramatic energy had

culminated, and was subsiding. The age so extolled by Dryden was, in

many respects, unfavourable to dramatic poetry. The Puritan, with his

grave, earnest tone, righteous indignation against evil living, and

crude, sour, uncultivated other-worldliness, had dehumanized the

people, frowning upon art, beauty, and secular knowledge, till they

withered and dwindled, as under a blight; so that religious reverence

became identified with blind intolerance, virtue and high principle

with clownish ignorance and pharisaic cant.

Then, after the Restoration--(partly through that tendency to reaction

from extremes which characterizes human nature, partly through the

direction given to our stage by a dissolute and light king, who

had lived an exile at a court where he and his courtiers, besides

acquiring foreign tastes, might well learn disuse, and forget the

habit of patriotism)--not only a wide-spread sexual license, but a

very general social and political corruption prevailed in England.

The troublous period of the civil wars, moreover, besides leaving

little leisure for the graces of life and courtship of the Muses, had

engendered a certain ferocity and violence of tone in political and

social relations; the war thunders and commotions still growled and

grumbled, heaved and seethed in the sullen subsiding swell of bitter

and furious faction--religious fanaticism on the one hand, incredulity

and moral indifference on the other. Our very patriotism was tainted

with venality. And though some splendid naval victories adorned the

reign, though a few names, for ever illustrious in our annals, shine

like stars from among dark and turbulent clouds, it was a time when

our buffoon king bartered the liberties of his country for gold of a

foreign prince, invoking alien aid against his own subjects; when the

Dutch admiral sailed by silent and dismantled forts up our chief river

and burned our ships; when Clarendon, the historian, the Tory statesman

of high reputation, grovelling at the Council board before the divine

right of Stuarts, proclaimed eagerly his longing to embrace dishonour,

and sacrifice his own daughter at the shrine of that terrible idol;

when the shrewd and subtle Liberal statesman, Shaftesbury, emulating

Machiavelli, deserved the scathing invective inflicted by Dryden upon

Achitophel. Shall we compare such a middle age of declining manhood,

though not shorn indeed of all glory, with that of Elizabeth in the

generous splendour and faulty exuberance of adventurous youth? The

purple glow of health and morning had well-nigh faded from this dim

world.

Still we must not exaggerate the loss. Power and passion were yet

with us. The spell and memory of great traditions, historical and

literary, were yet upon us. I do think that our most recent writers

have been unjust to the Restoration drama. The brightest glories of

that period indeed are unquestionably of Puritan growth, the fruit of

Humanism and Renascence grafted upon the sturdy stock of pious Puritan

principle, Milton's _Paradise_, and _Comus_, arrayed in magnificent

language, sumptuous like cloth of gold; austere _Samson_, our only

great native recreation (no mere clever imitation) of an old-world

tragedy, because the work of a genius, devout as Æschylus, alive,

moreover, with the personal experience of an illustrious personality;

and Bunyan's wonderful vision, clad in a lovely homespun of purest

English, solace of devout souls for all time, delight of young and old,

wise and simple, rich and poor--healing aromatic balsam these from the

still Puritan garden. Yet without this pale too, in the confused common

world, in the sphere of rich and gracious secular poetry, there are two

names at least that we cannot afford to forget--the names of Dryden

and Otway. Two great human tragedies, _Don Sebastian_, and _All for

Love_, besides one fine, though inferior tragi-comedy, _The Spanish

Friar_, and the rhymed heroic plays, abounding in true poetry and

skilful characterisation, has Dryden written; while Otway, who lived so

miserably and died so young, produced three dramas of high calibre, one

of which, _Venice Preserved_, is surpassed in the modern world only by

Shakespeare. If those were the days of Lauderdale and Jefferies, they

were capable also of nourishing the religious life of Leighton, Fox

and Penn; the philosophy of Cudworth and Henry More, of Hobbes, Locke,

Boyle and Newton; the narrative of Defoe; the satire of Butler; the

history, and memoirs of Clarendon, Burnet, Fuller and Evelyn; finally,

the excellent poetry of Andrew Marvell--leaving aside that thinner,

weaker, more popular vein of Waller and Cowley; while even though

Herrick was gone, Rochester and Sedley could write a song. After

all, the flood of national life still flowed strong, albeit turbid

and troubled, still bursting through old worn barriers, irresistibly

seeking, and with whatever delays securing health and freedom for all.

Even the pulse of high Tories must have glowed when they remembered the

European position of England under the Commonwealth; while Dryden was

born a Puritan, though he died a Catholic, and had written an ode to

Cromwell.

It is alleged, however, that the French drama had at this time (Scott

says through the French taste of Charles II.) a baneful influence upon

our own. But I cannot assent to this position. I believe rather that

its influence was salutary, seeing that our drama never lost its own

pronounced national character. On Dryden's earlier manner indeed, the

fashionable French (or old Latin) declamation, casuistical debates

about passion, and academic coldness may have been somewhat injurious.

But this is a note rather of Dryden's idiosyncrasy than that of a

school, like his neatly-turned, sense-isolating couplets--mannerisms

shaken off by Dryden himself in his later plays.[1] Who can be less

French than Lee? Otway also is perfectly free from these faults; nor,

except in his earliest play, _Alcibiades_, is there any of Dryden's

rant and bombast. His fable, indeed, is classical in its simplicity

and skilful development; his concentration on some one motive of

action, involving the utmost intensity of feeling, is unsurpassed; his

movement fierce and rapid; and that without sacrificing underplot, or

the grotesque element characteristic of the romantic drama, as written

by Shakespeare and his contemporaries. Nor can I grant that such

concentration and unity of interest, derived from classical examples,

was otherwise than a reform much needed in our romantic tragedy--seeing

it entailed no languor or frigidity borrowed from Seneca, or the

courtly decorum of a French academy. On the extravagant Gothic _fougue_

and fury of our native stage, characterised by its bad artistic form,

and tumid, fantastic diction, classical influence of the right kind

was purely salutary--granting, of course, the presence of original

genius, lacking, for instance, in Addison's _Cato_--although I fully

admit with Schlegel that in the most perfect Shakespearean examples of

romantic drama the virtues of ancient and modern poetry are combined.

Mr. J. A. Symonds is unquestionably justified in his strictures on

Marlowe's learned predecessors, Norton, Hughes, Sackville and Daniel as

"pseudo-classical" in _Gorboduc_, and elsewhere. But then they followed

the bad example of Seneca and his Italian imitators. Dryden and Otway

returned to more legitimate classical methods.

Otway reminds us of the best Greek tragedies by the intense

furnace-breath of his passion, and its headlong rush into the abyss

of Fate, though his poetry may be more volcanic and perturbed. Modern

romantic love is the Englishman's theme, while in the religious

atmosphere, and stately ideal repose of Greek tragedy his work

is entirely wanting. But is not irreligion a distinctive note of

romantic Christian drama, even as religion is that of the Greek?

True it is that Christianity has opened to us the Infinite, and made

us dissatisfied with the visible world; true also that the ideal of

individual character has been heightened and purified in the advance

of civilisation under Christian auspices, and that this feeling

after the Infinite, this dissatisfaction with life, this heightened

ideal of manhood, together with a deeper and wider comprehension

of humanity, may be found in the drama of Shakespeare. Yet what of

_religion_ is there in _Hamlet_, in _Lear_, in _Othello_? "The rest is

silence"--that is the final word. What reconciliation, or attempt at

vindication, of the ways of God to man? Perhaps the most religious

of old English plays is the _Faustus_ of Marlowe, who is reported to

have been an atheist! For we can hardly count the mediæval Miracles and

Moralities. But in Racine and Calderon, on the other hand, you find

again the religious atmosphere. However, Dekker, Heywood and Jonson

are moralised in the best (and that no merely copy-book) sense, and

Shakespeare sometimes, as in _Macbeth_. The Greeks took a familiar,

majestic, semi-mythological history, in which Divine interference had

ever been recognised, and the French tragedian took kindred themes. But

in Otway's drama, while he adopted the classical unity of motive and

harmony of artistic treatment, for moral order there is a dissonant

clash, a confused shriek, a wail of pain. In Shakespeare, there are

many noble axioms about living, many wise and religious meditations;

but none here. Shakespeare is a broad beneficent river, life-giving,

though lost in a boundless, bottomless deep; Otway is a turbid winter

torrent, with the sob and moan of anguished, stifled human love in

it, whirling us to a catastrophe without hope. Strange that _this_

should be the outcome of Christian, and that of Pagan poetry! The

truth is that the modern dramatic poets had largely shaken off their

Christianity, just as Euripides had shaken off his Paganism.

At the same time, the best modern drama does make us feel the moral

influence, for good or evil, of experience upon character, and

the inevitable issues in experience of character reacting upon

circumstance. Otway (in his more limited sphere) does this, I think,

as well as Shakespeare. Both leave us with a warmer affection for

goodness. Carlos and the queen are noble and generous in their

unmerited suffering, and Philip suffers for his fault.

Otway is classical in that he discovers a few principal groups of

vividly portrayed figures, while the rest are very dim and subordinate.

But he is romantic in that his personages are domestic, only dignified

by their emotion. Dryden's flow is broader and statelier, but not so

irresistibly compelling. In Otway and Lee, again, the lyrical fountain

is very dry; sadly to seek is it in Otway, for in him there is no

relief, no pause from the war and clamour of passion. He has abundant

tenderness indeed, far more than Dryden; but then that tenderness is

always shown stretched on the rack of disappointment, or suffering. In

such high-strung tragedy of classical form, we much need the chorus of

Greek poetry, or the sweet lyrical ripple of Elizabethan song. Racine's

exquisite instinct for noble style fills effectually the intervals

between extreme crises. The comic scenes in Otway, therefore, though

unfortunately gross and repulsive, are absolutely needed for relaxation

of the tense strain. For he makes the impression of being almost all

supreme crisis and desperate situation, like terrific peaks where the

earth-cloud hangs in gloom, only soothed by the low warble of water

among mosses, or casual song of little bird, only broken by flashes of

livid lightning--and all the rest barren steep; whereas in Shakespeare

the awful snow-summits are girdled and invested with leafy forest,

undulating lawn, lovely lake.

In Otway development of character, moreover, is little found; indeed,

if "the unities" be observed as much as possible, that is not easy to

compass; yet for knowledge of character in its labyrinthine recesses,

and unexpected, though intelligible developments under the moulding

pressure of circumstance, or commerce with other natures, as for

nervous and appropriate poetic diction, Dryden's _Don Sebastian_ is

one of our most remarkable tragedies. The scene between Dorax and

Sebastian is unsurpassed in Shakespeare. It presents a credible,

though marvellous transformation of a proud, injured, embittered man

to love and loyalty. Every word tells, every word is right. Here in

one wonderful epitome we have conversion in the line of vital growth.

It is no mere incredible and arbitrary dislocation of character, as

of some puppet manipulated by a conjurer, which so often arouses our

surprise in the pre-rebellion drama--for instance, in Massinger's _Duke

of Milan_, and (dare I add?) in the _Richard III._ of Shakespeare. _All

for Love_, again, is a splendid picture of the absorbing and enervating

power of one great sensual passion; while the interview between

Ventidius and Antony rivals that between Dorax and Sebastian.

Lee is an inferior Otway, but a man of true dramatic genius, with

flashes of real poetry. His _Rival Queens_ is one of our excellent

tragedies. Southerne has produced at least one genuinely affecting act

in his well-constructed drama, _The Fatal Marriage_, akin to Otway,

though distinctly inferior. Crowne too was a poet, as is evident from

_Thyestes_, in spite of repulsiveness and rant. _Thyestes_ seems to me

finer than the _OEdipus_ of Dryden and Lee, which indeed appears to

have been written to show how much worse a play than that of Sophocles

could be written on the same tremendous theme. But the _Fair Penitent_

and _Mourning Bride_, tragedies by Rowe and Congreve, are surely merely

creditable academic exercises, destitute of fire and inspiration. In a

lighter vein, Otway could only write some bustling, occasionally funny,

dirty, rollicking farces. To call them _comedies_ would be to insult

the shades of Shakespeare, Jonson, Fletcher, Congreve, and Sheridan.

On the whole, then, while there is less inexhaustible prodigality, and

force of unfettered genius in the Restoration than in the Elizabethan

drama, we have still left dramatic energy of high enduring quality,

which became, however, nearly extinct in the reigns immediately

succeeding. Under Charles, what was good in the romantic movement was

still retained; the shifting, many-coloured sheen of vigorous life is

yet there, the sun-and-shadow chequer of grave and gay; but classic

exemplars have moderated, and moulded the work to finer, more regular

form. There is less of exceptional extravagance in the story, less of

inconceivable and sudden metamorphosis or distortion in the characters,

the unpleasant and bewildering effect in earlier plays being almost

as when an acrobat proceeds to walk with long, lithe, serpentine body

round his own head; less also of the over-elaborated, misplaced,

unveracious ingenuity of so-called poetic diction. One may generously

attribute all this to the extravagance of national and literary youth,

but the drama of Spain and Italy ought possibly to bear some of the

responsibility. At any rate, these are grave defects.

I will illustrate what I mean. It is surely with a shudder of

incredulous aversion that we find an apparently kind and cordial

king, in Fletcher's _Maid's Tragedy_, insisting upon a pure-hearted,

generous, young courtier, Amintor, who adored him with superstitious

reverence, breaking off his engagement to Aspatia, a noble maiden, and

marrying the king's mistress, Evadne, in order the better to conceal,

and carry on with more security his own guilty intrigue with her,

and father his own bastards upon this loyal friend. Our incredulous

aversion is, if possible, intensified when Amintor assents to his own

dishonour, because it is the king who has compassed it. Not all the

poetry put into the mouth of "lost Aspatia," nor all the knowledge of

human nature displayed by the poet in the seeming inconsistency of

this evil woman's mongrel repentance at the bidding of her brother,

and conversion from cruel looseness to equally cruel respectability,

and base desire to vindicate her own damaged reputation even by the

treacherous murder of her royal lover, can condone for this initial,

radical vice of unnatural motive. No lovely tropes and phrases, nor

harmonies of verbal measure may condone this. It is with equally

incredulous aversion that we find Massinger's _Duke of Milan_ bidding

his creature Francisco kill the Duchess, who is devoted to him, and to

whom he is devoted, should she happen to survive him--which, as Hazlitt

says, seems a start of frenzy rather than a dictate of passion--then

veering idiotically from love to murderous hatred upon the mere

assertion of this same creature, Francisco, that his long proved and

virtuous wife has solicited him, Francisco, dishonourably, he in fact

having solicited her unsuccessfully. With some difficulty we accept

the mercurial and hotheaded gullibility of Othello, played upon by so

cunning a devil as Iago; but we revolt from so poor and pinchbeck a

copy as this.

The early drama, in its poetic beauty of individual passages, and

frequent verisimilitude in the working out of given motives, now and

again reminds me of the character attributed to madmen, that they are

persons who reason logically, but on absurd or mistaken premises.

And surely Hazlitt, not Lamb, is right about that celebrated scene

in Ford's _Broken Heart_, where Calantha dances on, apparently

indifferent, while messengers come successively to tell her of

misfortune upon misfortune, death upon death; then, when the revel is

over, dies suddenly from pent-up emotion. "This appears to me to be

tragedy in masquerade, the true false gallop of sentiment; anything

more artificial or mechanical I cannot conceive." That a woman should

thus silence the voice of humanity, not from necessity, or for some

great purpose, but out of regard to mere outward decorum of behaviour,

for the mere effect and _éclat_ of the thing, is not fortitude but

affectation. It often seems as if the Elizabethan and Caroline poets

wrote their plays for the sake of working up to some striking and

effective situation, and as if it were of little consequence to them

how difficult or impossible the way that led thither might be, so

long as they could hew their path there. Even the splendid scenes in

Cyril Tourneur's _Revenger's Tragedy_, where the brothers assume a

disguise in order to tempt their sister to unchastity, and procure

their mother's consent to it, then threaten to kill their mother for

consenting, appear to be open to the same objection.[2]

But I wish to emphasize the fact that the drama of Otway, whatever its

shortcomings, is, in this respect of sobriety and truth to nature,

superior on the whole to that of his illustrious forerunners. And

surely a good deal of cant is now uttered about the academic insipidity

and coldness of Corneille and Racine, who influenced our later drama,

and who powerfully moved the men of their own day. What can be nobler

than _Athalie_, _Britannicus_, or _The Cid_? Academic coldness is

hardly the phrase that rises to one's lips when one is watching Sarah

Bernhardt in _Phèdre_; while no comedy is superior to Molière's. If

these men moved in golden fetters, they were strong enough to wear them

as ornaments, rather than sink under them as impediments. Under the kid

glove you feel the iron thews.

None of this incredulous aversion of which I spoke do we feel in

reading Otway's _Venice Preserved_. Dryden averred that he could not

move the feelings as could Otway, who, while inferior in reflection,

poetic expression, and versification, was a greater master of pathos

and passion. On the latter acts of _Venice Preserved_ we are hurried

breathlessly, as by the impetus of a mighty wave, shaken to the very

depths--yet not, I think, unendurably, as by the hideous and gratuitous

cruelty of Ferdinand exercised upon a little-offending sister in

Webster's _Duchess of Malfi_, where horror upon horror is accumulated

upon her head, to thrill and harrow us; and so powerful is the poet

that only those can experience the pleasure which art should extract

from pain, who enjoy the sight of an execution, or sniff gladly in a

torture-chamber the fumes of spilt blood. We begin to breathe freely

only when the monster, having filled up the measure of his unnatural

malice, utters the fine line that first shows a faint relenting toward

humanity:

Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she died young.

The Elizabethans were superior to their successors in isolated

passages, and for the most part incomparably so in their lyrics.

Therefore, they are well represented in the "Dramatic specimens" of

Charles Lamb. Otway could not be so represented; his excellence lies

in the noble organic harmony and sanity of his whole creation, as in

its emotional intensity, from which little can be detached that shall

be admirable out of its own vital relation. I do not say that Dryden

and Otway never attempt to enlist interest illegitimately in their

tragedies by relying upon strained situations, and abnormal traits

of character; but I believe they do so less than their predecessors.

And I hardly think Mr. Symonds' excuse for the Elizabethans a valid

one, when he urges that the men and women of that time were really as

inconsistent as the playwrights represent them. I do not know that we

have any historical instance of just that queer kind of inconsistency

which we find in their pages, though I admit that not only history,

but our own experience also, furnishes very strange examples of

self-contradiction. Yet one can only say that the examples of it in

the older drama are not, for the most part, rendered credible and

probable to us. And, so far, therefore, this is not a drama which can

be always and universally interesting, except in the supreme examples.

In the same way Otway's and Wycherley's indecencies would hardly (one

supposes) interest a Victorian audience. The intellectual, or ethical,

atmosphere must not be too unfamiliar and alien.

We are not incredulous when Jaffier, the weak, affectionate, impulsive

hero of _Venice Preserved_, maddened by the persecution of his adored

bride, Belvidera, on the part of her implacable father, who is also

a senator, suddenly, and without counting the cost, from motives

of revenge and hope of better fortune, consents to take part in a

conspiracy against the State, persuaded by his dearest friend, Pierre,

a man of sterner and more homogeneous fibre. Nor are we incredulous

when, realising with his tender heart what hideous consequences

are likely to ensue in the disturbance of domestic peace, and the

slaughter of so many innocent people, he allows himself, however

reluctantly, to be over-persuaded by Belvidera, who comprehends that

the murder of her father, with all the other senators, is intended;

or when, thus over-persuaded, he renounces his purpose, and betrays

his fellow-conspirators, including even his well-beloved friend, to

the Doge and Senate. We are not incredulous when we see Jaffier, on

his way to the Senate, walking as in a dream under spell of his adored

Belvidera's more powerful will, and hear him say in some of the most

beautiful lines the poet wrote:

Come, lead me forward now, like a tame lamb,

To sacrifice: thus in his fatal garlands

Decked fine, and pleased the wanton skips and plays,

Trots by the enticing flattering priestess' side,

And much transported with his little pride,

Forgets his dear companions of the plain;

Till by her bound he's on the altar lain;

Yet then he hardly bleats, such pleasure's in the pain.

The catastrophe we feel inevitably to follow from the given elements in

their fusion and entanglement, the cruel injustice of the father, the

weak and foolish impulsiveness of the hero, together with his ardent

affection both to bride and friend, and the co-existent corruption

in the State, which made that sinister intrigue against the Republic

possible.

I cannot agree with Dr. Garnett that the interest of Otway's plays

arises from the situation only, not from the characters. It appears to

me that the humanity of the characters is strongly realised, and that

we are made to sympathise with them profoundly. As to Addison's remark

that the characters are mostly wicked, I hardly know what to say. The

heroines are ideally good, and the others are neither better nor worse

than average men and women. If Shakespeare has given us types--though

these are also individuals--of ambition, jealousy, revengeful avarice,

unpractical genius, showing us the natural issues and eventuations of

these, Otway has given us one type, equally individual, of weak, but

absorbing, and passionate affection, showing us the natural issues of

this. As Johnson says, he "consulted nature in his own breast."

Having then revealed the intended treason, after extorting an oath from

the Senate to spare the lives of his coadjutors, Jaffier is confronted

with Pierre and the rest. Then follows a tremendous scene, in which

Jaffier almost abjectly implores Pierre for pardon, and the latter

spurns him as one proved unworthy the friendship of an honest man,

finally striking and hurling Jaffier from him. The words he uses to

his former friend are worse even than the blow; their venom can never

cease to rankle. The blunt, open and magnanimous, though reckless

and desperate character of Pierre is finely contrasted with that of

Jaffier, luxuriously feminine in its sensibility. Jaffier urges that

he has at least saved Pierre's life, to which his old friend makes the

terrible reply:

I scorn it more because preserved by thee.

When Belvidera was delivered by Jaffier, in pledge of his own good

faith, into the hands of the conspirators, he gave them a dagger,

charging them to despatch her, should he prove traitor, The Senate,

false to their oath, condemned the rebels to death with torture; indeed

the latter had refused to accept their lives with bondage at the hands

of the Republic. Belvidera tells Jaffier this, and then he feels

tempted to slay with that dagger her who has incited him to compass the

ruin of his beloved friend. This is another tremendous scene. Prevented

by the returning and overwhelming tide of love from executing his

purpose, Jaffier bids her go to her father, and from him as senator

beg the life of Pierre. She does so, and the old man, relenting at the

sight of his yet beloved child kneeling in agony before him, grants

her prayer. This part also is very beautiful. But his attempt to save

Pierre comes too late. In their final most moving interview Jaffier

tells Belvidera that he will not survive his friend. He commends his

beloved to Heaven, calling down every blessing upon her. But when she

understands that they are to part for ever she exclaims:

Oh! call back

Your cruel blessing; stay with me and curse me!

* * * Leave thy dagger with me.

Bequeath me something--Not one kiss at parting? * * *

Another, sure another,

For that poor little one you've taken care of;

I'll give it him truly.

Then her mind gives way, and in the fearful soliloquy that follows,

Otway reminds us of the power shown by Shakespeare in dealing with

minds unhinged. Jaffier being allowed to take leave of Pierre on the

scaffold, Pierre forgives him, but requests, as a last favour, that his

friend will save him from the dishonour of public torture by killing

him at the last moment. Jaffier promises, and does so, stabbing himself

immediately after. In the last scene, Belvidera enters distracted:

Come, come, come, come, nay come to bed,

Pr'ythee my love! The winds! Hark how they whistle,

And the rain beats; oh! how the weather shrinks me!

You're angry now; who cares? * * * [JAFFIER'S _ghost rises_.

Are you returned? See, father, here he's come again!

Am I to blame to love him? Oh, the dear one! [_Ghost sinks._

Why do you fly me? Are you angry still then?

Father, where art thou? Father, why do you do thus?

Stand off. Don't hide him from me. He's here somewhere.

The apparitions of Jaffier and Pierre rise again bleeding. When they

sink, she vows passionately that she will dig for them till she find

them; and, imagining that they are drawing her downward, she dies.

Though nearly all authorities have objected vehemently to the gross

quasi-comic scenes with which Otway has lightened the intense gloom of

his tragedy, I am not sure that the illustrious French critic, Taine,

is not right in his approval of them. However ghastly, they give some

relief. Though coarse and disgusting, they do stand out distinctly

in the memory. The conspirators met at the house of one Aquilina, a

Greek courtesan, who had private motives for favouring their cause.

The old senator, Antonio (intended for a caricature of the debauched

Shaftesbury), had robbed Pierre of this mistress, which was one of

his main incentives to plotting against the State. Taine's comment on

the picture is striking: "Comme l'homme est prompt à s'avilir, quand,

échappé de son rôle, il revient à lui-même!" He thinks that Otway alone

in that epoch reproduced the tragedy of Shakespeare: "Il ne lui manque

que de naître cent ans plus tôt." Perhaps; only his form might then

have suffered.

And now as to Otway's diction. There is nothing convulsive about it;

in him, to borrow a simile from Lowell, "every word does not seem to

be underlined, like those of a school girl's letter." In the eyes of

those to whom expression is good in proportion as it foregoes its

function of expressing, in favour of a bedizenment, as of some window

so prettily daubed that it lets in no light, the diction of Dryden,

Otway, Goldsmith, Byron may appear poor. Otway speaks the language of

nature and passion. Still, I admit that Otway's diction often does want

distinction, and his metre rhythmical quality. He has not always the

right word ready. But his language has certainly the merit of doing

more justice to his subject than that of his euphuistic predecessors.

Take, for instance, an example from that portion of the fine play,

entitled _The Two Noble Kinsmen_, on good grounds attributed to

Shakespeare. A queen, the body of whose slain lord remains unburied by

order of a cruel king, implores redress from one able to grant it in

these terms:

Oh, my petition was

Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied

Melts into drops * * * he that will fish

For my least minnow, let him lead his line

To catch one at my heart.

Another queen, making a similar request, assures Theseus that they are--

Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes

To make petition clear.

Can these ladies, whose sorrow must have been much mitigated by their

successful invention of such "precious" hyperboles, stand in need of

much commiseration from us? Otway's expression at its best is simple,

germane to the situation, vigorous, pregnant with the speaker's

emotion, and therefore well calculated to impregnate us with it.

In the swift impetuous parts of a play such a diction is certainly

best. Only Heywood, so far as I know, among the older dramatists,

is equally pure. But I admit that where the action pauses, where it

demands reflective soliloquy, Otway and Lee are inferior to their great

predecessors. In _Venice Preserved_, and _The Orphan_, the pace is so

tremendous, however, that we have hardly leisure to perceive their

poverty in that respect. But there are occasions, in _Don Carlos_

especially, where we do feel this inferiority, although the play is one

of Otway's finest. Thus, at the beginning of the fifth act, when the

king soliloquises on his misery in having lost the love of his bride,

there was scope and verge for poetry of reflection, which Beaumont and

Fletcher would have given, as well as Shakespeare. Dryden also would

have given it, though perhaps of a somewhat coarser grain. This passage

in Otway is poor, unworthy the occasion. His versification, moreover,

though very good sometimes, is inferior on the whole to that of Dryden.

Yet there are some passages of true reflective poetry in Otway, though

certainly few and far between. In Southerne they are almost entirely

wanting.

In _Don Carlos_ we note the same want of political and historic sense

which we had also to note in _Venice Preserved_, especially when we

compare both plays with the narratives of Saint-Réal, from which they

are taken, and which have high merit; or when we compare Otway's with

Schiller's _Don Carlos_, and even with Alfieri's tragedy, _Filippo_,

though the extraordinary concentration of the latter admits of little

historic detail. Still Alfieri's Philip is as life-like and graphic

a study of individuality as that of Saint-Réal, or Schiller; whereas

the Philip of Otway makes no pretence to being other than a mere

conventional stage-tyrant, violent, and ever in extremes; yet is he

a man capable of much tenderness also; for he actually loves the

Queen and his son, feelings of which the real Philip was incapable.

Philip's jealousy in real life, as in the other two plays, only

arises from a fierce sensual greed of personal possession, and from

wounded pride. In Otway the king repents, although too late, and

becomes reconciled to his wife and son, when he discovers that his

jealousy has made him a blind tool in the hands of the enemies of

Carlos and the Queen, and that they have not sinned in act. But the

real Philip could not have repented. He did not believe them guilty

in act. Otway's range is limited, his types are few. He could not

draw a cold deliberate villain. As for his politics, they are simply

those of an ordinary country clergyman's son. But he died very young,

with little experience. The Philip of Schiller and Alfieri is a cold,

cruel, ambitious bigot, only capable of simulating natural affection.

But in each of the three tragedies the Queen and Don Carlos are

powerfully presented. The German play has all the Elizabethan lack

of unity. Schiller's own intense and catholic sympathy with human

progress and popular aspirations dominates throughout; and while unity

of motive--for instance, in the important place given to Posa, friend

of Carlos, a magnificent humane ideal--is somewhat lacking, there is

more human verisimilitude in his play than in that of Otway, because

men and women are usually swayed by complex and manifold impulses. The

political part taken by the Queen and Prince in favour of the Flemish

rebels had indeed a great deal to do with the King's anger against

them. The splendid interview of Posa with the tyrant, and also the

Grand Inquisitor's are quite beyond Otway. Philip had wickedly married

Elisabeth, who was originally betrothed to his son Carlos, and the

conflict of conjugal duty with love is admirably rendered in all the

tragedies, although the passion and pathos are perhaps warmest in

Otway. This is the sole motive in the English and Italian plays. In

Schiller there is a whole era, "the very form and pressure" of a time.

We get as little philosophy or theology, as political and historic

sympathy from Otway. In this respect he is inferior not only to

Shakespeare, but to Dryden, who is able to afford more food for the

intellect, if less for the heart. The terse and nervous expression

of ripe and mellow life-wisdom in Dryden's _Spanish Friar_, for

instance, is very remarkable. The greater poets indeed are usually men

of great general intellectual power. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spenser,

Goethe, Dante, Milton, Byron, Coleridge, Browning, occur at once to

memory. Otway is perhaps exceptional in this respect. Possibly the

free-thinking sentiments so fiercely hurled in the teeth of the priest

by Pierre on the scaffold afford a clue to Otway's own attitude toward

religion. In _The Orphan_ we find the same ardour of friendship and

attachment between the sexes, the same raging despair and revolted

denial, when those fierce affections are disappointed--no faith.

Castalio's last words are--

Patience! preach it to the winds,

To roaring seas, or raging fires; the knaves

That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them. * * *

Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave,

Thus with my love! Farewell, I now am--nothing.

And Chamfort's, the last in the play:

'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;

It may afflict, but man must not complain.

The scenes in _Don Carlos_, where Carlos and the Queen meet, are

admirably right in their abrupt, interrupted utterance, and must have

been most effective on the stage. On the whole, no better opportunity

exists for comparing the classical and romantic manners than in the

examples afforded by these three plays on the reign of Philip. Don

John's soliloquy about bastardy and free love is exceptionally good as

a purple patch of poetry in Otway, though not without a reminiscence of

Shakespeare's Edmund. There are likewise two splendid lines uttered by

the King when Gomez is tempting him to suspect his son and queen. Gomez

says:

'Tis true they gazed, but 'twas not very long.

_King._ Lie still, my heart. Not long was't that you said?

_Gomez._ No longer than they in your presence stayed.

_King. No longer? Why a soul in less time flies_

_To Heaven, and they have changed theirs at their eyes._

_The Orphan_ I do not myself like so much as _Don Carlos_, but it

is full of Otway's peculiar power, and has a greater reputation.

The plot is repulsive, with a flavour of Elizabethan unsoundness.

All the mischief and misery arise from a want of moral courage

shown by Castalio, the passionate, but weak and irresolute hero,

in concealing--partly from a kind of dastardly, rakish, bravado,

and partly from fear of his father's disapproval, as well as a

certain misplaced deference to fraternal affection--his own ardent

and honourable affection for the orphan girl to whom he is secretly

married. The character of Castalio is similar to that of Jaffier,

Carlos, and of Otway himself, judging from what we know of his

relations with Mrs. Barry. Monimia is another Belvidera, though less

powerfully conceived. They are exquisite types of womanhood, own

sisters to Cordelia, Imogen, Desdemona. There is no local colour in

the play, but we miss that in _Don Carlos_ and _Venice Preserved_ more

particularly. Otway's scenes might be in abstract space. The poetry of

the period of Charles II., William, and Anne, was singularly blind to

the face of external nature, a very serious defect; not even Greek or

Latin poetry was thus blind.

I have drawn a distinction between two kinds of poetry in drama--that

of movement or crisis, and that of repose or contemplation. The

poetry appropriate to the one condition must necessarily be different

from that appropriate to the other, and he is so far a bad poet

who confounds the species. It will be the second kind that can be

transplanted to books of beautiful extracts, and lends itself to

quotation, because that is more germane to many similar circumstances;

whereas the former belongs especially to the particular event or

crisis. In the former species I have allowed that Otway is not rich.

We look in vain for the poetry of Hamlet, of brooding, irresolute,

melancholy; for the poetry of Lorenzo, that of music; or Portia, which

is that of mercy; for any lovely words like those of Perdita, the

very breath and symphony of flowers; for any accents like those of

heart-stricken Aspatia, in her swan-song of desertion; or visionary

anthem of Helen's ideal beauty, as in Marlowe. No Claudio out of

Shakespeare has uttered a final word concerning physical death equal

to this: "To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot"; no Cæsar has fixed

for us the visible tokens of a born conspirator; no Jaques summed for

us the seasons of human life. Nor are these mere "purple patches"; far

from it, they are of the seamless garment's very warp and woof.

But, if we consider, we shall find that much of the poetry we love

best in that earlier drama is the poetry of movement or supreme event;

and this we do find in Otway, as the passages which I have already

quoted, or mentioned, are sufficient to prove. We do find in him poetry

parallel to that of mad Lear's heart-quaking utterance in presence of

Cordelia, which commences--

Pray do not mock me;

I am a very foolish fond old man,

and ends--

Do not laugh at me;

For as I am a man, I think this lady

To be my child Cordelia.

or to her answer--

And so I am, I am!

She has some cause to be angry with him, but her sisters none, he

says; and she answers "No cause! no cause!" That, which is, perhaps,

the finest passage in all literature, has not one metaphor, one trope,

one "precious" phrase; but any old injured madman might speak just so.

When poor, laughable, dissolute old Falstaff, dying, "babbles o' green

fields"; when Lear at the last apostrophises his dead Cordelia--

Thou'lt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never! * * *

Pray you, undo this button. Thank you, sir! * * *

Do you see this? Look on her--look--her lips--

we can hardly bear to hear them. It is so much finer, because so much

truer to nature than when those ingeniously poetical ladies, entreating

the sepulture of their best beloved, urge that they are "rinsing their

holy begging in their eyes." But Tourneur's Castiza takes our breath

away when she adjures the trusted and reverenced mother, who has

suffered her own better nature to be warped and darkened, and invites

her daughter to suffer moral degradation, in the words--

Mother, come from that poisonous woman there!

It is a gleam of heavenly light blinding us out of the gloom. And when

the Duchess of Malfi in her last struggle entreats--

I pray thee look thou givest my little boy

Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl

Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please

we are reminded of the equally touching words of Belvidera about her

child, and the last words of dying Monimia:

When I am laid low in the grave, and quite forgotten,

May'st thou be happy in a fairer bride!

But none can ever love thee like Monimia. * * *

I'm here; who calls me? Methought I heard a voice

Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains

When all his little flock's at feed before him * * *

How my head swims. 'Tis very dark. Good night.

It is true that the poet, since he takes the liberty to translate into

verse men's ordinary language, may also interpret and mould his story,

together with the speech it may involve, artistically, according to his

own genius. But then the turn of thought, of feeling and of phraseology

must have verisimilitude, that is to say, must seem related, not only

to the event as it might appear to the poet personally, but as it

ought to appear to him when he has imagined himself into the character

and circumstances represented. Thus the strange figure made use of by

Jaffier in addressing Pierre, who is about to be tortured on the rack,

is felt to be absolutely fitting. For anger, despair, remorse, will

sometimes burst forth in hyperbole. Wisdom is justified of her children.

And now perhaps we may hardly be surprised to hear the consenting voice

of great authorities place Otway very high among the masters of English

tragedy. Dryden, though, when "fearing a rival near the throne," he had

called Otway "a barren illiterate man," said afterwards: "The motions

which are studied are never so natural as those which break out in the

height of a real passion. Mr. Otway possessed this part as thoroughly

as any of the ancients or moderns." And again:

Charming his face and charming was his verse.

Addison says: "Otway has followed nature in the language of his

tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate parts more than any of

our English poets." Goldsmith again: "The English language owes very

little to Otway, though next to Shakespeare the greatest genius England

has ever produced in tragedy." Then let us remember the beautiful lines

of Collins:

But wherefore need I wander wide

To old Ilissus' distant side,

Deserted stream and mute!

Wild Arun too has heard thy strains,

And echo 'midst my native plains

Been soothed by Pity's lute.

There first the wren thy myrtles shed

On gentlest Otway's infant head,

To him thy cell was shown,

And while he sung the female heart,

With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art,

Thy turtles mixed their own.

And Coleridge, musing upon "mighty poets in their misery dead," in his

"Monody on the death of Chatterton" sang:

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?

Is this the land where genius ne'er in vain

Poured forth his lofty strain?

Ah me, yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,

Beneath chill disappointment's shade

His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid,

And o'er her darling dead,

Pity, hopeless, hung her head;

While 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm

Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form.

Respecting Otway's scenes of passionate affection, Sir Walter Scott

says that they "rival and sometimes excel those of Shakespeare; more

tears have been shed probably for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia

than for those of Juliet and Desdemona."

Thomas Otway[3] was born March 3rd, 1651, at Trotton near Midhurst

in Sussex, and was the only son of the Rev. Humphrey Otway, Rector

of Wolbeding in the same county. He was educated at Wickeham School,

Winchester, and at eighteen was entered a commoner of Christ Church

College, Oxford, early in 1669. He does not display much learning, and

probably did not study very hard, but preferred amusing himself with

his friends, among whom was young Lord Falkland. He had been intended

for the Church; but the death of his father, who, as he tells us, "left

him no other patrimony than his faith and loyalty," probably obliged

him to leave Oxford without taking a degree. In 1671 he went to London

to seek his fortune there. At the theatre in Dorset Garden, Salisbury

Court, all Otway's plays, except the last, were performed by the Duke

of York's company; and here Otway himself made his first and only

appearance as an actor, taking the part of the King in Mrs. Behn's

_Forced Marriage_. This attempt was eminently unsuccessful. He seems

now to have cultivated the society of men of rank and fashion, who

tolerated him as a boon companion for the sake of his agreeable social

qualities, but who, while they helped him to get rid of his money in

many foolish ways, left him in the lurch when he needed them most.

The young Earl of Plymouth, however, a natural son of the king, and a

college friend, did befriend him. His premature death at Tangier, aged

twenty-two, was a serious loss to Otway.

The dramatist's earliest play was _Alcibiades_, first printed in

1675. It is a poor production, though there are scenes in it of

distinct promise. _Don Carlos_ appeared in the year after, and won

extraordinary favour, partly owing to the patronage of Rochester, who

dropped an author as soon as he acquired, by merit or popularity, some

independent standing, fancying that his own literary dictatorship might

be thereby imperilled. Thus he had dropped Dryden, taken up Elkanah

Settle, the "City poet," dropped him, and elevated Crowne. But Crowne's

_Calisto_ becoming too popular for the malignant wit, he transferred

his patronage to Otway. In 1677 Otway produced two translations from

the French, _Titus and Berenice_, from Racine, and _The Cheats of_

_Scapin_, from Molière. All these were rhyming, so-called "heroic"

plays, our playwrights herein following the French example. But Dryden,

in the Prologue to _Aurungzebe_, having announced that he would

henceforth abandon the use of rhyme in tragedy, other writers soon

followed his lead. The success of _Don Carlos_ was the occasion of a

coolness between Otway and Dryden, who, with the proverbial amiability

of literary rivals, said some sharp things about one another; but we

have seen how generously Dryden afterwards gave Otway his due meed of

praise. To this period, says Thornton, we may probably assign a duel

between Otway and Settle ("Doeg"), in which Settle is said to have

misbehaved.

With the fine actress, Mrs. Barry, a daughter of Colonel Barry, who

had sacrificed his fortune in the service of Charles I., Otway fell

desperately in love. She had taken a part in his _Alcibiades_, and

became famous by her representations of Belvidera and Monimia. To

this affection, with all the depth of his character, Otway remained

constant; but Mrs. Barry did not return it; at any rate, she deemed

the attractions of Lord Rochester superior. Possibly Mr. Gosse may be

right in thinking that she was a cold and calculating woman, who would

reject a penniless lover, yet keep him dangling attendance upon her if

he wrote parts that suited her as an actress. In this case, however,

it seems odd that such parts should have suited her; and it would be

touching to note how Otway must have idealized his lady in writing

them for her. But she may honestly have preferred the witty and 5 peer

to the tragic and penniless poet--though Otway was a goodlooking man

with very fine eyes, and Rochester, according to Otway (a prejudiced

witness), looked like an owl. Yet, judging by Rochester's portraits,

he was distinguished, though rather feminine in appearance. However,

Rochester was as sincerely attached to Mrs. Barry as such a rake could

be, and she really owed him much, for he personally educated her in

the duties of her profession. Otway loved "not wisely, but too well,"

as we know from the remarkable love letters, reprinted in the appendix

to the present volume. With characteristic hotheadedness and weakness

combined he could not resolve to renounce her, even though he knew she

was Rochester's mistress. Hence the insolent bitterness of Rochester's

attack upon him in his "Session of the Poets," in which he alludes to

Otway's pitiable condition on his return from Flanders.[4] For even

Otway's human nature had to yield at last, and he could no longer bear

to hang about the Duke's Theatre, as had been his wont, in order to get

a glimpse of his lady. He therefore obtained from the Earl of Plymouth

a cornet's commission in a new regiment of horse, which was sent out

at this time (1678) to join the army under Monmouth in Flanders--not,

surely, as Mr. Gosse says, in the service of France, but, on the

contrary, to relieve Mons in the Dutch interest. Very shortly after,

however, the troops were disbanded and recalled, while the money voted

by the Commons for their payment was shamefully misappropriated, they

being paid only by debentures, the credit of which was so low that they

were hardly saleable. This is why the poet came home in so miserable a

plight, and not on account of any want of courage.

It was like Rochester to reproach him on this score--the man who showed

the white feather to Lord Mulgrave, and made lackeys cudgel Dryden

in Rose Alley. But Otway gave him as good as he got in the "Poet's

Complaint." The matter is explained in the Epilogue to _Caius Marius_,

which he produced in 1680, having written most of it in camp abroad. It

is a barefaced, and indeed avowed plagiarism from _Romeo and Juliet_,

though one or two scenes are his own, and have some merit. Marius, at

all events, was a rather more dignified representative of Shaftesbury

than old Antonio in _Venice Preserved_. This play occupied the place

of _Romeo and Juliet_ on our stage for seventy years. With a more

avowed party motive he likewise published in the same year "The Poet's

Complaint of his Muse." When we think of "Absalom and Achitophel,"

the contrast is woeful indeed. All Otway's poems are bad, except the

Epistle to Duke, his friend. The blunted insipidity of his conventional

diction is worthy of Pope's followers. Before leaving England he had

written his first comedy, _Friendship in Fashion_, which appeared in

1678.

In the year 1680 Otway's second great play, _The Orphan_, appeared.

Voltaire attacked it furiously, and will allow no merit to _le tendre_

_Otway_. Tenderness anywhere was not likely to find favour with the

_tigre-singe_, whose fascinating wit was of an icy brilliance. But

Jeremy Collier also attacked the play on other grounds, in his "Short

View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage." Mrs.

Barry has recorded that in the character of Monimia she could never

pronounce the words "Poor Castalio!" without tears. May she not have

been thinking of another Castalio? Let us believe it! Ah! if only Mrs.

Barry had been the Belvidera of her poet's dream, she might have saved

him from his evil genius, from his selfish patrons, and from himself.

In 1681 Otway produced _The Soldier's Fortune_, a comedy which contains

allusions to his own adventures abroad, and is the only contemporary

play not dedicated to a person of quality, being dedicated to Bentley,

the publisher. Depressed by his hopeless passion, "alternately elevated

with promises and dejected by scorn and neglect, caressed for his wit,

despised for his poverty, and exposed to all those attendant ills,

which a generous spirit feels more acutely than actual privation,

neglect, wrongs real and imaginary, the altered eye of friends," we

can hardly wonder at the gloomy tone which he assumed in the Epilogue

to this play. Can we not picture him with those large, limpid, wistful

eyes looking for the face he most wanted among the crowds, preoccupied

or listless, that passed in the gathering twilight of that afternoon,

which he mentions in the last of those letters to Mrs. Barry, lingering

among strange faces of promenaders under the trees of the gay Mall,

looking long for her who never came, never fulfilled her promise to

meet him? This seems to have been the turning point in Otway's career.

Failing in this last attempt to win his lady's love, and sinking under

accumulated debt, he, like how many others, surrendered himself to

those habits of inebriety, which insidiously promised him consolation.

And yet his creative powers were maturing daily, for his greatest work,

_Venice Preserved_, was brought upon the stage in 1682.

Since Otway's plays were well received, it may seem strange that

he should have remained so poor. But, in the first place, he was

evidently one of those generous, reckless good fellows like "Goldy,"

and Sheridan, who spend all they have, and more too. And, in the

second place, the profits of the playhouse were very small. Theatrical

amusements were not the general resort of the people--a serious

disadvantage, as Scott observes, to the art, as well as to the purse,

of the playwright. Religious scruples still withheld many, as in

Commonwealth days; and others were kept away by the indecency then

in vogue. The most popular play did not remain long on the boards.

In Otway's time, moreover, an author had only one benefit from the

representation, which was on the third night. Southerne was the first

to have two benefits, and it was not until 1729 that the profits of

three representations became the right of the author. Gildon says that

Otway got a hundred pounds a piece for _The Orphan_ and _Venice

Preserved_, while old Jacob Tonson bought the copyright of _Venice

Preserved_ for fifteen pounds. The poet was sometimes in such straits

that he had to pawn his third day for fifty pounds. He could not have

made much by his few prologues and occasional poems.

Otway's last play was a comedy called _The Atheist_, a continuation

of _The Soldier's Fortune_, represented in 1683, or the following year,

at the Theatre Royal by the united companies, who had amalgamated in

1682, and removed to Drury Lane. Charles II. died in February, 1685,

and Otway thereupon published a poem called "Windsor Castle," in which

he praised the late king, and exulted over the accession of James.

His praises of Charles were probably not much more sincere than those

which he, and other writers of the day, lavished upon people of rank

in their dedications for the sake of a few guineas. More guineas are

to be had now-a-days by flattering the whims and tastes of that

"many-headed" monarch, under whose reign we have the honour to live.

In the so-called Augustan age, literary merit was systematically

neglected. Witness Butler and Cowley. Yet Otway was the son of a

loyalist, and ever faithful to the Court. Nor was Charles incapable

of appreciating talent. But Otway, to use his own words, only got the

"pension of a prince's praise"; and a gracious command to lampoon the

greatest statesman of the time, which he did accordingly. Praise of one

who cannot be a rival is an inexpensive form of present. It appears,

however, that two of the royal mistresses were more generous--Nell

Gwynne and the Duchess of Portsmouth, whose bounty, "extended to him in

his last extremity," he extols in the dedication of _Venice Preserved_.

Otway had withdrawn from the importunate clamour of creditors to an

obscure public-house, the sign of the Bull, on Tower Hill; and here,

on the 14th of April, 1685, at the premature age of thirty-four, he

died. His body was conveyed thence to the Church of St. Clement Danes,

and there deposited in a vault. About the circumstances of his death

there is a conflict of evidence. The story that has gained currency is

probably not the true one; only one early biographer is our authority

for it. He states that, having long been insufficiently fed, Otway

one day sallied forth in a starving state, and begged a shilling from

a gentleman in a coffee house, saying, "I am the poet Otway." This

person, surprised and distressed, gave him a guinea. With it he bought

a roll of bread, and began to devour it with the rage of hunger; but,

incapable of swallowing from long abstinence, he was choked with

the first mouthful. Other writers make no mention of this incident,

and Wood is not only silent on the subject, but states that in his

"sickness" (implying gradual decay) he composed a congratulatory poem

on the inauguration of James II. Spence, moreover, who had the anecdote

from Dennis the critic, tells quite a different story. He relates that

Otway had an intimate friend named Blakiston, who was murdered in the

street, and that, to revenge the deed, Otway pursued the assassin on

foot as far as Dover, where he was seized with a fever, occasioned by

fatigue, privation, and excitement. On his return to London, being

heated, he drank water, which was the immediate occasion of his death.

Yet undoubtedly insufficient nourishment must have accelerated his end.

It is quite possible, therefore, that the anecdote about the guinea and

the roll may be substantially true, although this circumstance may not

have been the actual cause of death.

The ardour and constancy of Otway's personal attachments are very

notable all through his career--witness his friendship with Shadwell

(though Mr. Gosse strangely calls Shadwell his enemy), with an unknown

person whom he names _Senander_, and especially with Duke, whose

expressions of fondness for him were very warm. And it now appears that

he fell a victim to this devoted comradeship, which he has so forcibly

delineated in his tragedy. "Whom the gods love die young." Otway is

with Shelley, Keats and Byron, with Marlowe and with Chatterton.

RODEN NOEL.

* * * * *

[***] OTWAY made some translations from Ovid and Horace. He

also wrote prologues to Lee's _Constantine_ and Mrs. Behn's

_City Heiress_, with an epistle to Creech on his translation

of Lucretius, besides a few miscellaneous poems, prologues,

and epilogues. A translation from the French, the _History

of Triumvirates_, was published a year after his decease.

Moreover, it was reported that he had been engaged on an

original tragedy at the time of his death; Betterton, the

actor and manager, advertised for this play, but it was never

found. All authorities, except Mr. Gosse, agree in rejecting

as a forgery the play named _Heroic Friendship_, which a

bookseller long afterwards (in 1719) attempted to palm off upon

the public as the lost tragedy of Otway. While destitute of

all external evidence for genuineness, it is usually regarded

as a contemptible production, equally destitute of internal

evidence. Mr. Gosse indeed urges a similarity in the principal

character to the heroes of Otway. But of course to produce such

a similarity would be the obvious resort of any forger. It was

printed, though never acted. Gildon relates that Otway was very

fond of punch, and that the last thing he wrote was a song in

praise of it.

William Oldys, in his famous annotated copy of Langbaine's

_Dramatic Poets_, in the British Museum, thus writes of Otway:

"There is an excellent and beautiful picture of Mr. Otway,

who was a fine, portly, graceful man, now among the poetical

collection of Lord Chesterfield (I think it was painted by

John Ryley), in a full bottom wig, and nothing like that

quakerish figure which Knapton has impost upon the world."

Interlined is the following: "He was of middle size, about

5 ft. 7 in., inclinable to corpulency, had thoughtful, yet

lively, and, as it were, speaking eyes."

I am indebted to Dr. Grosart for the foregoing quotation, and

have to express my thanks to Mr. S. W. Orson for numerous

textual suggestions and emendations.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In Mr. Saintsbury's admirable monograph on Dryden (_English Men

of Letters_) we have, for the first time, the truth told about the

origins of the so-called "heroic" drama in England--a semi-operatic

creation of Sir W. Davenant under the Protectorate. But though the

rhyme may have come from France, it seems to me that for the rant our

Restoration playwrights need not have looked so far as the Scudéry

romance, or the Spanish poetry; they had examples nearer home, which

is equally true of the "conceits." Dryden is the father of modern

prose, and the father of didactic verse, even, one may say, of modern

satire also. Now, if a man achieve a reputation for eminence in one

department, his eminence in another, however indisputable, is sure to

be disputed. It has seemed evident to critics (and consequently to

bookmakers) that since he was a critic he could not be a poet. Yet he

was certainly both. He is more than what Matthew Arnold names him, a

"classic of our prose."

[2] Shall we find such things in the modern creations of Scott, George

Sand, Thackeray, Charlotte Brontë (possibly we may in Emily Brontë),

Thomas Hardy, or Tolstoi?

[3] Respecting Otway's life, my chief authority is Thornton, who has

prefixed the best sketch I know of to the best edition of the poet's

works; but I have also consulted other authorities, and read Mr.

Gosse's interesting essay in his "Seventeenth Century Studies," &c.

Thornton's text has been usually followed in the present volume; with,

however, numerous emendations, the result of collation with the early

editions.

[4]

Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany,

And swears for heroics he writes best of any;

_Don Carlos_ his pockets so amply had filled

That his mange was quite cured and his lice were all killed;

But Apollo had seen his face on the stage,

And prudently did not think fit to engage

The scum of a playhouse for the prop of an age.

Wood mentions that it was reported the poet came back from Flanders

"mangy, and covered with vermin."

_DON CARLOS, PRINCE OF SPAIN._

Principibus placuisse viris non ultima laus est.--

HOR., Ep. 17, Lib. I.[5]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Besides the writers mentioned in my Introduction, Campistron, a pupil

of Racine, founded a play called _Andronic_ on this same history of

_Don Carlos_. Some Spanish historians, in the interest of Philip,

have tried to blacken the character of his son. But the Abbé de San

Real (who has been called the French Sallust) seems to have estimated

him rightly, while the dramatists have, on the whole, adopted the

Frenchman's conception, which was apparently derived from reliable

Spanish sources. The motto prefixed from Horace is in allusion to

the fact that this play received the approbation of the King and the

Duke of York. It had a long success at the theatre, and we may agree

with those who called it, as Otway tells us in the preface, the best

"heroic" play of the time--containing, as it does, far less of rant and

confusion, but more of nature and passion, than the "heroic" plays of

Dryden--though _Aurungzebe_ may not be far behind it. Booth, the actor,

was informed by Betterton that _Don Carlos_ continued for several years

to attract larger audiences than _The Orphan_ or _Venice Preserved_. It

was first represented at the Duke's Theatre in the year 1676, and was

published in the same year.

Philip II., son of the Emperor Charles V., became King of Naples and

Sicily in 1554 on his father's abdication, and King Consort of England

by his marriage with Mary two years after he ascended the Spanish

throne. In 1557 he gained the victory of St. Quentin, which might have

made him master of France, but he did not follow it up, being, it

is said, so elated and yet terrified that he vowed: first, never to

engage in another fight, and secondly, to found a monastery in honour

of St. Lawrence at Escorial. Later came the great rebellion of the Low

Countries, which, in spite of Alva's ability, sanguinary cruelty, and

persecutions, resulted in the independence of "the United Provinces,"

and the triumph of the reformed faith. Philip subdued Portugal, and

sent the huge Spanish Armada to conquer England, the illustrious

heretic Elizabeth having succeeded to Mary. But the storms and the

English together were too much for him. He showed resignation and

dignity, however, when the admiral in command announced this misfortune

to him. He married Elizabeth of Valois after Mary's death.

It is probable that Don Carlos inherited the personal pride and hauteur

of his race, and he is said to have treated Alva with rudeness on a

public occasion, only because the Duke was a little late in paying his

respects to him. Alva, as a noble, had his share of pride, and being,

moreover, malignant, never forgave this.

But the rivalry of these two personages in desiring the government

of the revolted Netherlands is a more probable cause of the affront,

for it seems to have been just before the Duke proceeded thither as

Governor, when he went to take leave of Carlos, that it occurred.

Philip had refused the post to his son, and given it to Alva. Carlos is

even said by some to have threatened the Duke with his sword; but, if

so, it seems likely that something in the words or triumphant demeanour

of the latter provoked the hotheaded youth beyond endurance. This

spirited and aspiring Prince was evidently far more liberal in religion

and politics than his father, a disposition likely to be intensified

by the fact that his father persistently kept him in tutelage, and

forbade him all participation in the management of public affairs,

which he so ardently coveted. That he entered into correspondence with

the gallant men striving for liberty of conscience and nationality in

the Low Countries seems certain. This was a pretext and motive for his

arrest, imprisonment, and murder. But jealous suspicion that the Queen,

promised and betrothed by Philip himself to his own son, cared too much

for that son, and more than suspicion that Carlos cared too much for

her, afforded a motive yet more powerful. Elizabeth of France (daughter

of Henry II.) was put to death about the same time, and the Prince of

Orange openly accused Philip of these murders, alleging that they were

committed in order that he might be free to marry his own niece, Anne

of Austria. Carlos is variously reported to have been killed by poison,

strangulation, or opening his veins in a bath. Philip died in 1598. His

character has been well suggested and outlined in a recent play, Lord

Tennyson's "Queen Mary."

[Illustration]

TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE.[6]

Sir,

'Tis an approved opinion, there is not so unhappy a creature in the

world as the man that wants ambition; for certainly he lives to very

little use that only toils in the same round, and because he knows

where he is, though in a dirty road, dares not venture on a smoother

path for fear of being lost. That I am not the wretch I condemn,

your Royal Highness may be sufficiently convinced, in that I durst

presume to put this poem under your patronage. My motives to it were

not ordinary: for besides my own propensity to take an opportunity

of publishing the extreme devotion I owe your Royal Highness, the

mighty encouragement I received from your approbation of it when

presented on the stage was hint enough to let me know at whose feet

it ought to be laid. Yet, whilst I do this, I am sensible the curious

world will expect some panegyric on those heroic virtues which are

throughout it so much admired. But, as they are a theme too great for

my undertaking, so only to endeavour at the truth of them must, in the

distance between my obscurity and their height, savour of a flattery,

which in your Royal Highness's esteem I would not be thought guilty

of; though in that part of them which relates to myself (viz., your

favours showered on a thing so mean as I am) I know not how to be

silent. For you were not only so indulgent as to bestow your praise on

this, but even (beyond my hopes) to declare in favour of my first essay

of this nature, and add yet the encouragement of your commands to go

forward, when I had the honour to kiss your Royal Highness's hand, in

token of your permission to make a dedication to you of the second. I

must confess, and boast I am very proud of it; and it were enough to

make me more, were I not sensible how far I am undeserving. Yet when

I consider you never give your favours precipitately, but that it is

a certain sign of some desert when you vouchsafe to promote, I, who

have terminated my best hopes in it, should do wrong to your goodness,

should I not let the world know my mind, as well as my condition,

is raised by it. I am certain none that know your Royal Highness

will disapprove my aspiring to the service of so great and so good a

master; one who (as is apparent to all those who have the honour to be

near you and know you by that title) never raised without merit, or

discountenanced without justice. It is that, indeed, obliging severity

which has in all men created an awful love and respect towards you;

since in the firmness of your resolution the brave and good man is sure

of you, whilst the ill-minded and malignant fears you. This I could not

pass over; and I hope your Royal Highness will pardon it, since it is

unaffectedly my zeal to you, who am in nothing so unfortunate, as that

I have not a better opportunity to let you and the world know how much

I am,

Your Royal Highness's

Most humble, most faithful, and most obedient Servant,

THO. OTWAY.

[Illustration:

PREFACE.]

Reader,

'Tis not that I have any great affection to scribbling, that I pester

thee with a preface; for, amongst friends, 'tis almost as poor a trade

with poets, as it is with those that write hackney under attorneys;

it will hardly keep us in ale and cheese. Honest Ariosto began to be

sensible of it in his time, who makes his complaint to this purpose:

I pity those who in these latter days

Do write, when bounty hath shut up her gate:

Where day and night in vain good writers knock,

And for their labour oft have but a mock.

Thus I find it according to Sir John Harington's translation; had I

understood Italian, I would have given it thee in the original, but

that is not my talent; therefore to proceed: this Play was the second

that ever I writ, or thought of writing. I must confess, I had often

a titillation to poetry, but never durst venture on my muse, till I

got her into a corner in the country; and then, like a bashful young

lover, when I had her in private, I had courage to fumble, but never

thought she would have produced anything; till at last, I know not

how, ere I was aware, I found myself father of a dramatic birth, which

I called _Alcibiades_; but I might, without offence to any person in

the play, as well have called it _Nebuchadnezzar_; for my hero, to

do him right, was none of that squeamish gentleman I make him, but

would as little have boggled at the obliging the passion of a young

and beautiful lady as I should myself, had I the same opportunities

which I have given him. This I publish to antedate the objections some

people may make against that play, who have been (and much good may it

do them!) very severe, as they think, upon this. Whoever they are, I

am sure I never disobliged them: nor have they (thank my good fortune)

much injured me. In the meanwhile I forgive them, and, since I am out

of the reach on't, leave them to chew the cud on their own venom. I

am well satisfied I had the greatest party of men of wit and sense on

my side; amongst which I can never enough acknowledge the unspeakable

obligations I received from the Earl of R.,[7] who, far above what I am

ever able to deserve from him, seemed almost to make it his business to

establish it in the good opinion of the King and his Royal Highness;

from both of whom I have since received confirmation of their good

liking of it, and encouragement to proceed. And it is to him, I must

in all gratitude confess, I owe the greatest part of my good success

in this, and on whose indulgency I extremely build my hopes of a next.

I dare not presume to take to myself what a great many, and those (I

am sure) of good judgment too, have been so kind to afford me--viz.,

that it is the best heroic play that has been written of late; for, I

thank Heaven, I am not yet so vain. But this I may modestly boast of,

which the author[8] of the French _Berenice_ has done before me, in his

preface to that play, that it never failed to draw tears from the eyes

of the auditors; I mean, those whose hearts were capable of so noble

a pleasure: for it was not my business to take such as only come to a

playhouse to see farce-fools, and laugh at their own deformed pictures.

Though a certain writer that shall be nameless[9] (but you shall guess

at him by what follows), being asked his opinion of this play, very

gravely cocked, and cried, "I'gad, he knew not a line in it he would be

author of."[10] But he is a fine facetious witty person, as my friend

Sir Formal has it; and to be even with him, I know a comedy of his,

that has not so much as a quibble in it that I would be author of. And

so, Reader, I bid him and thee Farewell.

FOOTNOTES:

[5]

To gain by honourable ways

A great man's favour is no vulgar praise.--_Conington._

[6] James, Duke of York, afterwards James II.

[7] Rochester, whose motive in patronising Otway at this time was

solely a desire to mortify Dryden.

[8] Racine.

[9] Dryden.

[10] It will be remembered that _I'gad_ is an expression frequently

used by Bayes in the _Rehearsal_; a character written in ridicule of

Davenant, Dryden, the Howards, &c, by the Duke of Buckingham (Dryden's

Zimri), Butler, and others.

[Illustration:

_PROLOGUE_]

When first our author took this play in hand,

He doubted much, and long was at a stand.

He knew the fame and memory of kings

Were to be treated of as sacred things,

Not as they're represented in this age,

Where they appear the lumber of the stage;

Used only just for reconciling tools,

Or what is worse, made villains all, or fools.

Besides, the characters he shows to-night,

He found were very difficult to write:

He found the fame of France and Spain at stake,

Therefore long paused, and feared which part to take;

Till this his judgment safest understood,

To make them both heroic as he could.

But now the greatest stop was yet unpassed;

He found himself, alas! confined too fast.

He is a man of pleasure, sirs, like you,

And therefore hardly could to business bow;

Till at the last he did this conquest get,

To make his pleasure whetstone to his wit;

So sometimes for variety he writ.

But as those blockheads, who discourse by rote,

Sometimes speak sense, although they rarely know't;

So he scarce knew to what his work would grow,

But 'twas a play, because it would be so:

Yet well he knows this is a weak pretence,

For idleness is the worst want of sense.

Let him not now of carelessness be taxed,

He'll write in earnest, when he writes the next:

Meanwhile,--

Prune his superfluous branches, never spare;

Yet do it kindly, be not too severe:

He may bear better fruit another year.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._]

PHILIP II., King of Spain.

DON CARLOS, his Son.

DON JOHN of Austria.

Marquis of POSA, the Prince's Confidant.

RUY-GOMEZ.

Officer of the Guards.

QUEEN OF SPAIN.

Duchess of EBOLI, Wife of Ruy-Gomez.

HENRIETTA.

GARCIA.

SCENE--THE COURT OF SPAIN.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_DON CARLOS, PRINCE OF SPAIN._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.--_An Apartment in the Palace._

KING _and_ QUEEN, Don CARLOS, _the_ Marquis of POSA,

RUY-GOMEZ, _the_ Duchess of EBOLI, HENRIETTA,

GARCIA, Attendants, _and_ Guards _discovered_.

King. Happy the monarch, on whose brow no cares

Add weight to the bright diadem he wears;

Like me, in all that he can wish for, blest.

Renown and love, the gentlest calms of rest,

And peace, adorn my brow, enrich my breast.

To me great nations tributary are;

Though, whilst my vast dominions spread so far,

Where most I reign, I must pay homage, here. [_To the_ QUEEN.

Approach, bright mistress of my purest vows:

Now show me him that more religion owes

To Heaven, or to its altars more devoutly bows.

_Don Car._ So merchants, cast upon some savage coast,

Are forced to see their dearest treasures lost.

Curse! what's obedience? a false notion made

By priests, who when they found old cheats decayed,

By such new arts kept up declining trade. [_Aside._

A father! Oh!

_King._ Why does my Carlos shroud

His joy, and when all's sunshine wear a cloud?

My son, thus for thy glory I provide;

From this fair charmer, and our royal bride,

Shall such a noble race of heroes spring,

As may adorn the court when thou art king.

_Don Car._ A greater glory I can never know

Than what already I enjoy in you.

The brightest ornaments of crowns and powers

I only can admire, as they are yours.

_King._ Heaven! how he stands unmoved! not the least show

Of transport.

_Don Car._ Not admire your happiness? I do

As much admire it as I reverence you.

Let me express the mighty joy I feel:

Thus, sir, I pay my duty when I kneel. [_Kneels to the_ QUEEN.

_Queen._ How hard it is his passion to confine!

I'm sure 'tis so, if I may judge by mine. [_Aside._

Alas! my lord, you're too obsequious now. [_To_ Don CARLOS.

_Don Car._ Oh! might I but enjoy this pleasure still,

Here would I worship, and for ever kneel.

_Queen._ 'Fore Heaven, my lord! you know not what you do.

_King._ Still there appears disturbance on his brow;

And in his looks an earnestness I read,

Which from no common causes can proceed. [_Aside._

I'll probe him deep. When, when, my dearest joy,

[_To the_ QUEEN.

Shall I the mighty debt of love defray?

Hence to love's secret temple let's retire,

There on his altars kindle the amorous fire,

Then, phoenix-like, each in the flame expire.--

Still he is fixed. [_Looking on_ Don CARLOS.] Gomez, observe

the prince.--

Yet smile on me, my charming excellence.

[_To the_ QUEEN.

Virgins should only fears and blushes show;

But you must lay aside that title now.

The doctrine which I preach, by Heaven, is good:--

Oh, the impetuous sallies of my blood!

_Queen._ To what unwelcome joys I'm forced to yield?

Now fate her utmost malice has fulfilled.

Carlos, farewell; for since I must submit--

_King._ Now, winged with rapture, let us fly, my sweet.

My son, all troubles from thy breast resign,

And let thy father's happiness be thine.

[_Exeunt_ KING _and_ QUEEN,

RUY-GOMEZ, Duchess of EBOLI,

HENRIETTA, GARCIA, _and_ Attendants.

_Don Car._ What king, what god would not his power forego,

To enjoy so much divinity below!

Didst thou behold her, Posa?

_M. of Posa._ Sir, I did.

_Don Car._ And is she not a sweet one? Such a bride!

O Posa, once she was decreed for mine:

Once I had hopes of bliss. Hadst thou but seen

How blest, how proud I was if I could get

But leave to lie a prostrate at her feet!

Even with a look I could my pains beguile;

Nay, she in pity too would sometimes smile;

Till at the last my vows successful proved,

And one day, sighing, she confessed she loved.

Oh! then I found no limits to our joy,

With eyes thus languishing we looked all day;

So vigorous and strong we darted beams,

Our meeting glances kindled into flames;

Nothing we found that promised not delight:

For when rude shades deprived us of the light,

As we had gazed all day, we dreamt all night.

But, after all these labours undergone,

A cruel father thus destroys his son;

In their full height my choicest hopes beguiles,

And robs me of the fruit of all my toils.

My dearest Posa, thou wert ever kind;

Bring thy best counsel, and direct my mind.

_Re-enter_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_Ruy-Gom._ Still he is here. My lord!

_Don Car._ Your business now?

_Ruy-Gom._ I've with concern beheld your clouded brow.

Ah! though you've lost a beauty well might make

Your strictest honour and your duty shake,

Let not a father's ills[11] misguide your mind,

But be obedient, though he has proved unkind.

_Don Car._ Hence, cynic, to dull slaves thy morals teach;

I have no leisure now to hear thee preach:

Still you'll usurp a power o'er my will.

_Ruy-Gom._ Sir, you my services interpret ill:

Nor need it be so soon forgot that I

Have been your guardian from your infancy.

When to my charge committed, I alone

Instructed you how to expect a crown;

Taught you ambition, and war's noblest arts,

How to lead armies, and to conquer hearts;

Whilst, though but young,

You would with pleasure read of sieges got,

And smile to hear of bloody battles fought:

And, still, though not control, I may advise,

_Don Car._ Alas! thy pride wears a too thin disguise:

Too well I know the falsehood of thy soul,

Which to my father rendered me so foul

That hardly as his son a smile I've known,

But always as a traitor met his frown.

My forward honour was ambition called;

Or, if my friends my early fame extolled,

You damped my father's smiles still as they sprung,

Persuading I repined he lived too long.

So all my hopes by you were frustrate made,

And, robbed of sunshine, withered in the shade.

Whilst, my good patriot! you disposed the crown

Out of my reach, to have it in your own.

But I'll prevent your policy--

_Ruy-Gom._ My lord,

This accusation is unjust and hard.

The king, your father, would not so upbraid

My age: is all my service thus repaid?

But I will hence, and let my master hear

How generously you reward my care;

Who, on my just complaint, I doubt not, will

At least redress the injuries I feel. [_Exit._

_M. of Posa._ Alas! my lord, you too severely urge

Your fate; his interest with the king is large.

Besides, you know he has already seen

The transports of your passion for the queen.

The use he may of that advantage make

You ought at least to avoid, but for her sake.

_Don. Car._ Ah! my dear friend, thou'st touched my tenderest part;

I never yet learned the dissembling art.

Go, call him back; tell him that I implore

His pardon, and will ne'er offend him more.

The queen! kind Heaven, make her thy nearest care!

Oh! fly, o'ertake him ere he goes too far. [_Exit_ Marquis of POSA.

How are we bandied up and down by fate!

By so much more unhappy as we're great.

A prince, and heir to Spain's great monarch born,

I'm forced to court a slave whom most I scorn;

Who like a bramble 'mongst a cedar's boughs,

Vexes his peace under whose shades he grows.

Now he returns: assist me falsehood--down,

Thou rebel passion--

_Re-enter_ RUY-GOMEZ _and the_ Marquis of POSA.

Sir, I fear I've done

[_To_ RUY-GOMEZ.

You wrong; but, if I have, you can forgive.

Heaven! can I do this abject thing, and live? [_Aside._

_Ruy-Gom._ Ah, my good lord, it makes too large amends,

When to his vassal thus a prince descends;

Though it was something rigid and unkind,

To upbraid your faithful servant and your friend.

_Don Car._ Alas! no more; all jealousies shall cease;

Between us two let there be henceforth peace.

So may just Heaven assist me when I sue,

As I to Gomez always will be true.

_Ruy-Gom._ Stay, sir, and for this mighty favour take

All the return sincerity can make.

Blest in your father's love, as I'm in yours,

May not one fear disturb your happy hours!

Crowned with success may all your wishes be,

And you ne'er find worse enemies than me!

[_Exeunt_ Don CARLOS _and_ Marquis of POSA.

Nor, spite of all his greatness, shall he need:

Of too long date his ruin is decreed.

Spain's early hopes of him have been my fears;

'Twas I the charge had of his tender years,

And read in all the progress of his growth,

An untamed, haughty, hot, and furious youth;

A will unruly, and a spirit wild;

At all my precepts still with scorn he smiled.

Or when, by the power I from his father had,

Any restraint was on his pleasures laid,

Ushered with frowns on me his soul would rise,

And threaten future vengeance from his eyes.

But now to all my fears I bid adieu;

For, prince, I'll humble both your fate and you.

Here comes the star by whom my course I steer.

_Re-enter_ Duchess of EBOLI.

Welcome, my love!

_D. of Eboli._ My lord, why stay you here,

Losing the pleasures of this happy night?

When all the court are melting in delight,

You toil with the dull business of the state.

_Ruy-Gom._ Only, my fair one, how to make thee great.

Thou takest up all the business of my heart,

And only to it pleasure canst impart.

Say, say, my goddess, when shall I be blest?

It is an age since I was happy last.

_D. of Eboli._ My lord, I come not hither now to hear

Your love, but offer something to your ear.

If you have well observed, you must have seen,

To-day, some strange disorders in the queen.

_Ruy-Gom._ Yes, such as youthful brides do still express,

Impatient longings for the happiness.

Approaching joys will so disturb the soul,

As needles always tremble near the pole.

_D. of Eboli._ Come, come, my lord, seem not so blind; too well

I've seen the wrongs which you from Carlos feel;

And know your judgment is too good to lose

Advantage, where you may so safely choose.

Say now, if I inform you how you may

With full revenge all your past wrongs repay--

_Ruy-Gom._ Blest oracle! speak how it may be done:

My will, my life, my hopes, are all thy own.

_D. of Eboli._ Hence then, and with your strictest cunning try

What of the queen and prince you can descry;

Watch every look, each quick and subtle glance;

Then we'll from all produce such circumstance

As shall the king's new jealousy advance.

Nay, sir, I'll try what mighty love you show:

If you will make me great, begin it now.

How, sir, d'ye stand considering what to do?

_Ruy-Gom._ No, but methinks I view from hence a king,

A queen, and prince, three goodly flowers spring:

Whilst on them like a subtle bee I'll prey,

Till, so their strength and virtue drawn away,

Unable to recover, each shall droop,

Grow pale, and fading hang his withered top:

Then, fraught with thyme, triumphant back I'll come,

And unlade all the precious sweets at home. [_Exit._

_D. of Eboli._ In thy fond policy, blind fool, go on,

And make what haste thou canst to be undone,

Whilst I have nobler business of my own.

Was I bred up in greatness; have I been

Nurtured with glorious hopes to be a queen;

Made love my study, and with practised charms

Prepared myself to meet a monarch's arms;

At last to be condemned to the embrace

Of one whom nature made to her disgrace,

An old, imperfect, feeble dotard, who

Can only tell (alas!) what he would do?

On him to throw away my youth and bloom,

As jewels that are lost to enrich a tomb?

No, though all hopes are in a husband dead,

Another path to happiness I'll tread;

Elsewhere find joys which I'm in him denied:

Yet, while he can, let the slave serve my pride.

Still I'll in pleasure live, in glory shine;

The gallant, youthful Austria shall be mine:

To him with all my force of charms I'll move:

Let others toil for greatness, whilst I love. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[11] _i.e._ Faults.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.--_An Orange Grove, near the Palace._

_Enter_ Don JOHN of Austria.

Don John. Why should dull law rule nature, who first made

That law by which herself is now betrayed?

Ere man's corruptions made him wretched, he

Was born most noble that was born most free:

Each of himself was lord, and, unconfined,

Obeyed the dictates of his god-like mind.

Law was an innovation brought in since,

When fools began to love obedience,

And called their slavery safety and defence.

My glorious father got me in his heat,

When all he did was eminently great:

When warlike Belgia felt his conquering power,

And the proud Germans owned him emperor,

Why should it be a stain then on my blood,

Because I came not in the common road,

But born obscure, and so more like a god?

No; though his diadem another wear,

At least to all his pleasures I'll be heir.

Here I should meet my Eboli, my fair.

_Enter_ Duchess of EBOLI.

She comes; as the bright Cyprian goddess moves,

When loose, and in her chariot drawn by doves,

She rides to meet the warlike god she loves.

_D. of Eboli._ Alas! my lord, you know not with what fear

And hazard I am come to meet you here.

_Don John._ Oh, banish it: lovers like us should fly,

And, mounted by their wishes, soar on high,

Where softest ecstasies and transports are,

While fear alone disturbs the lower air.

_D. of Eboli._ But who is safe when eyes are everywhere?

Or, if we could with happiest secrecy

Enjoy these sweets, oh, whither shall we fly

To escape that sight whence we can nothing hide?

_Don John._ Alas! lay this religion now aside;

I'll show thee one more pleasant, that which Jove

Set forth to the old world, when from above

He came himself, and taught his mortals love.

_D. of Eboli._ Will nothing then quench your unruly flame?

My lord, you might consider who I am.

_Don John._ I know you're her I love, what should I more

Regard?

_D. of Eboli._ [_Aside._] By Heaven, he's brave!--

But can so poor

A thought possess your breast, to think that I

Will brand my name with lust and infamy?

_Don John._ Those who are noblest born should higher prize

Love's sweets. Oh! let me fly into those eyes!

There's something in them leads my soul astray:

As he who in a necromancer's glass

Beholds his wished-for fortune by him pass,

Yet still with greedy eyes

Pursues the vision as it glides away.

_D. of Eboli._ Protect me, Heaven! I dare no longer stay;

Your looks speak danger; I feel something too

That bids me fly, yet will not let me go. [_Half aside._

_Don John._ Take vows and prayers if ever I prove false.

See at your feet the humble Austria falls. [_Kneels._

_D. of Eboli._ Rise, rise. [Don JOHN _rises_.] My lord, why

would you thus deceive? [_Sighs._

_Don John._ How many ways to wound me you contrive!

Speak, wouldst thou have an empire at thy feet?

Say, wouldst thou rule the world? I'll conquer it.

_D. of Eboli._ No; above empire far I could prize you,

If you would be but--

_Don John._ What?

_D. of Eboli._ For ever true.

_Don John._ That thou mayst ne'er have cause to fear those harms,

I'll be confined for ever in thy arms:

Nay, I'll not one short minute from thee stray;

Myself I'll on thy tender bosom lay,

Till in its warmths I'm melted all away.

_Enter_ GARCIA.

_Gar._ Madam, your lord--

_D. of Eboli._ Oh! fly, or I'm undone. [_Exit_ GARCIA.

_Don John._ Must I without thy blessing then be gone?

[_Kisses her hand._

_D. of Eboli._ Think you that this discretion merits one?

[_Pulls it back._

_Don John._ I'm awed:

As a sick wretch, that on his death-bed lies,

Loth with his friends to part, just as he dies,

Thus sends his soul in wishes from his eyes. [_Exit._

_D. of Eboli._ O Heaven! what charms in youth and vigour are!

Yet he in conquest is not gone too far;

Too easily I'll not myself resign:

Ere I am his, I'll make him surely mine;

Draw him by subtle baits into the trap,

Till he's too far got in to make escape;

About him swiftly the soft snare I'll cast,

And when I have him there, I'll hold him fast.

_Enter_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_Ruy-Gom._ Thus unaccompanied I subtly range

The solitary paths of dark revenge:

The fearful deer in herds to coverts run,

While beasts of prey affect to roam alone.

_D. of Eboli._ Ah! my dear lord, how do you spend your hours?

You little think what my poor heart endures;

Whilst, with your absence tortured, I in vain

Pant after joys I ne'er can hope to gain.

_Ruy-Gom._ You cannot my unkindness sure upbraid;

You should forgive those faults yourself have made.

Remember you the task you gave?

_D. of Eboli._ 'Tis true;

Your pardon, for I do remember now. [_Sighs._

If I forgot, 'twas love had all my mind;

And 'tis no sin, I hope, to be too kind.

_Ruy-Gom._ How happy am I in a faithful wife!

O thou most precious blessing of my life!

_D. of Eboli._ Does then success attend upon your toil?

I long to see you revel in the spoil.

_Ruy-Gom._ What strictest diligence could do, I've done,

To incense an angry father 'gainst his son.

I to advantage told him all that's past,

Described with art each amorous glance they cast:

So that this night he shunned the marriage-bed,

Which through the court has various murmurs spread.

_Enter the_ KING, _attended by the_ Marquis of POSA.

See where he comes with fury in his eyes:

Kind Heaven, but grant the storm may higher rise!

If't grow too loud, I'll lurk in some dark cell,

And laugh to hear my magic work so well.

_King._ What's all my glory, all my pomp? how poor

Is fading greatness! or how vain is power!

Where all the mighty conquests I have seen?

I, who o'er nations have victorious been,

Now cannot quell one little foe within.

Cursed jealousy, that poisons all love's sweets!

How heavy on my heart the invader sits!

O Gomez, thou hast given my mortal wound.

_Ruy-Gom._ What is't does so your royal thoughts confound?

A king his power unbounded ought to have,

And, ruling all, should not be passion's slave.

_King._ Thou counsell'st well, but art no stranger sure

To the sad cause of what I now endure.

Know'st thou what poison thou didst lately give,

And dost not wonder to behold me live?

_Ruy-Gom._ I only did as by my duty tied,

And never studied any thing beside.

_King._ I do not blame thy duty or thy care:

Quickly, what passed between them more, declare.

How greedily my soul to ruin flies!

As he who in a fever burning lies

First of his friends does for a drop implore,

Which tasted once, unable to give o'er,

Knows 'tis his bane, yet still thirsts after more.

Oh, then--

_Ruy-Gom._ I fear that you'll interpret wrong;

Tis true, they gazed, but 'twas not very long.

_King._ Lie still, my heart! Not long, was't that you said?

_Ruy-Gom._ No longer than they in your presence stayed.

_King._ No longer? Why, a soul in less time flies

To Heaven; and they have changed theirs at their eyes.

Hence, abject fears, begone! she's all divine!

Speak, friends, can angels in perfection sin?

_Ruy-Gom._ Angels, that shine above, do oft bestow

Their influence on poor mortals here below.

_King._ But Carlos is my son, and always near;

Seems to move with me in my glorious sphere.

True, she may shower promiscuous blessings down

On slaves that gaze for what falls from a crown;

But when too kindly she his brightness sees,

It robs my lustre to add more to his.

But oh! I dare not think

That those eyes should at least so humble be

To stoop to him, when they had vanquished me.

_M. of Posa._ Sir, I am proud to think I know the prince,

That he of virtue has too great a sense

To cherish but a thought beyond the bound

Of strictest duty. He to me has owned

How much was to his former passion due,

Yet still confessed he above all prized you.

_Ruy-Gom._ You better reconcile, sir, than advise:

Be not more charitable than you're wise.

The king is sick, and we should give him ease,

But first find out the depth of his disease.

Too sudden cures have oft pernicious grown;

We must not heal up festered wounds too soon.

_King._ By this then you a power would o'er me gain,

Wounding to let me linger in the pain.

I'm stung, and won't the torture long endure:

Serpents that wound have blood those wounds to cure.

_Ruy-Gom._ Good Heaven forbid that I should ever dare

To question virtue in a queen so fair,

Though she her eyes cast on your glorious son!

Men oft see treasures, and yet covet none.

_King._ Think not to blind me with dark ironies,

The truth disguised in obscure contraries.

No, I will trace his windings; all her dark

And subtlest paths, each little action mark,

If she prove false, as yet I fear, she dies.

_Enter_ QUEEN _attended, and_ HENRIETTA.

Ha! here! Oh, let me turn away my eyes,

For all around she'll her bright beams display:

Should I to gaze on the wild meteor stay,

Spite of myself I shall be led astray.

[_Exeunt_ KING _and_ Marquis of POSA.

_Queen._ How scornfully he is withdrawn!

Sure ere his love he'd let me know his power,

As Heaven oft thunders ere it sends a shower.

This Spanish gravity is very odd:

All things are by severity so awed,

That little Love dares hardly peep abroad.

_Hen._ Alas! what can you from old age expect,

When frail uneasy men themselves neglect?

Some little warmth perhaps may be behind,

Though such as in extinguished fires you'll find;

Where some remains of heat the ashes hold,

Which, if for more you open, straight are cold.

_Queen._ 'Twas interest and safety of the state,--

Interest, that bold imposer on our fate;

That always to dark ends misguides our wills,

And with false happiness smooths o'er our ills.

It was by that unhappy France was led,

When, though by contract I should Carlos wed,

I was an offering made to Philip's bed.

Why sigh'st thou, Henrietta?

_Hen._ Who is't can

Know your sad fate, and yet from grief refrain?

With pleasure oft I've heard you smiling tell

Of Carlos' love.

_Queen._ And did it please you well?

In that brave prince's courtship there did meet

All that we could obliging call, or sweet.

At every point he with advantage stood;

Fierce as a lion, if provoked abroad;

Else soft as angels, charming as a god.

_Hen._ One so accomplished, and who loved you too,

With what resentments must he part with you!

Methinks I pity him----But oh! in vain:

He's both above my pity and my pain. [_Aside._

_Queen._ What means this strange disorder?

_Hen._ Yonder view

That which I fear will discompose you too.

_Enter_ Don CARLOS _and_ Marquis of POSA.

_Queen._ Alas, the prince! There to my mind appears

Something that in me moves unusual fears.

Away, Henrietta-- [_Offers to go._

_Don Car._ Why would you be gone?

Is Carlos' sight ungrateful to you grown?

If 'tis, speak: in obedience I'll retire.

_Queen._ No, you may speak, but must advance no nigher.

_Don Car._ Must I then at that awful distance sue,

As our forefathers were compelled to do,

When they petitions made at that great shrine,

Where none but the high priest might enter in?

Let me approach; I've nothing for your ear,

But what's so pure it might be offered there.

_Queen._ Too long 'tis dangerous for me here to stay:

If you must speak, proceed: what would you say?

[Don CARLOS _kneels_.

Nay, this strange ceremony pray give o'er.

_Don Car._ Was I ne'er in this posture seen before?

Ah! can your cruel heart so soon resign

All sense of these sad sufferings of mine?

To your more just remembrance, if you can,

Recall how fate seemed kindly to ordain

That once you should be mine; which I believed:

Though now, alas! I find I was deceived.

_Queen._ Then, sir, you should your fate, not me upbraid.

_Don Car._ I will not say you've broke the vows you made;

Only implore you would not quite forget

The wretch you've oft seen dying at your feet;

And now no other favour begs to have,

Than such kind pity as becomes your slave.

For 'midst your highest joys, without a crime,

At least you now and then may think of him.

_Queen._ If e'er you loved me, you would this forbear;

It is a language which I dare not hear.

My heart and faith become your father's right,

All other passions I must now forget.

_Don Car._ Can then a crown and majesty dispense

Upon your heart such mighty influence,

That I must be for ever banished thence?

Had I been raised to all the heights of power,

In triumph crowned the world's great emperor,

Of all its riches, all its state possessed,

Yet you should still have governed in my breast.

_Queen._ In vain on her you obligations lay,

Who wants not will, but power to repay.

_Hen._ Yet had you Henrietta's heart, you would

At least strive to afford him all you could. [_Aside._

_Don Car._ Oh! say not you want power; you may with one

Kind look pay doubly all I've undergone.

And knew you but the innocence I bear,

How pure, how spotless all my wishes are,

You would not scruple to supply my want,

When all I ask you may so safely grant.

_Queen._ I know not what to grant; too well I find

That still at least I cannot be unkind.

_Don Car._ Afford me then that little which I crave.

_Queen._ You shall not want what I may let you have.

[_Gives her hand, sighing._

_Don Car._ Like one

That sees a heap of gems before him cast,

Thence to choose any that may please him best;

From the rich treasure whilst I choice should make,

Dazzled with all, I know not where to take.

I would be rich--

_Queen._ Nay, you too far encroach;

I fear I have already given too much. [_Turns from him._

_Don Car._ Oh, take not back again the appearing bliss:

How difficult's the path to happiness!

Whilst up the precipice we climb with pain,

One little slip throws us quite down again.

Stay, madam, though you nothing more can give

Than just enough to keep a wretch alive,

At least remember how I've loved--

_Queen._ I will.

_Don Car._ That was so kind, that I must beg more still;

Let me love on: it is a very poor

And easy grant, yet I'll request no more.

_Queen._ Do you believe that you can love retain,

And not expect to be beloved again?

_Don Car._ Yes, I will love, and think I'm happy too,

So long as I can find that you are so;

All my disquiets banish from my breast;

I will endeavour to do so at least. [_Sighing deeply._

Or, if I can't my miseries outwear,

They never more shall come to offend your ear.

_Queen._ Love then, brave prince, whilst I'll thy love admire;

[_Gives her hand, which_ Don CARLOS _during_

_all this speech kisses eagerly_.

Yet keep the flame so pure, such chaste desire,

That without spot hereafter we above

May meet, when we shall come all soul, all love.

Till when--Oh! whither am I run astray?

I grow too weak, and must no longer stay:

For should I, the soft charm so strong would grow,

I find that I shall want the power to go.

[_Exeunt_ QUEEN _and_ HENRIETTA.

_Don Car._ Oh, sweet--

If such transport be in a taste so small,

How blest must he be that possesses all!

Where am I, Posa? Where's the queen?

[_Standing amazed._

_M. of Posa._ My lord,

A while some respite to your heart afford:

The queen's retired--

_Don Car._ Retired! And did she then

Just show me Heaven, to shut it in again?

This little ease augments my pain the more;

For now I'm more impatient than before,

And have discovered riches make me mad.

_M. of Posa._ But since those treasures are not to be had,

You should correct desires that drive you on

Beyond that duty which becomes a son.

No longer let the tyrant love invade;

The brave may by themselves be happy made.

You to your father now must all resign.

_Don Car._ But ere he robbed me of her, she was mine.

To be my friend is all thou hast to do,

For half my miseries thou canst not know.

Make myself happy! Bid the damned do so;

Who in sad flames must be for ever tossed,

Yet still in view of the loved Heaven they've lost. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--_The same._

_Enter_ Don JOHN of Austria.

Don John. How vainly would dull moralists impose

Limits on love, whose nature brooks no laws?

Love is a god, and like a god should be

Inconstant, with unbounded liberty,

Rove as he list--

I find it; for even now I've had a feast,

Of which a god might covet for a taste.

Methinks I yet

See with what soft devotion in her eyes

The tender lamb came to the sacrifice.

Oh, how her charms surprised me as I lay!

Like too near sweets they took my sense away;

And I even lost the power to reach at joy.

But those cross witchcrafts soon unravelled were,

And I was lulled in trances sweeter far:

As anchored vessels in calm harbours ride,

Rocked on the swellings of the floating tide.

How wretched's then the man, who though alone

He thinks he's blest, yet, as confined to one,

Is but at best a prisoner on a throne?

_Enter the_ KING _attended_, Marquis of POSA, _and_

RUY-GOMEZ.

_King._ Ye mighty powers, whose substitutes we are,

On whom you've lain of earth the rule and care,

Why all our toils do you reward with ill,

And to those weighty cares add greater still?

Oh, how could I your deities enrage,

That blessed my youth, thus to afflict my age?

A queen and a son's incest! dismal thought!

_Don John._ What is't so soon his majesty has brought

From the soft arms of his young bride? [_To_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_King._ Ay, true!

Is she not, Austria, young and charming too?

Dost thou not think her to a wonder fair?

Tell me!

_Don John._ By Heaven, more bright than planets are:

Her beauty's force might even their power out-do.

_King._ Nay, she's as false, and as unconstant too.

O Austria, that a form so outward bright

Should be within all dark and ugly night!

For she, to whom I'd dedicated all

My love, that dearest jewel of my soul,

Takes from its shrine the precious relic down,

To adorn a little idol of her own,--

My son! that rebel both to Heaven and me!

Oh, the distracting throes of jealousy!

But as a drowning wretch, just like to sink,

Seeing him that threw him in upon the brink,

At the third plunge lays hold upon his foe,

And tugs him down into destruction too;

So thou, from whom these miseries I've known,

Shalt bear me out again, or with me drown.

[_Seizes roughly_ on RUY-GOMEZ.

_Ruy-Gom._ My loyalty will teach me how to wait

All the successes of my sovereign's fate.

What is't, great sir, you would command me?

_King._ How!

What is't?--I know not what I'd have thee do:

Study revenge for me, 'tis that I want.

_Don John._ Alas! what frenzy does your temper haunt?

Revenge! on whom?

_King._ On my false queen and son.

_Ruy-Gom._ On them! good Heaven! what is't that they have done?

Oh, had my tongue been cursed, ere it had bred

This jealousy! [_Half aside._

_King._ Then cancel what thou'st said.

Didst thou not tell me that thou saw'st him stand

Printing soft vows and kisses on her hand,

Whilst in requital she such glances gave,

Would quicken a dead lover in his grave?

_Ruy-Gom._ I did; and what less could the queen allow

To him than you to every vassal show?

The affording him that little from love's store

Implied that she for you reserved much more.

_King._ Oh, doubtless, she must have a wondrous store

Of love, that sells it at a rate so poor.

Now thou'dst rebate[12] my passion with advice;

And, when thou shouldst be active, wouldst be wise.

No, lead me where I may their incest see--

Do, or by Heaven--do, and I'll worship thee!

Oh, how my passions drive me to and fro!

Under their heavy weight I yield and bow.

But I'll re-gather yet my strength, and stand

Brandishing all my thunder in my hand.

_M. of Posa._ And may it be sent forth, and where it goes

Light fatally and heavy on your foes!

But let your loyal son and consort bear

No ill, since they of any guiltless are.

Here with my sword defiance I proclaim

To that bold traitor that dares wrong their fame.

_Don John._ I too dare with my life their cause make good.

_King._ Sure well their innocence you've understood,

That you so prodigal are of your blood.

Or wouldst thou speak me comfort? I would find

'Mongst all my counsellors at least one kind.

Yet any thing like that I must not hear;

For so my wrongs I should too tamely bear,

And weakly grow my own mean flatterer.

Posa, withdraw--[_Exit_ Marquis of POSA.]--My lords, all this

you've heard.

_Ruy-Gom._ Yes, I observed it, sir, with strict regard:

The young lord's friendship was too great to hide.

_King._ Is he then so to my false son allied?

I am environed every way, and all

My fate's unhappy engines plot my fall.

Like Cæsar in the senate, thus I stand,

Whilst ruin threatened him on every hand.

From each side he had warning he must die;

Yet still he braved his fate, and so will I.

To strive for ease would but add more to pain:

As streams that beat against their banks in vain,

Retreating, swell into a flood again.

No, I'll do things the world shall quake to hear;

My just revenge so true a stamp shall bear,

As henceforth Heaven itself shall emulate,

And copy all its vengeance out by that.

All but Ruy-Gomez I must have withdrawn,

I've something to discourse with him alone.

[_Exeunt_ Don JOHN _and_ Attendants.

Now, Gomez, on thy truth depends thy fate;

Thou'st wrought my sense of wrong to such a height,

Within my breast it will no longer stay,

But grows each minute till it force its way.

I would not find myself at last deceived.

_Ruy-Gom._ Nor would I 'gainst your reason be believed.

Think, sir, your jealousy to be but fear

Of losing treasures which you hold so dear.

Your queen and son may yet be innocent:

I know but what they did, not what they meant.

_King._ Meant! what should looks, and sighs, and pressings mean?

No, no; I need not hear it o'er again.

No repetitions--something must be done.

Now there's no ill I know that I would shun.

I'll fly, till them I've in their incest found,

Full charged with rage, and with my vengeance hot,

Like a grenado from a cannon shot,

Which lights at last upon the enemy's ground,

Then, breaking, deals destruction all around. [_Exit._

_Ruy-Gom._ So, now his jealousy is at the top,

Each little blast will serve to keep it up.

But stay; there's something I've omitted yet;--

Posa's my enemy; and true, he's great.

Alas! I'm armed 'gainst all that he can do;

For my snare's large enough to hold him too:

Yet I'll disguise that purpose for a while;

But when he with the rest is caught i' the toil,

I'll boldly out, and wanton in the spoil.

_Re-enter_ Marquis of POSA.

_M. of Posa._ My lord Ruy-Gomez! and the king not here!

You, who so eminent a favourite are

In a king's eye, should ne'er be absent thence.

_Ruy-Gom._ No, sir, 'tis you that by a rising prince

Are cherished, and so tread a safer way,

Rich in that bliss the world waits to enjoy.

_M. of Posa._ Since what may bless the world we ought to prize,

I wish there were no public enemies;

No lurking serpents poison to dispense,

Nor wolves to prey on noble innocence;

No flatterers, that with royal goodness sport,

Those stinking weeds that overrun a court.

_Ruy-Gom._ Nay, if good wishes anything could do,

I have as earnest wishes, sir, as you:

That though perhaps our king enjoys the best

Of power, yet may he still be doubly blest.

May he--

_M. of Posa._ Nay, Gomez, you shall ne'er outdo me there;

Since for great Philip's good I would you were,

If possible, more honest than you are.

_Ruy-Gom._ Why, Posa; what defect can you discern?

_M. of Posa._ Nay, half your mysteries I'm yet to learn

Though this I'll boldly justify to all,--

That you contrive a generous prince's fall. [RUY-GOMEZ _smiles_.

Nay, think not by your smiles and careless port

To laugh it off; I come not here to sport;

I do not, sir.

_Ruy-Gom._ Young lord, what meaning has

This heat?

_M. of Posa._ To let you see I know you're base.

_Ruy-Gom._ Nay, then, I pardon ask that I did smile:

By Heaven, I thought you'd jested all this while.

Base!

_M. of Posa._ Yes, more base than impotent or old.

All virtue in thee, like thy blood, runs cold:

Thy rotten putrid carcass is less full

Of rancour and contagion than thy soul.

Even now before the king I saw it plain;

But duty in that presence awed me then;

Yet there I dared thy treason with my sword:

But still

Thy villany talked all; courage had not a word.

True, thou art old; yet, if thou hast a friend,

To whom thy cursèd cause thou darest commend;

'Gainst him in public I'll the innocence

Maintain of the fair queen and injured prince.

_Ruy-Gom._ Farewell, bold champion!

Learn better how your passions to disguise;

Appear less choleric, and be more wise. [_Exit._

_M. of Posa._ How frail is all the glory we design,

Whilst such as these have power to undermine!

Unhappy prince! who mightst have safely stood,

If thou hadst been less great, or not so good.

Why the vile monster's blood did I not shed,

And all the vengeance draw on my own head?

My honour so had had this just defence,--

That I preserved my patron and my prince.

_Enter_ Don CARLOS _and the_ QUEEN.

Brave Carlos--ha! he's here. O sir, take heed;

By an unlucky fate your love is led.

The king--the king your father's jealous grown;

Forgetting her, his queen, or you, his son,

Calls all his vengeance up against you both.

_Don Car._ Has then the false Ruy-Gomez broke his oath,

And, after all, my innocence betrayed?

_M. of Posa._ Yes, all his subtlest snares are for you laid.

The king within this minute will be here,

And you are ruined, if but seen with her.

Retire, my lord--

_Queen._ How! is he jealous grown?

I thought my virtue he had better known.

His unjust doubts have soon found out the way

To make their entry on our marriage day;

For yet he has not known with me a night.

Perhaps his tyranny is his delight;

And to such height his cruelty is grown,

He'd exercise it on his queen and son.

But since, my lord, this time we must obey

Our interest, I beg you would not stay:

Not seeing you, he may to me be just.

_Don Car._ Should I then leave you, madam?

_Queen._ Yes, you must.

_Don Car._ Not then when storms against your virtue rise.

No; since to lose you wretched Carlos dies,

He'll have the honour of it, in your cause.

This is the noblest thing that Fate could do;

She thus abates the rigour of her laws,

Since 'tis some pleasure but to die for you.

_Queen._ Talk not of death, for that even cowards dare,

When their base fears compel them to despair:

Hope's the far nobler passion of the mind;

Fortune's a mistress that's with caution kind;

Knows that the constant merit her alone,

They who, though she seem froward, yet court on.

_Don Car._ To wretched minds thus still some comfort gleams,

And angels ease our griefs, though but with dreams.

I have too oft already been deceived,

And the cheat's grown too plain to be believed,

You, madam, bid me go. [_Looking earnestly at the_ QUEEN.

_Queen._ You must.

_M. of Posa._ You shall.

Alas! I love you, would not see you fall;

And yet may find some way to evade it all.

_Don Car._ Thou, Posa, ever wert my truest friend;

I almost wish thou wert not now so kind.

Thou of a thing that's lost tak'st too much care;

And you, fair angel, too indulgent are. [_To the_ QUEEN.

Great my despair; but still my love is higher.

Well--in obedience to you I'll retire;

Though during all the storm I will be nigh,

Where, if I see the danger grow too high,

To save you, madam, I'll come forth and die. [_Exit._

_Re-enter_ KING _and_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_King._ Who would have guessed that this had ever been?

[_Seeing the_ Marquis of POSA _and the_ QUEEN

Distraction! where shall my revenge begin?

Why, he's the very bawd to all their sin;

And to disguise it puts on friendship's mask:

But his despatch, Ruy-Gomez, is thy task.

With him pretend some private conference,

And under that disguise seduce him hence;

Then in some place fit for the deed impart

The business, by a poniard to his heart.

_Ruy-Gomez._ 'Tis done--

_King._ So, madam! [_Steps to the_ QUEEN.

_Queen._ By the fury in your eyes,

I understand you're come to tyrannize.

I hear you are already jealous grown,

And dare suspect my virtue with your son.

_King._ O womankind! thy mysteries who can scan,

Too deep for easy, weak, believing man?

Hold, let me look: indeed you're wondrous fair;

So, on the outside, Sodom's apples were:

And yet within, when opened to the view,

Not half so dangerous or so foul as you.

_Queen._ Unhappy, wretched woman that I am!

And you unworthy of a husband's name!

Do you not blush?

_King._ Yes, madam, for your shame.

Blush, too, my judgment e'er should prove so faint,

To let me choose a devil for a saint.

When first I saw and loved that tempting eye,

The fiend within the flame I did not spy;

But still ran on, and cherished my desires,

For heavenly beams mistook infernal fires;

Such raging fires as you have since thought fit

Alone my son, my son's hot youth should meet.

O vengeance, vengeance!

_Queen._ Poor ungenerous king!

How mean's the soul from which such thoughts must spring!

Was it for this I did so late submit

To let you whine and languish at my feet;

When with false oaths you did my heart beguile

And proffered all your empire for a smile?

Then, then my freedom 'twas I did resign,

Though you still swore you would preserve it mine.

And still it shall be so, for from this hour

I vow to hate, and never see you more.

Nay, frown not, Philip, for you soon shall know

I can resent and rage as well as you.

_King._ By hell! her pride's as raging as her lust.

A guard there! seize the queen! [_Enter_ Guard.

_Re-enter_ Don CARLOS; _he intercepts the_ Guards.

_Don Car._ Hold, sir, be just.

First look on me, whom once you called your son,

A title I was always proud to own.

_King._ Good Heaven! to merit this what have I done,

That he too dares before my sight appear?

_Don Car._ Why, sir, where is the cause that I should fear?

Bold in my innocence, I come to know

The reason why you use this princess so.

_King._ Sure I shall find some way to raise this siege:

He talks as if 'twere for his privilege.

Foul ravisher of all my honour, hence!

But stay! Guards, with the queen secure the prince.

Wherefore in my revenge should I be slow?

Now in my reach, I'll dash them at a blow.

_Re-enter_ Don JOHN of Austria, _with the_ Duchess of

EBOLI, HENRIETTA, _and_ GARCIA.

_Don John._ I come, great sir, with wonder here, to see

Your rage grow up to this extremity

Against your beauteous queen, and loyal son;

What is't that they to merit chains have done?

Or is't your own wild jealousy alone?

_King._ O Austria, thy vain inquiry cease,

If thou hast any value for thy peace.

My mighty wrongs so loud an accent bear,

'Twould make thee miserable but to hear.

_Don Car._ Father,--if I may dare to call you so,

Since now I doubt if I'm your son or no,--

As you have sealed my doom, I may complain.

_King._ Will then that monster dare to speak again?

_Don Car._ Yes, dying men should not their thoughts disguise;

And, since you take such joy in cruelties,

Ere of my death the new delight begin,

Be pleased to hear how cruel you have been.

Time was that we were smiled on by our fate,

You not unjust, nor I unfortunate:

Then, then I was your son, and you were glad

To hear my early praise was talked abroad:

Then love's dear sweets you to me would display;

Told me where this rich, beauteous treasure lay,

And how to gain't instructed me the way.

I came, and saw, and loved, and blessed you for't.

But then when love had sealed her to my heart,

You violently tore her from my side:

And, 'cause my bleeding wound I could not hide,

But still some pleasure to behold her took,

You now will have my life but for a look;

Wholly forgetting all the pains I bore,

Your heart with envious jealousy boils o'er,

'Cause I can love no less, and you no more.

_Hen._ Alas! how can you hear his soft complaint,

And not your hardened, stubborn heart relent?

Turn, sir; survey that comely, awful man,

And to my prayers be cruel if you can.

_King._ Away, deluder! who taught thee to sue?

_D. of Eboli._ Loving the queen, what is't she less can do

Than lend her aid against the dreadful storm?

_King._ Why, can the devil dwell too in that form?

This is their little engine by the bye,

A scout to watch and tell when danger's nigh.

Come, pretty sinner, thou'lt inform me all,

How, where, and when; nay, do not fear--you shall.

_Hen._ Ah, sir, unkind! [_Kneels._

_King._ Now hold thy siren's tongue:

Who would have thought there was a witch so young?

_Don John._ Can you to suing beauty stop your ears?

[_Raises up_ HENRIETTA

_and makes his address to her_.

Heaven lays its thunder by, and gladly hears,

When angels are become petitioners.

_D. of Eboli._ Ha! what makes Austria so officious there?

That glance seems as it sent his heart to her.

[_Aside to_ GARCIA.

_Don Car._ A banquet then of blood since you design,

Yet you may satisfy yourself with mine.

I love the queen, I have confessed, 'tis true:

Proud too to think I love her more than you;

Though she, by Heaven, is clear;--but I indeed

Have been unjust, and do deserve to bleed.

There were no lawless thoughts that I did want,

Which love had power to ask, or beauty grant;

Though I ne'er yet found hopes to raise them on,

For she did still preserve her honour's throne,

And dash the bold aspiring devils down.

If to her cause you do not credit give,

Fondly against your happiness you'll strive;

As some lose Heaven, because they won't believe.

_Queen._ Whilst, prince, my preservation you design,

Blot not your virtue to add more to mine.

The clearness of my truth I'd not have shown

By any other light besides its own.--

No, sir, he through despair all this has said,

And owns offences which he never made.

Why should you think that I would do you wrong?

Must I needs be unchaste because I'm young?

_King._ Unconstant wavering heart, why heavest thou so?

I shiver all, and know not what I do.

I who ere now have armies led to fight,

Thought war a sport, and danger a delight,

Whole winter nights stood under Heaven's wide roof,

Daring my foes, now am not beauty-proof.

Oh, turn away those basilisks, thy eyes;

The infection's fatal, and who sees them dies. [_Going away._

_Queen._ Oh, do not fly me; I have no design

Upon your life, for you may yet save mine. [_Kneels._

Or if at last I must my breath submit,

Here take it, 'tis an offering at your feet:

Will you not look on me, my dearest lord?

_King._ Why? wouldst thou live?

_Queen._ Yes, if you'll say the word.

_Don Car._ O Heaven! how coldly and unmoved he sees

A praying beauty prostrate on her knees!

Rise, madam-- [_Steps to take her up._

_King._ Bold encroacher, touch her not:

Into my breast her glances thick are shot.

Not true!--Stay, let me see--by Heaven, thou art--

[_Looks earnestly on her._

A false vile woman--O my foolish heart!

I give thee life: but from this time refrain,

And never come into my sight again:

Be banished ever.

_Queen._ This you must not do,

At least till I've convinced you I am true.

Grant me but so much time; and, when that's done,

If you think fit, for ever I'll be gone.

_King._ I've all this while been angry, but in vain:

She heats me first, then strokes me tame again.

Oh, wert thou true, how happy should I be!

Think'st thou that I have joy to part with thee?

No, all my kingdom for the bliss I'd give--

Nay, though it were not so--but to believe.

Come, for I can't avoid it, cheat me quite!

_Queen._ I would not, sir, deceive you if I might.

But if you'll take my oaths, by all above,

'Tis you, and only you, that I will love.

_King._ Thus as a mariner that sails along,

With pleasure hears the enticing siren's song,

Unable quite his strong desires to bound,

Boldly leaps in, though certain to be drowned,--

Come to my bosom then, make no delay; [_Takes her in his arms._

My rage is hushed, and I have room for joy.

_Queen._ Again you'll think that I unjust will prove.

_King._ No, thou art all o'er truth, and I all love.

Oh that we might for ever thus remain

In folded arms, and never part again!

_Queen._ Command me anything, and try your power.

_King._ Then from this minute ne'er see Carlos more.--

Thou slave, that darest do ill with such a port,

For ever here I banish thee my court.

Within some cloister lead a private life,

That I may love and rule without this strife.

Here, Eboli, receive her to thy charge:

The treasure's precious, and the trust is large.

Whilst I, retiring hence, myself make fit

To wait for joys which are too fierce to meet. [_Exit._

_Don Car._ My exile from his presence I can bear

With pleasure: but, no more to look on her!

Oh, 'tis a dreadful curse I cannot bear.

No, madam, all his power shall nothing do:

I'll stay and take my banishment from you.

Do you command me, see how far I'll fly.

_Queen._ Will Carlos be at last my enemy?

Consider, this submission I have shown,

More to preserve your safety than my own.

Ungratefully you needless ways devise,

To lose a life which I so dearly prize.

_Don Car._ So now her fortune's made, and I am left

Alone, a naked wanderer to shift. [_Aside._

Madam, you might have spared the cruelty;

[_To the_ QUEEN.

Blessed with your sight, I was prepared to die.

But now to lose it drives me to despair,

Making me wish to die, and yet not dare.

Well, to some solitary shore I'll roam,

And never more into your presence come,

Since I already find I'm troublesome. [_Going._

_Queen._ Stay, sir, yet stay:--you shall not leave me so.

_Don Car._ Ha!

_Queen._ I must talk with you before you go.

O Carlos, how unhappy is our state!

How foul a game was played us by our fate!

Who promised fair when we did first begin,

Till envying to see us like to win,

Straight fell to cheat, and threw the false lot in.

My vows to you I now remember all.

_Don Car._ O madam, I can hear no more. [_Kneels._

_Queen._ You shall;-- [_Kneels too._

For I can't choose but let you know that I,

If you'll resolve on't, yet will with you die.

_Don Car._ Sure nobler gallantry was never known!

Good Heaven! this blessing is too much for one:

No, 'tis enough for me to die alone.

My father, all my foes, I now forgive.

_Queen._ Nay, sir, by all our loves I charge you live.

But to what country wheresoe'er you go,

Forget not me, for I'll remember you.

_Don Car._ Shall I such virtue and such charms forget?

No, never!

_Queen._ Oh that we had never met,

But in our distant climates still been free!

I might have heard of you, and you of me:

So towards happiness more safely moved,

And never been thus wretched, yet have loved.

What makes you look so wildly? Why d'ye start?

_Don Car._ A faint cold damp is thickening round my heart.

_Queen._ What shall we do?

_Don Car._ Do anything but part;

Or stay so long till my poor soul expires

In view of all the glory it admires.

_D. of Eboli._ In such a lover how might I be blest!

Oh! were I of that noble heart possessed,

How soft, how easy would I make his bands! [_Aside._

But, madam, you forget the king's commands:

[_To the_ QUEEN.

Longer to stay, your dangers will renew.

_Don Car._ Ah, princess! lovers' pains you never knew;

Or what it is to part, as we must do.

Part too for ever!

After one minute never more to stand

Fixed on those eyes, or pressing this soft hand!

'Twere but enough to feed one, and not starve,

Yet that is more than I did e'er deserve;

Though fate to us is niggardly and poor,

That from eternity can't spare one hour.

_Queen._ If it were had, that hour would soon be gone,

And we should wish to draw another on.

No, rigorous necessity has made

Us both his slaves, and now will be obeyed.

Come, let us try the parting blow to bear.

Adieu! [_Looking at each other._

_Don Car._ Farewell! I'm fixed and rooted here;

I cannot stir--

_Queen._ Shall I the way then show?

Now hold, my heart--

[_Goes to the door, stops, and turns back again._

Nay, sir, why don't you go?

_Don Car._ Why do you stay?

_Queen._ I won't--

_Don Car._ You shall a while. [_Kneels._

With one look more my miseries beguile,

That may support my heart till you are gone!

_Queen._ O Eboli! thy help, or I'm undone. [_Takes hold on her._

Here, take it then, and with it too my life! [_Leans into her arms._

_Don Car._ My courage with my tortures is at strife,

Since my griefs cowards are, and dare not kill,

I'll try to vanquish and out-toil the ill.

Well, madam, now I'm something hardier grown:

Since I at last perceive you must be gone,

To venture the encounter I'll be bold; [_Leads her to the door._

For certainly my heart will so long hold.

Farewell! be happy as you're fair and true.

_Queen._ And all Heaven's kindest angels wait on you!

[_Exeunt_ QUEEN, Duchess of EBOLI, HENRIETTA, _and_ GARCIA.

_Don Car._ Thus long I've wandered in love's crooked way,

By hope's deluded meteor led astray;

For, ere I've half the dangerous desert crossed,

The glimmering light's gone out, and I am lost. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Make blunt.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.--_The Ante-Chamber to the_ QUEEN'S _Apartment_.

_Enter_ DON CARLOS _and_ Marquis of POSA.

_Don Car._ The next is the apartment of the queen:

In vain I try, I must not venture in.

[_Goes toward the door but returns._

Thus is it with the souls of murdered men,

Who to their bodies would again repair;

But, finding that they cannot enter there,

Mourning and groaning wander in the air.

Robbed of my love, and as unjustly thrown

From all those hopes that promised me a crown,

My heart, with the dishonours to me done,

Is poisoned, swells too mighty for my breast;

But it will break, and I shall be at rest.

No; dull despair this soul shall never load:

Though patience be the virtue of a god,

Gods never feel the ills that govern here,

Or are above the injuries we bear.

"Father" and "king"; both names bear mighty sense:

Yet sure there's something too in "son" and "prince".

I was born high, and will not fall less great;

Since triumph crowned my birth, I'll have my fate

As glorious and majestic too as that.

To Flanders, Posa, straight my letters send;

Tell them the injured Carlos is their friend;

And that to head their forces I design;

So vindicate their cause, if they dare mine.[13]

_M. of Posa._ To the rebels?

_Don Car._ No, they're friends; their cause is just;

Or, when I make it mine, at least it must.

Let the common rout like beasts love to be dull,

Whilst sordidly they live at ease and full,

Senseless what honour or ambition means,

And ignorantly drag their load of chains.

I am a prince, have had a crown in view,

And cannot brook to lose the prospect now.

If thou'rt my friend, do not my will delay.

_M. of Posa._ I'll do't. [_Exit._

_Enter_ Duchess of EBOLI.

_D. of Eboli._ My lord.

_Don Car._ Who calls me?

_D. of Eboli._ You must stay.

_Don Car._ What news of fresh affliction can you bear?

_D. of Eboli._ Suppose it were the queen; you'd stay for her?

_Don Car._ For her? yes, stay an age, for ever stay;

Stay even till time itself should pass away;

Fix here a statue never to remove,

An everlasting monument of love.

Though, may a thing so wretched as I am

But the least place in her remembrance claim?

_D. of Eboli._ Yes, if you dare believe me, sir, you do;

We both can talk of nothing else but you:

Whilst from the theme even emulation springs,

Each striving who shall say the kindest things.

_Don Car._ But from that charity I poorly live,

Which only pities, and can nothing give.

_D. of Eboli._ Nothing! Propose what 'tis you claim, and I,

For aught you know, may be security.

_Don Car._ No, madam, what's my due none e'er can pay;

There stands that angel, Honour, in the way,

Watching his charge with never-sleeping eyes,

And stops my entrance into paradise.

_D. of Eboli._ What paradise? What pleasures can you know,

Which are not in my power to bestow?

_Don Car._ Love, love, and all those eager, melting charms

The queen must yield when in my father's arms.

That queen, so excellently, richly fair,

Jove, could he come again a lover here,

Would court mortality to die for her.

O madam, take not pleasure to renew

Those pains, which if you felt, you would not do.

_D. of Eboli._ Unkindly urged: think you no sense I have

Of what you feel? Now you may take your leave.

Something I had to say; but let it die.

_Don Car._ Why, madam, who has injured you? Not I.

_D. of Eboli._ Nay, sir, your presence I would not detain:

Alas! you do not hear that I complain.

Though, could you half of my misfortunes see,

Methinks you should incline to pity me.

_Don Car._ I cannot guess what mournful tale you'd tell;

But I am certain you prepare me well.

Speak, madam.

_D. of Eboli._ Say I loved, and with a flame

Which even melts my tender heart to name;

Loved too a man, I will not say ingrate,

Because he's far above my birth or fate;

Yet so far he at least does cruel prove,

He prosecutes a dead and hopeless love,

Starves on a barren rock, and won't be blest,

Though I invite him kindly to a feast.

_Don Car._ What stupid animal could senseless lie,

Quickened by beams from that illustrious eye?

_D. of Eboli._ Nay, to increase your wonder, you shall know

That I, alas! am forced to tell him too,

Till even I blush, as now I tell it you.

_Don Car._ You neither shall have cause of shame or fear,

Whose secrets safe within my bosom are.

_D. of Eboli._ Then farther I the riddle may explain:

Survey that face, and blame me if you can.

[_Shows him his own picture._

_Don Car._ Distraction of my eyes! what have they seen?

'Tis my own picture which I sent the queen,

When to her fame I paid devotion first,

Expecting bliss, but lost it: I am cursed,

Cursed too in thee, who from my saint darest steal

The only relic left her of my zeal,

And with the sacrilege attempt my heart.

Wert thou more charming than thou think'st thou art,

Almighty love preserves the fort for her,

And bids defiance to thy entrance there.

_D. of Eboli._ Neglected! Scorned by father and by son!

What a malicious course my stars have run!

But since I meet with such unlucky fate

In love, I'll try how I can thrive in hate:

My own dull husband may assist in that.

To his revenge I'll give him fresh alarms,

And with the gray old wizard muster charms.

I have't; thanks, thanks, revenge! Prince, 'tis thy bane. [_Aside._

Can you forgive me, sir? I hope you can. [_Mildly._

I'll try to recompense the wrongs I've done,

And better finish what is ill begun.

_Don Car._ Madam, you at so strange a rate proceed,

I shall begin to think you loved indeed.

_D. of Eboli._ No matter: be but to my honour true,

As you shall ever find I'll be to you.

The queen's my charge, and you may, on that score,

Presume that you shall see her yet once more.

I'll lead you to those so-much worshipped charms,

And yield you to my happy rival's arms.

_Don Car._ In what a mighty sum shall I be bound!

I did not think such virtue could be found.

Thou mistress of all best perfections, stay:

Fain I in gratitude would something say,

But am too far in debt for thanks to pay.

_Enter_ Don JOHN of Austria.

_Don John._ Where is that prince, he whose afflictions speak

So loud, as all hearts but his own might break?

_Don Car._ My lord, what fate has left me, I am here,

Mere man, of all my comfort stripped and bare.

Once, like a vine, I flourished and was young,

Rich in my ripening hopes that spoke me strong:

But now a dry and withered stock am grown,

And all my clusters and my branches gone.

_Don John._ Amongst those numbers which your wrongs deplore,

Than me there's none that can resent them more.

I feel a generous grudging in my breast,

To see such honour and such hopes oppressed.

The king your father is my brother, true;

But I see more that's like myself in you.

Free-born I am, and not on him depend,

Obliged to none, but whom I call my friend.

And if that title you think fit to bear,

Accept the confirmation of it here. [_Embraces him._

_Don Car._ From you, to whom I'm by such kindness tied,

The secrets of my soul I will not hide.

This generous princess has her promise given,

I once more shall be brought in sight of Heaven;

To the fair queen my last devotion pay;

And then for Flanders I intend my way,

Where to the insulting rebels I'll give law,

To keep myself from wrongs, and them in awe.

_Don John._ Prosperity to the design, 'tis good;

Both worthy of your honour and your blood.

_Don Car._ My lord, your spreading glories flourish high,

Above the reach or shock of destiny:

Mine, early nipped, like buds untimely die.

_Enter_ Officer _of the Guard_.

_Offi._ My lord, I grieve to tell what you must hear;

They are unwelcome orders which I bear,

Which are, to guard you as a prisoner.

_Don Car._ A prisoner! what new game of fate's begun?

Henceforth be ever cursed the name of son,

Since I must be a slave, because I'm one.

Duty! to whom? He's not my father: no.

Back with your orders to the tyrant go;

Tell him his fury drives too much one way;

I'm weary on't, and can no more obey.

_Don John._ If asked by whose commands you did decline

Your orders, tell my brother 'twas by mine. [_Exit_ Officer.

_Don Car._ Now, were I certain it would sink me quite,

I'd see the queen once more, though but in spite;

Though he with all his fury were in place,

I would caress and court her to his face.

Oh that I could this minute die! if so,

What he had lost he might too lately know,

Cursing himself to think what he has done:

For I was ever an obedient son;

With pleasure all his glories saw, when young,

Looked, and, with pride considering whence I sprung,

Joyfully under him and free I played,

Basked in his shine and wantoned in his shade--

But now,

Cancelling all whate'er he then conferred,

He thrusts me out among the common herd:

Nor quietly will there permit my stay,

But drives and hunts me like a beast of prey.

Affliction! O affliction! 'tis too great,

Nor have I ever learnt to suffer yet.

Though ruin at me from each side take aim,

And I stand thus encompassed round with flame,

Though the devouring fire approaches fast,

Yet will I try to plunge: if power waste,

I can at worst but sink, and burn at last. [_Exit._

_Don John._ Go on, pursue thy fortune while 'tis hot:

I long for work where honour's to be got.

But, madam, to this prince you're wondrous kind.

_D. of Eboli._ You are not less to Henriet, I find.

_Don John._ Why, she's a beauty, tender, young, and fair.

_D. of Eboli._ I thought I might in charms have equalled her.

You told me once my beauty was not less.

Is this your faith? are these your promises?

_Don John._ You would seem jealous, but are crafty grown;

Tax me of falsehood to conceal your own.

Go, you're a woman--

_D. of Eboli._ Yes, I know I am:

And by my weakness do deserve that name,

When heart and honour I to you resigned.

Would I were not a woman, or less kind!

_Don John._ Think you your falsehood was not plainly seen,

When to your charge my brother gave the queen?

Too well I saw it; how did you dispense,

In looks, your pity to the afflicted prince!

Whilst I my duty paid the king, your time

You watched, and fixed your melting eyes on him;

Admired him--

_D. of Eboli._ Yes, sir, for his constancy--

But 'twas with pain, to think you false to me,

When to another's eye you homage paid,

And my true love wronged and neglected laid;

Wronged, too, so far as nothing can restore.

_Don John._ Nay, then, let's part, and think of love no more.

Farewell! [_Going._

_D. of Eboli._ Farewell, if you're resolved to go:--

Inhuman Austria, can you leave me so?

Enough my soul is by your falsehood racked;

Add not to your inconstancy neglect.

Methinks you so far might have grateful proved,

Not to have quite forgotten that I loved.

_Don John._ If e'er you loved, 'tis you, not I forget;

For a remove 'tis here too deeply set,

Firm-rooted, and for ever must remain. [_She turns away._

Why thus unkind?

_D. of Eboli._ Why are you jealous then? [_Turns to him._

_Don John._ Come, let it be no more! I'm hushed and still.

Will you forgive?

_D. of Eboli._ How can you doubt my will?

I do.

_Don John._ Then send me not away unblest.

_D. of Eboli._ Till you return I will not think of rest.

Carlos will hither suddenly repair.

The next apartment's mine; I'll wait you there,

Farewell! [_She seems to weep._

_Don John._ Oh, do not let me see a tear;

It quenches joy, and stifles appetite.

Like war's fierce god, upon my bliss I'd prey;

Who, from the furious toils of arms all day,

Returning home to love's fair queen at night,

Comes riotous and hot with full delight. [_Exit._

_D. of Eboli._ He has reaped his joys, and now he would be free,

And to effect it puts on jealousy:

But I'm as much a libertine as he;

As fierce my will, as furious my desires;

Yet will I hold him; though enjoyment tires,

Though love and appetite be at the best,

He'll serve, as common meats fill up a feast,

And look like plenty, though we never taste.

_Enter_ RUY-GOMEZ.

Old lord, I bring thee news will make thee young.

_Ruy-Gom._ Speak; there was always music in thy tongue.

_D. of Eboli._ Thy foes are tottering, and the day's thy own;

Give them but one lift now, and they go down.

Quickly to the king, and all his doubts renew;

Appear disturbed, as if you something knew

Too difficult and dangerous to relate,

Then bring him hither labouring with the weight.

I will take care that Carlos shall be here:

So for his jealous eyes a sight prepare,

Shall prove more fatal than Medusa's head,

And he more monster seem than she e'er made. [_Exit._

_Enter_ KING, _attended_.

_King._ Still how this tyrant doubt torments my breast!

When shall I get the usurper dispossessed?

My thoughts, like birds when frighted from their rest,

Around the place where all was hushed before,

Flutter, and hardly settle any more-- [_Sees_ RUY-GOMEZ.

Ha, Gomez! what art thou thus musing on?

_Ruy-Gom._ I'm thinking what it is to have a son;

What mighty cares and what tempestuous strife

Attend on an unhappy father's life;

How children blessings seem, but torments are;

When young, our folly; and when old, our fear.

_King._ Why dost thou bring these odd reflections here?

Thou enviest sure the quiet which I bear.

_Ruy-Gom._ No, sir, I joy in the ease which you possess,

And wish you never may have cause for less.

_King._ Have cause for less! Come nearer; thou art sad,

And look'st as thou wouldst tell me that I had.

Now, now, I feel it rising up again--

Speak quickly, where is Carlos? where the queen?

What, not a word? have my wrongs struck thee dumb?

Or art thou swollen and labouring with my doom,

Yet darest not let the fatal secret come?

_Ruy-Gom._ Heaven great infirmities to age allots:

I'm old, and have a thousand doting thoughts.

Seek not to know them, sir.

_King._ By Heaven! I must.

_Ruy-Gom._ Nay, I would not be by compulsion just.

_King._ Yet, if without it you refuse, you shall.

_Ruy-Gom._ Grant me then one request, I'll tell you all.

_King._ Name thy petition, and conclude it done.

_Ruy-Gom._ It is, that you would here forgive your son

For all his past offences to this hour.

_King._ Thou'st almost asked a thing beyond my power;

But so much goodness in the request I find,

Spite of myself, I'll for thy sake be kind.

His pardon's sealed; the secret now declare.

_Ruy-Gom._ Alas! 'tis only that I saw him here.

_King._ Where? with the queen! Yes, yes, 'tis so, I'm sure;

Never were wrongs so great as I endure;

So great that they are grown beyond complaint,

For half my patience might have made a saint.

O woman! monstrous woman!

Did I for this into my breast receive

The promising, repenting fugitive?

But, Gomez, I will throw her back again;

And thou shalt see me smile and tear her then.

I'll crush her heart, where all the poison lies,

Till, when the venom's out, the viper dies,

_Ruy-Gom._ They the best method of revenge pursue

Who so contrive that it may justice show;

Stay till their wrongs appear at such a head

That innocence may have no room to plead.

Your fury, sir, at least awhile delay;

I guess the prince may come again this way:

Here I'll withdraw, and watch his privacy.

_King._ And when he's fixed, be sure bring word to me;

Till then I'll bridle vengeance, and retire,

Within my breast suppress this angry fire,

Till to my eyes my wrongs themselves display;

Then, like a falcon, gently cut my way,

And with my pounces seize the unwary prey. [_Exit._

_Re-enter_ Duchess of EBOLI.

_D. of Eboli._ I've overheard the business with delight,

And find revenge will have a feast to-night.

Though thy declining years are in their wane,

I can perceive there's youth still in thy brain.

Away! the queen is coming hither. [_Exit_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_Enter_ QUEEN _with_ Attendants, _and_ HENRIETTA.

_Queen._ Now

To all felicity a long adieu.

Where are you, Eboli?

_D. of Eboli._ Madam, I'm here.

_Queen._ Oh, how fresh fears assault me everywhere!

I hear that Carlos is a prisoner made.

_D. of Eboli._ No, madam, he the orders disobeyed;

And boldly owns for Flanders he intends,

To head the rebels, whom he styles his friends:

But, ere he goes, by me does humbly sue

That he may take his last farewell of you.

_Queen._ Will he then force his destiny at last?

Hence quickly to him, Eboli, make haste:

Tell him, I beg his purpose he'd delay,

Or, if that can't his resolution stay,

Say I have sworn not to survive the hour

In which I hear that he has left this shore.

Tell him, I've gained his pardon of the king;

Tell him--to stay him--tell him anything--

_D. of Eboli._ One word from you his duty would restore;

And, though you promised ne'er to see him more,

Methinks you might upon so just a score.

But see, he's here.

_Re-enter_ Don CARLOS.

_Don Car._ Run out of breath by fate,

And persecuted by a father's hate,

Wearied with all, I panting hither fly,

To lay myself down at your feet, and die.

[_Kneels, and kisses the_ QUEEN'S _hands_.

_Queen._ O too unhappy Carlos! yet unkind!

'Gainst you what harms have ever I designed,

That you should with such violence decree

Ungratefully at last to murder me?

_Don Car._ Pour all thy curses, Heaven, upon this head,

For I've the worst of vengeance merited,

That yet I impudently live to hear

Myself upbraided of a wrong to her! [_Rises._

Say, has your honour been by me betrayed?

Or have I snares to entrap your virtue laid?

Tell me; if not, why do you then upbraid?

_Queen._ You will not know the afflictions which you give;

Was't not my last request that you would live?

I by our vows conjured it; but I see,

Forgetting them, unmindful too of me,

Regardless, your own ruin you design,

Though you are sure to purchase it with mine.

_Don Car._ I, as you bade me live, obeyed with pride,

Though it was harder far than to have died.

But loss of liberty my life disdains;

These limbs were never made to suffer chains.

My father should have singled out some crown,

And bidden me go conquer it for my own:

He should have seen what Carlos would have done.

But to prescribe my freedom, sink me low

To base confinement, where no comforts flow,

But black despair, that foul tormentor, lies,

With all my present load of miseries,

Was to my soul too violent a smart,

And roused the sleeping lion in my heart.

_Queen._ Yet then be kind; your angry father's rage

I know the least submission will assuage;

You're hot with youth, he's choleric with age.

To him, and put a true obedience on;

Be humble, and express yourself a son.

Carlos, I beg it of you: will you not?

_Don Car._ Methinks 'tis very hard, but yet I'll do't.

I must obey whatever you prefer,

Knowing you're all divine, and cannot err.

For, if my doom's unalterable, I shall

This way at least with less dishonour fall;

And princes less my tameness thus condemn,

When I for you shall suffer, though by him.

_Queen._ In my apartment farther we'll debate

Of this, and for a happy issue wait.

Your presence there he cannot disapprove,

When it shall speak your duty, and my love.

[_Exeunt_ Don CARLOS, QUEEN,

HENRIETTA, _and_ Attendants.

_Re-enter_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_D. of Eboli._ Now, Gomez, triumph! All is ripe; the toil

Has caught them, and fate saw it with a smile.

Thus far the work of destiny was mine;

But I'm content the masterpiece be thine.

Away to the king, prepare his soul for blood,--

A mystery thou well hast understood.

Whilst I go rest within a lover's arms, [_Aside._

And to my Austria lay out all my charms. [_Exit._

_Ruy-Gom._ Fate, open now thy book, and set them down:

I have already marked them for thy own.

_Re-enter_ KING, _and_ Marquis of POSA _at a distance_.

My lord the king?

_King._ Gomez?

_Ruy-Gom._ The same.

_King._ Hast seen

The prince?

_Ruy-Gom._ I have.

_King._ Where is he?

_Ruy-Gom._ With the queen.

_King._ Now ye that dwell in everlasting flame,

And keep records of all ye mean to damn,

Show me, if 'mongst your precedents there e'er

Was seen a son like him, or wife like her.

Hark, Gomez! didst not hear the infernals groan?

Hush, hell, a little, and they are thy own!

_M. of Posa._ Who should these be? the king and Gomez, sure:

Methinks I wish that Carlos were secure;

For Flanders his despatches I've prepared.

_King._ Who's there? 'Tis Posa, pander to their lust.

[_Drawing near to_ POSA.

Now, Gomez, to his heart thy dagger thrust;

In the pursuit of vengeance drive it far;

Strike deep, and, if thou canst, wound Carlos there.

_Ruy-Gom._ I'll do't as close as happy lovers kiss:

May he strike mine, if of his heart I miss!

Thus, sir! [_Stabs_ POSA.

_M. of Posa._ Ha, Gomez! villain! thou hast done

Thy worst: but yet I would not die alone:

Here, dog! [_Stabs at him._

_Ruy-Gom._ So brisk! then take it once again.

[_As they are struggling, the despatches fall_

_out of_ POSA'S _bosom_.

'Twas only, sir, to put you out of pain.

[_Stabs him again, and_ POSA _falls_.

_M. of Posa._ My lord the king--but life too far is gone--

I faint--be mindful of your queen and son. [_Dies._

_King._ The slave in death repents, and warns me. Yes,

I shall be very mindful. What are these?

[_Takes up the despatches._

For Flanders! with the prince's signet sealed!

Here's villany has yet been unrevealed.

See, Gomez, practices against my crown; [_Shows them him._

Treason and lust have joined to pull me down.

Yet still I stand like a firm sturdy rock,

Whilst they but split themselves with their own shock.

But I too long delay: give word I come.

_Ruy-Gom._ What, ho! within! The king is nigh; make room.

[RUY-GOMEZ _draws a curtain, and discovers_

Don JOHN _and the_

Duchess of EBOLI _embracing_.

_King._ Now let me, if I can, to fury add,

That when I thunder I may strike them dead.

[_Looking earnestly on them._

Ha! Gomez! on this truth depends thy life.

Why, that's our brother Austria!

_Ruy-Gom._ And my wife!

Embracing close. Whilst I was busy grown

In others' ruins, here I've met my own.

Oh! had I perished ere 'twas understood!

_King._ This is the nest where lust and falsehood brood.

Is it not admirable?

[_Exeunt_ Don JOHN _and the_

Duchess of EBOLI _embracing_.

_Ruy-Gom._ Oh, sir, yes!

Ten thousand devils tear the sorceress!

_King._ But they are gone, and my dishonour's near.

_Re-enter_ Don CARLOS _and_ QUEEN, _discoursing_;

HENRIETTA _and_ Attendants.

Look, my incestuous son and wife appear.

See, Gomez, how she languishes and dies.

'Sdeath! there are very pulses in her eyes.

[Don CARLOS _approaches the_ KING.

_Don Car._ In peace, Heaven ever guard the king from harms;

In war, success and triumph crown his arms;

Till all the nations of the world shall be

Humble and prostrate at his feet, like me! [_Kneels._

I hear your fury has my death designed;

Though I've deserved the worst, you may be kind:

Behold me as your poor unhappy son,

And do not spill that blood which is your own!

_King._ Yes, when my blood grows tainted, I ne'er doubt

But for my health 'tis good to let it out:

But thine's a stranger, like thy soul, to me;

Or else be cursed thy mother's memory,

And doubly cursed be that unhappy night

In which I purchased torment with delight!

_Don Car._ Thus then I lay aside all rights of blood.

[_Rises boldly._

My mother cursed! She was all just and good,

Tyrant! too good to stay with thee below,

And therefore's blest, and reigns above thee now.

Submission! which way got it entrance here?

_King._ Perhaps it came ere treason was aware.

Thy traitorous design's now come to light,

Too great and horrid to be hid in night.

See here my honour, and thy duty's stains! [_Shows the despatches._

I've paid your secretary for his pains;

He waits you there: to council with him go; [_Shows_ POSA'S _body_.

Ask what intelligence from Flanders now.

_Don Car._ My friend here slain, my faithful Posa 'tis.

Good Heaven! what have I done to merit this?

What temples sacked, what desolations made,

To pull down such a vengeance on my head?

This, villain, was thy work: what friend of thine [_To_ RUY-GOMEZ.

Did I e'er wrong, that thou shouldst murder mine?

But I'll take care it shall not want reward--[_Draws._

_King._ Courage, my Gomez, since thy king's thy guard.

Come, rebel, and thy villanies fulfil!

_Don Car_. No; though unjust, you are my father still;

[_Throws away his sword._

And from that title must your safety own:

'Tis that which awes my hand, and not your crown.

'Tis true, all there contained I had designed:

To such a height your jealousy was grown,

It was the only way that I could find

To work your peace, and to procure my own.

_King._ Thinking my youth and vigour to decrease,

You'd ease me of my crown to give me peace.

_Don Car._ Alas! you fetch your misconstructions far:

The injuries to me, and wrongs to her,

Were much too great for empire to repair.

When you forgot a father's love, and quite

Deprived me of a son's and prince's right,

Branded my honour, and pursued my life,

My duty long with nature was at strife.

Not that I feared my memory or name

Could suffer by the voice of common fame;

A thing I still esteemed beneath my pride:

For, though condemned by all the world beside,

Had you but thought me just, I could have died.

At last this only way I found, to fly

Your anger, and divert your jealousy:--

To go to Flanders, and be so removed

From all I ever honoured, ever loved;

There in your right hoping I might complete,

Spite of my wrongs, some action truly great;

Thus by my faith and sufferings to out-wear

Your hate, and shun that storm which threatened here.

_Queen._ And can this merit hate? He would forego

The joys and charms of courts to purchase you;

Banish himself, and stem the dangerous tide

Of lawless outrage and rebellious pride.

_King._ How evenly she pleads in his defence!

So blind is guilt when 'twould seem innocence.

She thinks her softness may my rage disarm.

No, sorceress, you're mistaken in your charm,

And, whilst you soothe, do but assist the storm!

Do, take full view of your tall able slave;

[QUEEN _looks on_ Don CARLOS.

Look hard; it is the last you're like to have.

_Don Car._ My life or death are in your power to give.

_King._ Yes, and thou diest.

_Don Car._ Not till she give me leave:

She is the star that rules my destiny;

And, whilst her aspect's kind, I cannot die.

_Queen._ No, prince, for ever live, be ever blest.

_King._ Yes, I will send him to his eternal rest.

Oh! had I took the journey long ago,

I ne'er had known the pains that rack me now.

_Queen._ What pains? what racks? [_Approaching._

_King._ Avoid, and touch me not!

I see thee foul, all one incestuous blot;

Thy broken vows are in thy guilty face.

_Queen._ Have I then in your pity left no place?

_King._ Oh! thus it was you drew me in before,

With promises you ne'er would see him more.

But now your subtlest wiles too weak are grown;

I've gotten freedom, and I'll keep my own.

_Queen._ May you be ever free! But can your mind

Conceive that any ill was here designed?

He hither came, only that he might show

Obedience, and be reconciled to you.

You saw his humble, dutiful address.

_King._ But you beforehand signed the happy peace.

_Re-enter_ Duchess of EBOLI.

O princess, thank you for the care you take.

Tell me, how got this monster entrance? speak.

_D. of Eboli._ Heaven witness 'twas without my knowledge done.

_Ruy-Gom._ No, she had other business of her own.

[_Aside._

O blood and murder!

_King._ All are false: a guard!

_Enter_ Guard.

Seize on that traitor! [_Pointing to_ Don CARLOS.

_Don Car._ Welcome; I'm prepared.

_Queen._ Stay, sir, let me die too: I can obey.

_King._ No, thou shalt live. [_Seemingly kind._] By Heaven, but

not a day! [_Aside._

I a revenge so exquisite have framed,

She unrepenting dies, and so she's damned.

_Hen._ If ever pity could your heart engage,

If e'er you hope for blessings on your age,

Incline your ears to a poor virgin's prayer!

_King._ I dare not venture thee, thou art too fair.

What wouldst thou say?

_Hen._ Destroy not in one man

More virtue than the world can boast again.

View him the eldest pledge of your first love,

Your virgin joys; that may some pity move--

_King._ No; for the wrongs I suffer weigh it down:

I'd now not spare his life to save my own.

Away! by thy soft tongue I'll not be caught.

_Hen._ By all that hopes can frame I beg: if not,

May you by some base hand unpitied die,

And childless mothers curse your memory!

By honour, love, by life--

_King._ Fond girl, away:

By Heaven, I'll kill thee else! Still darest thou stay?

Cannot death terrify thee?

_Hen._ No; for I,

If you refuse me, am resolved to die.

_Don Car._ Kind fair one, do not waste your sorrows here

On me, too wretched, and not worth a tear.

There yet for you are mighty joys in store,

When I in dust am laid, and seen no more.--

O madam! [_To the_ QUEEN.

_Queen._ O my Carlos! must you die

For me? no mercy in a father's eye?

_Don Car._ Hide, hide your tears, into my soul they dart

A tenderness that misbecomes my heart:

For, since I must, I like a prince would fall,

And to my aid my manly spirits call.

_Queen._ You, like a man, as roughly as you will

May die, but let me be a woman still! [_Weeps._

_King._ Thou'rt woman, a true copy of the first,

In whom the race of all mankind was cursed.

Your sex by beauty was to Heaven allied;

But your great lord, the devil, taught you pride.

He too an angel, till he durst rebel;

And you are, sure, the stars that with him fell.

Weep on! a stock of tears like vows you have,

And always ready when you would deceive.

_Queen._ Cruel! inhuman! O my heart! why should

I throw away a title that's so good,

On one a stranger to whate'er was so?

Alas, I'm torn, and know not what to do.

The just resentment of my wrong's so great,

My spirits sink beneath the heavy weight.

Tyrant, stand off! I hate thee, and will try

If I have scorn enough to make me die.

_Don Car._ Blest angel, stay! [_Takes her in his arms._

_Queen._ Carlos, the sole embrace

You ever took, you have before his face.

_Don Car._ No wealthy monarch of the plenteous East,

In all the glories of his empire dressed,

Was ever half so rich, or half so blest.

But from such bliss how wretched is the fall!

They too like us must die, and leave it all.

_King._ All this before my face! what soul could bear't?

Go, force her from him! [Officer _approaches_.

_Don Car._ Slave, 'twill cost thy heart.

Thou'dst better meet a lion on his way,

And from his hungry jaws reprize the prey!

She's mistress of my soul, and to prepare

Myself for death, I must consult with her.

_Ruy-Gom._ Have pity! [_Ironically._

_King._ Hence! how wretchedly he rules

That's served by cowards, and advised by fools!

Oh, torture!

_Don Car._ Rouse, my soul! consider now

That to thy blissful mansion thou must go.

But I so mighty joys have tasted here,

I hardly shall have sense of any there:

Oh, soft as blossoms, and yet sweeter far! [_Leaning on her bosom._

Sweeter than incense which to Heaven ascends,

Though 'tis presented there by angels' hands.

_King._ Still in his arms! Cowards, go tear her forth!

_Don Car._ You'll sooner from its centre shake the earth:

I'll hold her fast till my last hour is nigh;

Then I'll bequeath her to you when I die.

_King._ Cut off his hold! or any thing--

_Don Car._ Ay, come;

Here kill, and bear me hence into my tomb.

I'd have my monument erected here,

With broken mangled limbs still clasping her.

_Queen._ Hold, and I'll quit his arms--

[_The_ Guards _offer their axes. They part._

_King._ Now bear him hence.

_Queen._ O horrid tyrant! [Guards _are hurrying_ Don CARLOS _off_.

Stay, unhappy prince--

Turn, turn! O torment! must I leave you so?

No, stay, and take me with you where you go.

_Don Car._ Hark, slaves, my goddess summons me to stay.

Dogs! have you eyes, and can you disobey?

See her! Oh, let me but just touch my bliss. [_Pressing forward._

_King._ By hell! he shan't. Slaves, are ye mine or his?

_Queen._ My life--

_Don Car._ My soul, farewell! [_Exeunt_ Guards _with_ Don CARLOS.

_Queen._ He's gone, he's gone!

Now, tyrant, to thy rage I'm left alone;

Give me my death, that hate both life and thee.

_King._ I know thou dost; yet live.

_Queen._ O misery! [_Throws herself down._

Why was I born to be thus cursed? or why

Should life be forced, when 'tis so sweet to die?

_King_ [_To_ D. of EBOLI]. Thou, woman, hast been false; but, to renew

Thy credit in my heart, assist me now.

Prepare a draught of poison, such as will

Act slow, and by degrees of torment kill.

Give it the queen, and, to prevent all sense

Of dying, tell her I've released the prince,

And that ere morning he'll attend her. I

In a disguise his presence will supply;

So glut my rage, and smiling see her die.

_D. of Eboli._ Your majesty shall be obeyed.

_Ruy-Gom._ Do, work thy mischiefs to their last degree,

And when they're in their height I'll murder thee.

[_Aside._

_King._ Now, Gomez, ply my rage and keep it hot:

O'er love and nature I've the conquest got.

Still charming beauty triumphs in her eyes:

[_Looking at the_ QUEEN.

Yet for my honour and my rest she dies.

[_Exeunt_ QUEEN _and_ Women.

But, oh! what ease can I expect to get,

When I must purchase at so dear a rate? [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Don Carlos actually engaged in intrigues with the principals

of the revolution which broke out in the Low Countries during the

tyrannical reign of Philip II., and ended in the establishment of the

Dutch republic.--_Thornton._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.--_An Apartment in the Palace._

_Enter_ KING _disguised_.

King. 'Tis night; the season when the happy take

Repose, and only wretches are awake.

Now discontented ghosts begin their rounds,

Haunt ruined buildings and unwholesome grounds;

Or at the curtains of the restless wait,

To frighten them with some sad tale of fate.

When I would rest, I can no rest obtain:

The ills I've borne even o'er my slumbers reign,

And in sad dreams torment me o'er again.

The fatal business is ere this begun:

I'm shocked, and start to think what I have done.

But I forget how I that Philip am

So much for constancy renowned by fame;

Who through the progress of my life was ne'er

By hopes transported, or depressed by fear.

No, it is gone too far to be recalled,

And steadfastness will make the act extolled.

_Enter_ Duchess of EBOLI, _in a night-gown_.

Who? Eboli?

_D. of Eboli._ My lord.

_King._ Is the deed done?

_D. of Eboli._ 'Tis, and the queen to seek repose is gone.

_King._ Can she expect it, who allowed me none?

No, Eboli; her dreams must be as full

Of horror, and as hellish as her soul.

Does she believe the prince has freedom gained?

_D. of Eboli._ She does.

_King._ How were the tidings entertained?

_D. of Eboli._ O'er all her face young wandering blushes were,

Such as speak hopes too weak to conquer fear:--

But when confirmed, no lover e'er so kind;

She clasped me fast, caressed, and called me friend.

Which opportunity I took, to give

The poison; and till day she cannot live.

_King._ Quickly then to her; say that Carlos here

Waits to confirm his happiness with her.

Go, that my vengeance I may finish quite:

'Twould be imperfect, should I lose the sight.

But to contrive that I may not be known,

And she may still mistake me for my son,

Remove all light but that which may suffice

To let her see me scorn her when she dies.

_D. of Eboli._ You'll find her all in rueful sables clad,

With one dim lamp that yields imperfect light,

Such as in vaults assist the ghastly shade,

Where wretched widows come to weep at night.

Thus she resolves to die, or living mourn,

Till Carlos shall with liberty return. [_Exit._

_King._ O steadfast sin! incorrigible lust!

Not damned! it is impossible; she must.

How do I long to see her in her pains,

The poisonous sulphur rolling through her veins!

_Enter_ Don JOHN _and_ Attendants.

Who's there? my brother?

_Don John._ Yes, sir, and your friend.

What can your presence here so late intend?

_King._ O Austria! Fate's at work; a deed's in hand

Will put thy youthful courage to a stand.

Survey me; do I look as heretofore?

_Don John._ You look like King of Spain, and lord of power;

Like one who still seeks glory on the wing;

You look as I would do, were I a king.

_King._ A king! why I am more, I'm all that can

Be counted miserable in a man.

But thou shalt see how calm anon I'll grow;

I'll be as happy and as gay as thou.

_Don John._ No, sir; my happiness you cannot have,

Whilst to your abject passions thus a slave.

To know my ease, you thoughts like mine must bring,

Be something less a man, and more a king.

_King._ I'm growing so. 'Tis true that long I strove

With pleading nature, combated with love,

Those witchcrafts that had bound my soul so fast;

But now the date of the enchantment's past:

Before my rage like ruins down they fall,

And I mount up true monarch o'er them all.

_Don John._ I know your queen and son you've doomed to die,

And fear by this the fatal hour is nigh.

Why would you cut a sure succession off,

At which your friends must grieve, and foes will laugh;

As if, since age has from you took away

Increase, you'd grow malicious, and destroy?

_King._ Doubt it not, Austria: thou my brother art,

And in my blood I'm certain hast a part.

Only the justice of my vengeance own,--

Thou'rt heir of Spain, and my adopted son.

_Don John._ I must confess there in a crown are charms,

Which I would court in bloody fields and arms;

But in my nephew's wrong I must decline,

Since he must be extinguished ere I shine.

To mount a throne o'er battlements I'd climb,

Where Death should wait on me, not I on him.

Did you e'er love, or have you ever known

The mighty value of so brave a son?

_King._ I guessed I should be treated thus before;

I know it is thy kindness, but no more.

Thou, living free, alas! art easy grown

And think'st all hearts as honest as thy own.

_Don John._ Not, sir, so easy as I must be bold,

And speak what you perhaps would have untold;

That you're a slave to the vilest that obey,

Such as disgrace on royal favour lay,

And blindly follow as they lead astray:

Voracious varlets, sordid hangers-on;

Best by familiarity they're known,

Yet shrink at frowns: but when you smile they fawn.

They're these have wronged you, and abused your ears,

Possessed your mind with false misgrounded fears.

_King._ Misgrounded fears? Why, is there any truth

In women's vows, or disobedient youth?

I sooner would believe this world were Heaven,

Where I have nought but toils and torment met,

And never comfort yet to man was given.

But thou shalt see how my revenge I'll treat.

[_A curtain is drawn, and discovers the_

QUEEN _alone in mourning on her couch,_

_with a lamp by her._

Look where she sits, as quiet and serene [_Ironically._

As if she never had a thought of sin,

In mourning, her wronged innocence to show!

She has sworn't so oft, that she believes it true.

O'erwhelmed with sorrow she'll in darkness dwell:

So we have heard of witches in a cell,

Treating with fiends, and making leagues with hell.

[_The_ QUEEN _rises and comes towards him_.

_Queen._ My lord! Prince Carlos! may it be believed?

Are my eyes blessed; and am I not deceived?

_King._ My queen, my love, I'm here-- [_Embraces her._

_Queen._ My lord the king!

This is surprising kindness which you bring.

Can you believe me innocent at last?

Methinks my griefs are half already past.

_King._ O tongue, in nothing practised but deceit!

Too well she knew him, not to find the cheat. [_Aside._

Yes, vile incestuous woman, it is I,

The king: look on me well, despair, and die.

_Queen._ Why had you not pronounced my doom before,

Since to affliction you could add no more?

Methinks death is less welcome, when I find

You could but counterfeit a look that's kind.

_King._ No, now thou'rt fit for death: had I believed

Thou couldst have been more wicked, thou hadst lived,--

Lived and gone on in lust and riot still;

But I perceived thee early ripe for hell:

And, that of the reward thou mightst not miss,

This night thou'st drank thy bane, thou'rt poisoned; yes,

Thou art--

_Queen._ Then welcome everlasting bliss!

But, ere I die, let me here make a vow,--

By Heaven, and all I hope for there, I'm true!

_King._ Vows you had always ready when you spoke:

How many of them have you made, and broke!

Yet there's a Power that does your falsehood hear,

A just one too, that lets thee live to swear.

How comes it that above such mercy dwells,

To permit sin, and make us infidels?

_Queen._ You have been ever so to all that's good,

My innocence had else been understood.

At first your love was nothing but your pride.

When I arrived to be the prince's bride,

You then a kind indulgent father were;

But, finding me unfortunately fair,

Thought me a prize too rich to be possessed

By him, and forced yourself into my breast,

Where you maintained an unresisted power;

Not your own daughter could have loved you more,

Till, conscious of your age, my faith was blamed,

And I a lewd adulteress proclaimed,

Accused of foulest incest with your son--

What more could my worst enemy have done?

_King._ Nothing, I hope; I would not have it said

That in my vengeance any fault I made.

Love me! O low pretence, too feebly built!

But 'tis the constant fault of dying guilt

Even to the last to cry they're innocent,

When their despair's so great, they can't repent.

_Queen._ Thus having urged your malice to the head,

You spitefully are come to rail me dead.

Had I been man, and had an impious wife,

With speedy fury I'd have snatched her life;

Torn a broad passage open to her heart,

And there have ransacked each polluted part;

Triumphed and laughed to have seen the issuing flood,

And wantonly have bathed my hands in blood.

That had outdone the low revenge you bring,

Much fitter for a woman than a king.

_King._ I'm glad I know what death you'd wish to have:

You would go down in silence to your grave;

Remove from future fame, as present times,

And bury with you, if you could, your crimes.

No, I will have my justice understood,

Proclaim thy falsehood and thy lust aloud.

_Queen._ About it then, the noble work begin;

Be proud, and boast how cruel you have been.

Oh, how a monarch's glory 'twill advance!

Do, quickly let it reach the ears of France.

I've there a royal brother that is young,

Who'll certainly revenge his sister's wrong;

Into thy Spain a mighty army bring,

Tumble thee from thy throne a wretched thing,

And make it quite forgot thou e'er wert king.

_King._ I ne'er had pleasure with her till this night:

The viper finds she's crushed, and fain would bite.--

Oh! were he here, and durst maintain that word,

I'd like an eagle seize the callow bird,

And gripe him till the dastard craven cried;

Then throw him panting by his sister's side.

_Queen._ Alas! I faint and sink; my lord, your hand!

[_To_ Don JOHN.

My spirits fail, and I want strength to stand.

_Don John._ O jealousy!

A curse which none but he that bears it knows!

[_Leads her to a chair._

So rich a treasure who would live to lose?

_King._ The poison works, Heaven grant there were enough!

She is so foul, she may be poison-proof.

Now my false fair one--

_Queen._ Tyrant, hence, begone!

This hour's my last, and let it be my own.

Away, away! I would not leave the light

With such a hated object in my sight.

_King._ No, I will stay, and even thy prayers prevent;

I would not give thee leisure to repent;

But let thy sins all in one throng combine

To plague thy soul, as thou hast tortured mine.

_Queen._ Glut then your eyes, your tyrant-fury feed,

And triumph; but remember, when I'm dead,

Hereafter on your dying pillows you

May feel those tortures which you give me now.

Go on, your worst reproaches I can bear,

And with them all you shall not force a tear.

_King._ Thus, Austria, my lost freedom I obtain,

And once more shall appear myself again.

Love held me fast whilst, like a foolish boy,

I of the thing was fond because 'twas gay;

But now I've thrown the gaudy toy away.

_D. of Eboli_ [_Within_]. Help! murder! help!

_King._ See, Austria, whence that cry.

Call up our guards; there may be danger nigh.

_Enter_ Guards; _then re-enter_ Duchess of EBOLI _in her_

_night-dress, wounded and bleeding_; RUY-GOMEZ

_pursuing her_.

_D. of Eboli._ Oh! guard me from that cruel murderer:

But 'tis in vain, the steel has gone too far.

Turn, wretched king, I've something to unfold;

Nor can I die till the sad secret's told.

_King._ The woman's mad; to some apartment by

Remove her, where she may grow tame and die.--

Fate came abroad to night, resolved to range:

I love a kind companion in revenge. [_Hugs_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_D. of Eboli._ If in your heart truth any favour wins,

If e'er you would repent of secret sins,

Hear me a word.

_King._ What wouldst thou say? Be brief.

_D. of Eboli._ Do what you can to save that precious life;

Try every art that may her death prevent:

You are abused, and she is innocent.

When I perceived my hopes of you were vain,

Led by my lust, I practised all my charms

To gain the prince, Don Carlos, to my arms;

But, there too crossed, I did the purpose change,

And pride made him my engine for revenge;

[_To_ RUY-GOMEZ.

Taught him to raise your growing jealousy.

Then my wild passion at this prince did fly,

[_To_ Don JOHN.

And that was done for which I now must die.

_King._ Ha! Gomez, speak, and quickly; is it so?

_Ruy-Gom._ I'm sorry you should doubt if't be or no.

She, by whose lust my honour was betrayed,

Cannot want malice now to take my head;

And therefore does this penitence pretend.

_D. of Eboli._ O Austria! take away that ugly fiend:

He smiles and mocks me, waiting for my soul;

See how his glaring fiery eyeballs roll!

_Ruy-Gom._ Thus is her fancy tortured by her guilt:

But, since you'll have my blood, let it be spilt.

_King_ [_To_ RUY-GOMEZ]. No more!--[_To_ D. of EBOLI.] Speak

on, I charge thee, by the rest

Thou hopest, the truth, and as thou shalt be blest.

_D. of Eboli._ As what I've said is so,

There may I find, where I must answer all,

What most I need, Heaven's mercy on my soul! [_Dies._

_King._ Heaven! she was sensible that she should die,

And durst not in the minute tell a lie.

_Don John._ His guilt's too plain; see his wild staring eye.

By unconcern he would show innocence;

But hardened guilt ne'er wanted the pretence

Of great submission, when't had no defence.

Thus, whilst of life you show this little care,

You seem not guiltless, but betray despair.

_King._ His life! What satisfaction can that give?

But oh! in doubt I must for ever live,

And lose my peace--yet I the truth will find;

I'll rack him for't. Go, in this minute bind

Him to the wheel--

_Ruy-Gom._ How have I this deserved,

Who only your commands obeyed and served?

What would you have me do?

_King._ I'd have thee tell

The truth: do, Gomez; all shall then be well.

_Ruy-Gom._ Alas! like you, sir, in a cloud I'm lost.

And can but tell you what I think, at most.

You set me as a spy upon the prince,

And I still brought the best intelligence

I could; till, finding him too much aware

Of me, I nearer measures took by her:

Which if I after a false copy drew,

'Tis I have been unfortunate as you.

_King._ And is this all thou hast for life to show?

_Ruy-Gom._ Dear sir, your pardon, it is all I know.

_King._ Then villain, I am damned as well as thou.

Heaven! where is now thy sleeping providence,

That took so little care of innocence?

O Austria, had I to thy truth inclined,

Had I been half so good as thou wert kind!

But I'm too tame; secure the traitor. Oh!

[Guards _seize_ RUY-GOMEZ.

Earth, open! to thy centre let me go!

And there for ever hide my impious head!

Thou fairest, purest creature Heaven e'er made,

Thy injured truth too late I've understood:

Yet live, and be immortal as thou'rt good.

_Queen._ Can you to think me innocent incline

On her bare word, and would not credit mine?

The poison's very busy at my heart;

Methinks I see Death shake his threatening dart.

Why are you kind, and make it hard to die?

Persist, continue on the injury;

Call me still vile, incestuous, all that's foul--

_King._ Oh, pity, pity my despairing soul!

Sink it not quite. Raise my physicians straight;

Hasten them quickly ere it be too late;

Propose rewards may set their skill at strife:

I'll give my crown to him that saves her life.

Cursed dog! [_To_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_Don John._ Vile prostitute!

_King._ Revengeful fiend!

But I've forgotten half--to Carlos send;

Prevent what his despair may make him do.

_Enter_ HENRIETTA.

_Hen._ O horror, horror! everlasting woe!

The prince, the prince!

_King._ Ha! speak.

_Hen._ He dies, he dies!

Within upon his couch he bleeding lies,

Just taken from a bath, his veins all cut,

From which the springing blood flows swiftly out.

He threatens death on all that shall oppose

His fate, to save that life which he will lose.

_King._ Dear Austria, hasten, all thy interest use;

Tell him it is to friendship an offence,

And let him know his father's penitence.

Beg him to live.

_Ruy-Gom._ Since you've decreed my death, know 'twill be hard:

The bath by me was poisoned when prepared.

I owed him that for his late pride and scorn.

_King._ There never was so cursed a villain born.

But by revenge such pains he shall go through

As even religious cruelty ne'er knew.

Rack him! I'll broil him, burn him by degrees,

Fresh torments for him every hour devise,

Till he curse Heaven, and then the caitiff dies.

_Queen._ My faithful Henrietta, art thou come

To wait thy unhappy mistress to her tomb?

I brought thee hither from thy parents young,

And now must leave thee to Heaven knows what wrong.

But Heaven to its protection will receive

Such goodness; let it then thy queen forgive!

_Hen._ How much I loved you, madam, none can tell;

For 'tis unspeakable, I loved so well.

A proof of it the world shall quickly find;

For, when you die, I'll scorn to stay behind.

_Enter_ DON CARLOS, _supported between two_ Attendants _and bleeding_.

_Don John._ See, sir, your son.

_King._ My son! But oh! how dare

I use that name, when this sad object's near?

See, injured prince, who 'tis thy pardon craves,

No more thy father, but the worst of slaves:

Behold the tears that from these fountains flow.

_Don Car._ I come to take my farewell, ere I go

To that bright dwelling where there is no room

For blood, and where the cruel never come.

_King._ I know there is not, therefore must despair.

O Heaven! his cruelty I cannot bear.--

Dost thou not hear thy wretched father sue?

_Don Car._ My father! speak the words once more; is't you?

And may I think the dear conversion true?

Oh that I could!

_King._ By Heaven thou must--it is!

Let me embrace and kiss thy trembling knees.

Why wilt thou die? no, live, my Carlos, live,

And all the wrongs that I have done forgive!

_Don Car._ Life was my curse, and given me sure in spite.

Oh! had I perished when I first saw light,

I never then these miseries had brought

On you, nor by you had been guilty thought.

Prop me: apace I feel my life decay.

The little time on earth I have to stay,

Grant I without offence may here bestow;

_Pointing to the_ QUEEN.

You cannot certainly be jealous now.

_King._ Break, break, my heart! [_Leads_ DON CARLOS _to the chair_.

_Don Car._ You've thus more kindness shown

Than if you'd crowned, and placed me on your throne.

Methinks so highly happy I appear

That I could pity you, to see you there.

Take me away again:--you are too good.

_Queen._ Carlos, is't you? Oh, stop that royal flood;

Live, and possess your father's throne, when I

In dark and gloomy shades forgotten lie.

_Don Car._ Crowns are beneath me; I have higher pride:

Thus on you fixed, and dying by your side,

How much a life and empire I disdain!

No, we'll together mount, where both shall reign

Above all wrongs, and never more complain.

_Queen._ O matchless youth! O constancy divine!

Sure there was never love that equalled thine;

Nor any so unfortunate as mine.

Henceforth forsaken virgins shall in songs,

When they would ease their own, repeat thy wrongs;

And in remembrance of thee, for thy sake,

A solemn annual procession make;

In chaste devotion as fair pilgrims come,

With hyacinths and lilies deck thy tomb.

But one thing more, and then, vain world, adieu!

It is to reconcile my lord and you.

_Don Car._ He has done no wrong to me; I am possessed

Of all, beyond my expectation blest.

But yet methinks there's something in my heart

Tells me, I must not too unkindly part.--

Father, draw nearer, raise me with your hand;

Before I die, what is't you would command?

_King._ Why wert thou made so excellently good?

And why was it no sooner understood?

But I was cursed, and blindly led astray;

Oh! for thy father, for thy father pray.

Thou mayst ask that which I'm too vile to dare;

And leave me not tormented by despair.

_Don Car._ Thus then with the remains of life we kneel.

[Don CARLOS _and the_ QUEEN _sink out of their chairs and kneel_.

May you be ever free from all that's ill!

_Queen._ And everlasting peace upon you dwell!

_King._ No more: this virtue's too divinely bright;

My darkened soul, too conversant with night,

Grows blind, and overcome with too much light.

Here, raise them up--gently--ye slaves, down, down!

Ye glorious toils, a sceptre and a crown,

For ever be forgotten; in your stead,

Only eternal darkness wrap my head.

_Queen._ Where are you? oh! farewell, I must be gone.

_King._ Blest happy soul, take not thy flight so soon:

Stay till I die, then bear mine with thee too,

And guard it up, which else must sink below.

_Queen._ From all my injuries and all my fears,

From jealousy, love's bane, the worst of cares,

Thus I remove to find that stranger, rest.

Carlos, thy hand, receive me on thy breast;

Within this minute how shall we be blest!

_Don Car._ Oh, far above

Whatever wishes framed, or hopes designed;

Thus, where we go, we shall the angels find

For ever praising, and for ever kind.

_Queen._ Make haste; in the first sphere I'll for you stay;

Thence we'll rise both to everlasting day.

Farewell-- [_Dies._

_Don Car._ I follow you; now close my eyes; [_Leans on her bosom._

Thus all o'er bliss the happy Carlos dies. [_Dies._

_King._ They're gone, they're gone, where I must ne'er aspire.

Run, sally out, and set the world on fire;

Alarum Nature, let loose all the winds,

Set free those spirits whom strong magic binds;

Let the earth open all her sulphurous veins,

The fiends start from their hell, and shake their chains;

Till all things from their harmony decline,

And the confusion be as great as mine!

Here I'll lie down, and never more arise,

Howl out my life, and rend the air with cries.

_Don John._ Hold, sir, afford your labouring heart some ease.

_King._ Oh! name it not: there's no such thing as peace.

From these warm lips yet one soft kiss I'll take.

How my heart beats! why won't the rebel break?

My love, my Carlos, I'm thy father--speak.

Oh! he regards not now my miseries,

But's deaf to my complaint, as I have been to his.

Oh! now I think on't better, all is well.

Here's one that's just descending into hell;

How comes it that he's not already gone?

The sluggard's lazy, but I'll spur him on.

Hey! how he flies! [_Stabs_ RUY-GOMEZ.

_Ruy-Gom._ 'Twas aimed well at my heart;

That I had strength enough but to retort!

Dull life, so tamely must I from thee part?

Curses and plagues! revenge, where art thou now?

Meet, meet me at thy own dark house below! [_Dies._

_King._ He's gone, and now there's not so vile a thing

As I--

_Don John._ Remember, sir, you are a king.

_King._ A king! it is too little: I'll be more,

I tell thee: Nero was an emperor;

He killed his mother, but I've that out-done,

Murdered a loyal wife and guiltless son.

Yet, Austria, why should I grow mad for that?

Is it my fault I was unfortunate?

_Don John._ Collect your spirits, sir, and calm your mind.

_King._ Look to't; strange things I tell thee are designed.

Thou, Austria, shalt grow old, and in thy age

Dote, dote, my hero:--oh, a long gray beard,

With eyes distilling rheum, and hollow cheeks,

Will be such charms, thou canst not want success!

But, above all, beware of jealousy;

It was the dreadful curse that ruined me.

_Don John._ Dread sir, no more.

_King._ O heart! O Heaven! but stay,

Named I not Heaven? I did, and at the word

(Methought I saw't) the azure fabric stirred.

Oh, for my queen and son the saints prepare;

But I'll pursue and overtake them there;

Whirl, stop the sun, arrest his charioteer;

I'll ride in that: away! pull, pull him down!

Oh, how I'll hurl the wild-fire as I run!

Now, now I mount-- [_Runs off raving._

_Don John._ Look to the king.

See of this fair one, too, strict care be had.

[_Pointing to_ HENRIETTA.

Despair, how vast a triumph hast thou made!

No more in love's enervate charms I'll lie;

Shaking off softness, to the camp I'll fly,

Where thirst of fame the active hero warms;

And what I've lost in peace, regain in arms. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

EPILOGUE]

Spoken by a Girl.

Now what d'ye think my message hither means?

Yonder's the poet sick behind the scenes:

He told me there was pity in my face,

And therefore sent me here to make his peace.

Let me for once persuade ye to be kind;

For he has promised me to stand my friend;

And if this time I can your kindness move,

He'll write for me, he swears by all above,

When I am big enough to be in love.

Now won't you be good-natured, ye fine men?

Indeed I'll grow as fast as e'er I can,

And try if to his promise he'll be true.

Think on't; when that time comes, you do not know

But I may grow in love with some of you;

Or, at the worst, I'm certain I shall see

Amongst you those who'll swear they're so with me.

But now, if by my suit you'll not be won,--

You know what your unkindness oft has done,--

I'll e'en forsake the play-house, and turn nun.[14]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] This alludes to the retirement of Mrs. Reeves, or, as she was

usually termed, Madam Reeves, a very beautiful and accomplished

actress, between whom and Dryden there was supposed to be

rather too close an intimacy. She withdrew from the stage to a

cloister.--_Thornton._

_THE ORPHAN_;

_OR_,

_THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE_.

Qui pelago credit, magno se foenore tollit;

Qui pugnas et castra petit, præcingitur auro;

Vilis adulator picto jacet ebrius ostro,

Et qui sollicitat nuptas, ad præmia peccat:

Sola pruinosis horret facundia pannis

Atque inopi lingua desertas invocat Artes.--

PETRON. ARB. SATYRIC., Cap. 83.[15]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

"The Orphan" was first represented in 1680, and printed during the same

year. Thornton, following Langbaine, states that the play was founded

on the story of Brandon, which he reprints in his edition of Otway, and

which forms part of a novel entitled "English Adventures by a Person

of Honour," published in 1676, and said to be by Roger Boyle, Earl of

Orrery. The adventures are supposed to occur to Henry VIII., who, when

young, is reported to have often wandered abroad in disguise, like

Haroun-Al-Raschid. He is represented going about with Brandon, a young

nobleman, afterwards married to Henry's sister, widow of Louis XII.,

and founder of the Suffolk family. Brandon relates the circumstances

(which are in substance identical with the story of _The Orphan_) as

having happened to himself, the main incidents being alleged to be

true. A yet earlier play, _The Hog hath lost his Pearl_, by Robert

Tailor (1612-13), has very much the same foundation. As to the

possibility of Monimia's deception through the personation of one twin

brother by another, we must remember that this took place in darkness,

and that not a word was spoken, total silence having been agreed upon

when the secret meeting with Castalio was arranged, on account of the

proximity of Acasto's chamber. Acasto, the guardian of Monimia, is

believed to be a portrait of the first Duke of Ormond (see Carte's

"Life of Ormond").

_The Orphan_ was acted at Covent Garden in 1815, and subsequently at

the Bath Theatre in 1819, when Miss O'Neill performed the part of

Monimia. The celebrated Mrs. Bracegirdle appeared in the character of

Cordelio, Polydore's page, when she was a child about six years old.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS.[16]

Madam,

After having a great while wished to write something that might be

worthy to lay at your Highness's feet, and finding it impossible: since

the world has been so kind to me to judge of this poem to my advantage,

as the most pardonable fault which I have made in its kind, I had

sinned against myself, if I had not chosen this opportunity to implore

(what my ambition is most fond of) your favour and protection.

For, though Fortune would not so far bless my endeavours as to

encourage them with your Royal Highness's presence, when this came into

the world, yet I cannot but declare it was my design and hopes it might

have been your divertisement in that happy season when you returned

again to cheer all those eyes that had before wept for your departure,

and enliven all hearts that had drooped for your absence. When Wit

ought to have paid its choicest tributes in, and Joy have known no

limits, then I hoped my little mite would not have been rejected;

though my ill fortune was too hard for me, and I lost a greater honour,

by your Royal Highness's absence, than all the applauses of the world

besides can make me reparation for.

Nevertheless, I thought myself not quite unhappy, so long as I had

hopes this way yet to recompense my disappointment past; when I

considered also that poetry might claim right to a little share in your

favour: for Tasso and Ariosto, some of the best, have made their names

eternal by transmitting to after-ages the glory of your ancestors; and

under the spreading of that shade, where two of the best have planted

their laurels, how honoured should I be, who am the worst, if but a

branch might grow for me!

I dare not think of offering anything in this address, that might look

like a panegyric, for fear lest, when I have done my best, the world

should condemn me for saying too little, and you yourself check me for

meddling with a task unfit for my talent.

For the description of virtues and perfections so rare as yours are

ought to be done by as deliberate, as skilful a hand; the features

must be drawn very fine, to be like; hasty daubing would but spoil the

picture, and make it so unnatural as must want false lights to set it

off: and your virtue can receive no more lustre from praises than your

beauty can be improved by art; which, as it charms the bravest Prince

that ever amazed the world with his virtue, so let but all other hearts

inquire into themselves, and then judge how it ought to be praised.

Your love, too, as none but that great hero who has it could deserve

it, and therefore, by a particular lot from Heaven, was destined to so

extraordinary a blessing, so matchless for itself, and so wondrous for

its constancy, shall be remembered to your immortal honour, when all

other transactions of the age you live in shall be forgotten.

But I forget that I am to ask pardon for the fault I have been all this

while committing. Wherefore, I beg your Highness to forgive me this

presumption, and that you will be pleased to think well of one who

cannot help resolving, with all the actions of life, to endeavour to

deserve it: nay, more, I would beg, and hope it may be granted, that I

may, through yours, never want an advocate in his favour, whose heart

and mind you have so entire a share in: it is my only portion and my

fortune; I cannot but be happy so long as I have but hopes I may enjoy

it, and I must be miserable should it ever be my ill fate to lose it.

This, with eternal wishes for your Royal Highness's content, happiness,

and prosperity, in all humility is presented by

Your most obedient, and devoted Servant,

THO. OTWAY.

FOOTNOTES:

[15]

High profits tempt the merchant to the main;

The pouch of gold repays the soldier's pain;

The parasite will dine, and fawns to win

The couch and cup; the pander sells his sin.

Genius alone a shivering trade pursues,

And courts without a fee the friendless muse.--A. W. V.

[16] Mary Beatrix Eleonora of Este, daughter of the Duke of Modena.

She was the Duke of York's second wife. The allusion to Tasso may have

proved not altogether delightful to a Princess of this house.

[Illustration:

PROLOGUE.]

To you, great judges in this writing age,

The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,

With all those humble thoughts which still have swayed

His pride, much doubting, trembling, and afraid

Of what is to his want of merit due,

And awed by every excellence in you,

The author sends to beg you would be kind,

And spare those many faults you needs must find.

You to whom wit a common foe is grown,

The thing ye scorn and publicly disown;

Though now perhaps you're here for other ends,

He swears to me, ye ought to be his friends:

For he ne'er called ye yet insipid tools;

Nor wrote one line to tell you ye were fools:

But says of wit ye have so large a store,

So very much, you never will have more.

He ne'er with libel treated yet the town,

The names of honest men bedaubed and shown;

Nay, never once lampooned the harmless life

Of suburb-virgin, or of city-wife.

Satire's the effect of poetry's disease,

Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,

But now her only strife should be to please;

Since of ill fate the baneful cloud's withdrawn,

And happiness again begins to dawn;

Since back with joy and triumph he is come,[17]

That always drove fears hence, ne'er brought them home.

Oft has he ploughed the boisterous ocean o'er,

Yet ne'er more welcome to the longing shore,

Not when he brought home victories before.

For then fresh laurels flourished on his brow,

And he comes crowned with olive-branches now;

Receive him! oh, receive him as his friends;

Embrace the blessings which he recommends:

Such quiet as your foes shall ne'er destroy;

Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] The Duke of York; who had returned from Brussels, whither he had

retired to escape the clamours of the Protestant party.

[Illustration:

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._]

ACASTO, a Nobleman retired from Court, and living privately in

the Country.

CASTALIO, } Twin Sons of Acasto.

POLYDORE, }

CHAMONT, a young Soldier of Fortune.

ERNESTO, } Servants to Acasto.

PAULINO, }

CORDELIO, Polydore's Page.

Chaplain.

Servants.

MONIMIA, the Orphan, left under the Guardianship of Acasto.

SERINA, Acasto's Daughter.

FLORELLA, Monimia's Woman.

SCENE--BOHEMIA.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE ORPHAN._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.--_An Ante-Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ PAULINO _and_ ERNESTO.

Paul. 'Tis strange, Ernesto, this severity

Should still reign powerful in Acasto's mind,

To hate the court, where he was bred, and lived,

All honours heaped on him that power could give.

_Ern._ 'Tis true; he thither came a private gentleman,

But young and brave, and of a family

Ancient and noble as the empire holds.

The honours he has gained are justly his,--

He purchased them in war; thrice has he led

An army 'gainst the rebels, and as often

Returned with victory: the world has not

A truer soldier, or a better subject.

_Paul._ It was his virtue at first made me serve him;

He is the best of masters, as of friends.

I know he has lately been invited thither;

Yet still he keeps his stubborn purpose; cries,

He's old, and willingly would be at rest:

I doubt there's deep resentment in his mind,

For the late slight his honour suffered there.

_Ern._ Has he not reason? When, for what he had borne,--

Long, hard, and faithful toil,--he might have claimed

Places in honour, and employment high,

A huffing, shining, flattering, cringing coward,

A canker-worm of peace, was raised above him.

_Paul._ Yet still he holds just value for the king,

Nor ever names him but with highest reverence.

'Tis noble that--

_Ern._ Oh! I have heard him, wanton in his praise,

Speak things of him might charm the ears of envy.

_Paul._ Oh! may he live till Nature's self grow old,

And from her womb no more can bless the earth!

For, when he dies, farewell all honour, bounty,

All generous encouragement of arts!

For Charity herself becomes a widow.

_Ern._ No, he has two sons, that were ordained to be

As well his virtues', as his fortune's heirs.

_Paul._ They're both of nature mild, and full of sweetness;

They came twins from the womb, and still they live

As if they would go twins too to the grave.

Neither has anything he calls his own,

But of each other's joys, as griefs, partaking;

So very honestly, so well they love,

As they were only for each other born.

_Ern._ Never was parent in an offspring happier!

He has a daughter too, whose blooming age

Promises goodness equal to her beauty.

_Paul._ And as there is a friendship 'twixt the brethren,

So has her infant nature chosen too

A faithful partner of her thoughts and wishes,

And kind companion of her harmless pleasures.

_Ern._ You mean the beauteous orphan, fair Monimia.

_Paul._ The same, the daughter of the brave Chamont.

He was our lord's companion in the wars;

Where such a wondrous friendship grew between them

As only death could end. Chamont's estate

Was ruined in our late and civil discords;

Therefore, unable to advance her fortune,

He left his daughter to our master's care,--

To such a care, as she scarce lost a father.

_Ern._ Her brother to the emperor's wars went early,

To seek a fortune, or a noble fate;

Whence he with honour is expected back,

And mighty marks of that great prince's favour.

_Paul._ Our master never would permit his sons

To launch for fortune in the uncertain world;

But warns them to avoid both courts and camps,

Where dilatory Fortune plays the jilt

With the brave, noble, honest, gallant man,

To throw herself away on fools and knaves.

_Ern._ They both have forward, generous, active spirits:

'Tis daily their petition to their father,

To send them forth where glory's to be gotten;

They cry they're weary of their lazy home,

Restless to do some thing that Fame may talk of.

To-day they chased the boar, and near this time

Should be returned.

_Paul._ Oh, that's a royal sport!

We yet may see the old man in a morning,

Lusty as health, come ruddy to the field,

And there pursue the chase, as if he meant

To o'ertake time, and bring back youth again.

[_Exeunt_ PAULINO _and_ ERNESTO.

_Enter_ CASTALIO, POLYDORE, _and_ Page.

_Cast._ Polydore, our sport

Has been to-day much better for the danger:

When on the brink the foaming boar I met,

And in his side thought to have lodged my spear,

The desperate savage rushed within my force,

And bore me headlong with him down the rock.

_Pol._ But then--

_Cast._ Ay, then, my brother, my friend Polydore,

Like Perseus mounted on his wingèd steed,

Came on, and down the dangerous precipice leaped

To save Castalio. 'Twas a god-like act!

_Pol._ But when I came, I found you conqueror.

Oh, my heart danced to see your danger past!

The heat and fury of the chase was cooled,

And I had nothing in my mind but joy.

_Cast._ So, Polydore, methinks we might in war

Rush on together; thou shouldst be my guard,

And I be thine; what is't could hurt us then?

Now half the youth of Europe are in arms,

How fulsome must it be to stay behind,

And die of rank diseases here at home!

_Pol._ No, let me purchase in my youth renown,

To make me loved and valued when I'm old:

I would be busy in the world, and learn,

Not like a coarse and useless dunghill-weed,

Fixed to one spot, and rot just as I grew.

_Cast._ Our father

Has ta'en himself a surfeit of the world,

And cries it is not safe that we should taste it:

I own I've duty very powerful in me;

And, though I'd hazard all to raise my name,

Yet he's so tender and so good a father,

I could not do a thing to cross his will.

_Pol._ Castalio, I have doubts within my heart,

Which you, and only you, can satisfy:

Will you be free and candid to your friend?

_Cast._ Have I a thought my Polydore should not know?

What can this mean?

_Pol._ Nay, I'll conjure you too,

By all the strictest bonds of faithful friendship,

To show your heart as naked in this point

As you would purge you of your sins to Heaven.

_Cast._ I will.

_Pol._ And, should I chance to touch it nearly, bear it

With all the sufferance of a tender friend.

_Cast._ As calmly as the wounded patient bears

The artist's hand that ministers his cure.

_Pol._ That's kindly said. You know our father's ward,

The fair Monimia;--is your heart at peace?

Is it so guarded that you could not love her?

_Cast._ Suppose I should?

_Pol._ Suppose you should not, brother?

_Cast._ You'd say, I must not.

_Pol._ That would sound too roughly

'Twixt friends and brothers, as we two are.

_Cast._ Is love a fault?

_Pol._ In one of us it may be:

What if I love her?

_Cast._ Then I must inform you

I loved her first, and cannot quit the claim,

But will preserve the birthright of my passion.

_Pol._ You will?

_Cast._ I will.

_Pol._ No more, I've done.

_Cast._ Why not?

_Pol._ I told you I had done;

But you, Castalio, would dispute it.

_Cast._ No,

Not with my Polydore; though I must own

My nature obstinate and void of sufferance.

Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart,

Attended on his throne by all his guards

Of furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.

I could not bear a rival in my friendship,

I am so much in love, and fond of thee.

_Pol._ Yet you would break this friendship

_Cast._ Not for crowns.

_Pol._ But for a toy you would, a woman's toy:

Unjust Castalio!

_Cast._ Pr'ythee, where's my fault?

_Pol._ You love Monimia.

_Cast._ Yes.

_Pol._ And you would kill me,

If I'm your rival.

_Cast._ No, sure we're such friends,

So much one man, that our affections too

Must be united, and the same as we are.

_Pol._ I dote upon Monimia.

_Cast._ Love her still;

Win, and enjoy her.

_Pol._ Both of us cannot.

_Cast._ No matter

Whose chance it prove; but let's not quarrel for't.

_Pol._ You would not wed Monimia, would you?

_Cast._ Wed her!

No! were she all desire could wish, as fair

As would the vainest of her sex be thought,

With wealth beyond what woman's pride could waste,

She should not cheat me of my freedom. Marry!

When I am old and weary of the world,

I may grow desperate,

And take a wife to mortify withal.

_Pol._ It is an elder brother's duty so

To propagate his family and name:

You would not have yours die and buried with you?

_Cast._ Mere vanity, and silly dotage all:

No, let me live at large, and when I die--

_Pol._ Who shall possess the estate you leave?

_Cast._ My friend,

If he survives me; if not, my king,

Who may bestow't again on some brave man,

Whose honesty and services deserve one.

_Pol._ 'Tis kindly offered.

_Cast._ By yon Heaven, I love

My Polydore beyond all worldly joys,

And would not shock his quiet, to be blest

With greater happiness than man e'er tasted.

_Pol._ And by that Heaven eternally I swear

To keep the kind Castalio in my heart.

Whose shall Monimia be?

_Cast._ No matter whose.

_Pol._ Were you not with her privately last night?

_Cast._ I was, and should have met her here again;

But the opportunity shall now be thine;

Myself will bring thee to the scene of love:

But have a care, by friendship I conjure thee,

That no false play be offered to thy brother!

Urge all thy powers to make thy passion prosper,

But wrong not mine.

_Pol._ Heaven blast me if I do!

_Cast._ If't prove thy fortune, Polydore, to conquer,

(For thou hast all the arts of fine persuasion!)

Trust me, and let me know thy love's success,

That I may ever after stifle mine.

_Pol._ Though she be dearer to my soul than rest

To weary pilgrims, or to misers gold,

To great men power, or wealthy cities pride,

Rather than wrong Castalio, I'd forget her.

For if ye, powers, have happiness in store,

When ye would shower down joys on Polydore,

In one great blessing all your bounty send,

That I may never lose so dear a friend!

[_Exeunt_ CASTALIO _and_ POLYDORE.

_Enter_ MONIMIA.

_Mon._ So soon returned from hunting? this fair day

Seems as if sent to invite the world abroad.

Passed not Castalio and Polydore this way?

_Page._ Madam, just now.

_Mon._ Sure some ill fate's upon me;

Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,

And apprehension shocks my timorous soul.

Why was I not laid in my peaceful grave

With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?

Instead of that, I'm wandering into cares.

Castalio! O Castalio! thou hast caught

My foolish heart; and, like a tender child,

That trusts his plaything to another hand,

I fear its harm, and fain would have it back.

Come near, Cordelio. I must chide you, sir.

_Page._ Why, madam, have I done you any wrong?

_Mon._ I never see you now; you have been kinder;

Sat by my bed, and sung me pretty songs:

Perhaps I've been ungrateful: here's money for you:

Will you oblige me? shall I see you oftener?

_Page._ Madam, I'd serve you with my soul;

But in a morning when you call me to you,

As by your bed I stand and tell you stories,

I am ashamed to see your swelling breasts,

It makes me blush, they are so very white.

_Mon._ O men, for flattery and deceit renowned!

Thus when you're young ye learn it all like him,

Till, as your years increase, that strengthens too,

To undo poor maids, and make our ruin easy.

Tell me, Cordelio, for thou oft hast heard

Their friendly converse and their bosom-secrets;

Sometimes, at least, have they not talked of me?

_Page._ O madam! very wickedly they've talked:

But I'm afraid to name it; for they say

Boys must be whipped that tell their master's secrets.

_Mon._ Fear not, Cordelio! it shall ne'er be known;

For I'll preserve the secret as 'twere mine.

Polydore cannot be so kind as I.

I'll furnish thee for all thy harmless sports

With pretty toys, and thou shalt be my page.

_Page._ And truly, madam, I had rather be so.

Methinks you love me better than my lord,

For he was never half so kind as you are.

What must I do?

_Mon._ Inform me how thou'st heard

Castalio, and his brother, use my name.

_Page._ With all the tenderness of love.

You were the subject of their last discourse:

At first I thought it would have fatal proved;

But, as the one grew hot, the other cooled,

And yielded to the frailty of his friend;

At last, after much struggling, 'twas resolved--

_Mon._ What, good Cordelio?

_Page._ Not to quarrel for you.

_Mon._ I would not have them; by my dearest hopes,

I would not be the argument of strife.

But surely my Castalio won't forsake me,

And make a mockery of my easy love?

Went they together?

_Page._ Yes, to seek you, madam.

Castalio promised Polydore to bring him

Where he alone might meet you,

And fairly try the fortune of his wishes.

_Mon._ Am I then grown so cheap, just to be made

A common stake, a prize for love in jest?

Was not Castalio very loth to yield it?

Or was it Polydore's unruly passion

That heightened the debate?

_Page._ The fault was Polydore's.

Castalio played with love, and smiling showed

The pleasure, not the pangs of his desire.

He said no woman's smiles should buy his freedom,

And marriage is a mortifying thing.

_Mon._ Then I am ruined! if Castalio's false,

Where is there faith and honour to be found?

Ye Gods, that guard the innocent and guide

The weak, protect and take me to your care!

Oh, but I love him! there's the rock will wreck me

Why was I made with all my sex's softness,

Yet want the cunning to conceal its follies?

I'll see Castalio, tax him with his falsehoods,

Be a true woman, rail, protest my wrongs;

Resolve to hate him, and yet love him still.

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ POLYDORE.

He comes, the conqueror comes! lie still, my heart,

And learn to bear thy injuries with scorn.

_Cast._ Madam, my brother begs he may have leave

To tell you something that concerns you nearly;

I leave you, as becomes me, and withdraw.

_Mon._ My Lord Castalio!

_Cast._ Madam!

_Mon._ Have you purposed

To abuse me palpably? what means this usage?

Why am I left with Polydore alone?

_Cast._ He best can tell you. Business of importance

Calls me away; I must attend my father.

_Mon._ Will you then leave me thus?

_Cast._ But for a moment.

_Mon._ It has been otherwise; the time has been,

When business might have stayed, and I been heard.

_Cast._ I could for ever hear thee; but this time

Matters of such odd circumstances press me,

That I must go. [_Exit._

_Mon._ Then go, and, if't be possible, for ever.--

Well, my Lord Polydore, I guess your business,

And read the ill-natured purpose in your eyes.

_Pol._ If to desire you more than misers wealth,

Or dying men an hour of added life;

If softest wishes, and a heart more true

Than ever suffered yet for love disdained,

Speak an ill-nature, you accuse me justly.

_Mon_. Talk not of love, my lord; I must not hear it.

_Pol._ Who can behold such beauty and be silent?

Desire first taught us words: man, when created,

At first alone, long wandered up and down,

Forlorn, and silent as his vassal-beasts;

But when a Heaven-born maid, like you, appeared,

Strange pleasures filled his eyes, and fired his heart,

Unloosed his tongue, and his first talk was love.

_Mon._ The first-created pair, indeed, were blest;

They were the only objects of each other,

Therefore he courted her, and her alone;

But in this peopled world of beauty, where

There's roving room, where you may court, and ruin

A thousand more, why need you talk to me?

_Pol._ Oh! I could talk to thee for ever; thus

Eternally admiring, fix and gaze

On those dear eyes; for every glance they send

Darts through my soul, and almost gives enjoyment.

_Mon._ How can you labour thus for my undoing?

I must confess, indeed, I owe you more

Than ever I can hope or think to pay.

There always was a friendship 'twixt our families;

And therefore when my tender parents died,

Whose ruined fortunes too expired with them,

Your father's pity and his bounty took me,

A poor and helpless orphan, to his care.

_Pol._ 'Twas Heaven ordained it so, to make me happy.

Hence with this peevish virtue! 'tis a cheat;

And those who taught it first were hypocrites.

Come, these soft tender limbs were made for yielding!

_Mon._ Here on my knees, by Heaven's blest power I swear, [_Kneels._

If you persist, I ne'er henceforth will see you,

But rather wander through the world a beggar,

And live on sordid scraps at proud men's doors;

For, though to fortune lost, I still inherit

My mother's virtues, and my father's honour.

_Pol._ Intolerable vanity! your sex

Was never in the right; you're always false,

Or silly; even your dresses are not more

Fantastic than your appetites; you think

Of nothing twice; opinion you have none:

To-day you're nice, to-morrow not so free;

Now smile, then frown; now sorrowful, then glad;

Now pleased, now not; and all you know not why!

Virtue you affect, inconstancy's your practice;

And, when your loose desires once get dominion,

No hungry churl feeds coarser at a feast;

Every rank fool goes down--

_Mon._ Indeed, my lord,

I own my sex's follies; I've them all,

And, to avoid its faults, must fly from you.

Therefore, believe me, could you raise me high

As most fantastic woman's wish could reach,

And lay all nature's riches at my feet,

I'd rather run a savage in the woods

Amongst brute beasts, grow wrinkled and deformed

As wildness and most rude neglect could make me,

So I might still enjoy my honour safe

From the destroying wiles of faithless men. [_Exit._

_Pol._ Who'd be that sordid foolish thing called man,

To cringe thus, fawn, and flatter for a pleasure,

Which beasts enjoy so very much above him?

The lusty bull ranges through all the field,

And, from the herd singling his female out,

Enjoys her, and abandons her at will.

It shall be so; I'll yet possess my love,

Wait on, and watch her loose unguarded hours;

Then, when her roving thoughts have been abroad,

And brought in wanton wishes to her heart,

In the very minute when her virtue nods,

I'll rush upon her in a storm of love,

Beat down her guard of honour all before me,

Surfeit on joys, till even desire grow sick;

Then by long absence liberty regain,

And quite forget the pleasure and the pain. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.--_A Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ ACASTO, CASTALIO, POLYDORE, _and_ Attendants.

_Acast._ To-day has been a day of glorious sport.

When you, Castalio, and your brother left me,

Forth from the thickets rushed another boar,

So large, he seemed the tyrant of the woods,

With all his dreadful bristles raised up high,

They seemed a grove of spears upon his back;

Foaming he came at me, where I was posted,

Best to observe which way he'd lead the chase,

Whetting his huge long tusks, and gaping wide,

As if he already had me for his prey;

Till, brandishing my well-poised javelin high,

With this bold executing arm, I struck

The ugly brindled monster to the heart.

_Cast._ The actions of your life were always wondrous.

_Acast._ No flattery, boy! an honest man can't live by't:

It is a little sneaking art, which knaves

Use to cajole and soften fools withal;

If thou hast flattery in thy nature, out with't,

Or send it to a court; for there 'twill thrive.

_Pol._ Why there?

_Acast._ 'Tis, next to money, current there;

To be seen daily in as many forms

As there are sorts of vanities, and men:

The supercilious[18] statesman has his sneer

To smooth a poor man off with, that can't bribe him;

The grave dull fellow of small business soothes

The humourist, and will needs admire his wit.

Who without spleen could see a hot-brained atheist

Thanking a surly doctor for his sermon?

Or a grave counsellor meet a smooth young lord,

Squeeze him by the hand, and praise his good complexion?

_Pol._ Courts are the places where best manners flourish;

Where the deserving ought to rise, and fools

Make show. Why should I vex and chafe my spleen,

To see a gaudy coxcomb shine, when I

Have seen enough to soothe him in his follies,

And ride him to advantage as I please?

_Acast._ Who merit ought indeed to rise i' the world;

But no wise man that's honest should expect.

What man of sense would rack his generous mind,

To practise all the base formalities

And forms of business, force a grave starched face,

When he's a very libertine in's heart?

Seem not to know this or that man in public,

When privately perhaps they meet together,

And lay the scene of some brave fellow's ruin?

Such things are done--

_Cast._ Your lordship's wrongs have been

So great, that you with justice may complain;

But suffer us, whose younger minds ne'er felt

Fortune's deceits, to court her as she's fair.

Were she a common mistress, kind to all,

Her worth would cease, and half the world grow idle.

_Acast._ Go to, you're fools, and know me not; I've learnt

Long since to bear revenge, or scorn my wrongs,

According to the value of the doer.

You both would fain be great, and to that end

Desire to do things worthy your ambition:

Go to the camp, preferment's noblest mart,

Where honour ought to have the fairest play,

You'll find

Corruption, envy, discontent, and faction,

Almost in every band: how many men

Have spent their blood in their dear country's service,

Yet now pine under want, while selfish slaves,

That even would cut their throats whom now they fawn on,

Like deadly locusts, eat the honey up,

Which those industrious bees so hardly toiled for!

_Cast._ These precepts suit not with my active mind:

Methinks I would be busy.

_Pol._ So would I.

Not loiter out my life at home, and know

No farther than one prospect gives me leave.

_Acast._ Busy your minds then, study arts and men:

Learn how to value merit though in rags,

And scorn a proud ill-mannered knave in office.

_Enter_ SERINA, MONIMIA, _and_ FLORELLA.

_Ser._ My lord, my father!

_Acast._ Blessings on my child,

My little cherub! what hast thou to ask me?

_Ser._ I bring you, sir, most glad and welcome news:

The young Chamont, whom you've so often wished for,

Is just arrived and entering.

_Acast._ By my soul,

And all my honours, he's most dearly welcome;

Let me receive him like his father's friend.

_Enter_ CHAMONT.

Welcome, thou relict of the best-loved man!

Welcome from all the turmoils, and the hazards

Of certain danger, and uncertain fortune!

Welcome as happy tidings after fears!

_Cham._ Words would but wrong the gratitude I owe you.

Should I begin to speak, my soul's so full

That I should talk of nothing else all day.

_Mon._ My brother!

_Cham._ Oh my sister! let me hold thee

Long in my arms. I've not beheld thy face

These many days; by night I've often seen thee

In gentle dreams, and satisfied my soul

With fancied joy, till morning cares awaked me.--

Another sister! sure it must be so;

Though, I remember well, I had but one:

But I feel something in my heart that prompts

And tells me she has claim and interest there.

_Acast._ Young soldier, you've not only studied war;

Courtship, I see, has been your practice too,

And may not prove unwelcome to my daughter.

_Cham._ Is she your daughter? then my heart told true!

And I'm at least her brother by adoption;

For you have made yourself to me a father,

And by that patent I have leave to love her.

_Ser._ Monimia, thou hast told me men are false,

Will flatter, feign, and make an art of love:

Is Chamont so? No, sure he's more than man,

Something that's near divine, and truth dwells in him.

_Acast._ Thus happy, who would envy pompous power,

The luxury of courts, or wealth of cities?

Let there be joy through all the house this day;

In every room let plenty flow at large;

It is the birth-day of my royal master.

You have not visited the court, Chamont,

Since your return?

_Cham._ I have no business there;

I have not slavish temperance enough

To attend a favourite's heels, and watch his smiles;

Bear an ill office done me to my face,

And thank the lord that wronged me for his favour.

_Acast._ This you could do.

[_To_ CASTALIO _and_ POLYDORE.

_Cast._ I'd serve my prince.

_Acast._ Who'd serve him?

_Cast._ I would, my lord.

_Pol._ And I; both would.

_Acast._ Away!

He needs not any servants such as you.

Serve him! he merits more than man can do:

He is so good, praise cannot speak his worth;

So merciful, sure he ne'er slept in wrath;

So just, that were he but a private man,

He could not do a wrong. How would you serve him?

_Cast._ I'd serve him with my fortune here at home,

And serve him with my person in his wars;

Watch for him, fight for him, bleed for him.

_Pol._ Die for him,

As every true-born loyal subject ought.

_Acast._ Let me embrace you both. Now, by the souls

Of my brave ancestors, I'm truly happy;

For this be ever blest my marriage-day,

Blest be your mother's memory that bore you,

And doubly blest be that auspicious hour

That gave ye birth! Yes, my aspiring boys,

Ye shall have business, when your master wants you:

You cannot serve a nobler: I have served him;

In this old body yet the marks remain

Of many wounds. I've with this tongue proclaimed

His right, even in the face of rank rebellion;

And when a foul-mouthed traitor once profaned

His sacred name, with my good sabre drawn,

Even at the head of all his giddy rout,

I rushed, and clove the rebel to the chine.

_Enter_ Servant.

_Ser._ My lord, the expected guests are just arrived.

_Acast._ Go you, and give them welcome and reception.

[_Exeunt_ CASTALIO, POLYDORE,

SERINA, FLORELLA, _and_ Servant.

_Cham._ My lord, I stand in need of your assistance

In something that concerns my peace and honour.

_Acast._ Spoke like the son of that brave man I loved;

So freely, friendly we conversed together.

Whate'er it be, with confidence impart it;

Thou shalt command my fortune and my sword.

_Cham._ I dare not doubt your friendship nor your justice.

Your bounty shown to what I hold most dear,

My orphan sister, must not be forgotten.

_Acast._ Pr'ythee, no more of that: it grates my nature.

_Cham._ When our dear parents died, they died together,

One fate surprised them, and one grave received them:

My father with his dying breath bequeathed

Her to my love: my mother, as she lay

Languishing by him, called me to her side,

Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced me;

Then pressed me close, and as she observed my tears,

Kissed them away: said she, "Chamont, my son,

By this, and all the love I ever showed thee,

Be careful of Monimia; watch her youth;

Let not her wants betray her to dishonour;

Perhaps kind Heaven may raise some friend": then sighed,

Kissed me again, so blessed us, and expired.

Pardon my grief.

_Acast._ It speaks an honest nature.

_Cham._ The friend Heaven raised was you; you took her up,

An infant, to the desert world exposed,

And proved another parent.

_Acast._ I've not wronged her!

_Cham._ Far be it from my fears.

_Acast._ Then why this argument?

_Cham._ My lord, my nature's jealous, and you'll bear it.

_Acast._ Go on.

_Cham._ Great spirits bear misfortunes hardly:

Good offices claim gratitude; and pride,

Where power is wanting, will usurp a little,

And make us, rather than be thought behind-hand,

Pay over-price.

_Acast._ I cannot guess your drift:

Distrust you me?

_Cham._ No, but I fear her weakness

May make her pay a debt at any rate;

And, to deal freely with your lordship's goodness,

I've heard a story lately much disturbs me.

_Acast._ Then first charge her; and if the offence be found

Within my reach, though it should touch my nature,

In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance

Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in,

I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. [_Exit._

_Cham._ I thank you from my soul.

_Mon._ Alas! my brother,

What have I done? and why do you abuse me?

My heart quakes in me; in your settled face

And clouded brow, methinks I see my fate:

You will not kill me!

_Cham._ Pr'ythee, why dost talk so?

_Mon._ Look kindly on me, then: I cannot bear

Severity; it daunts, and does amaze me:

My heart's so tender, should you charge me rough,

I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing.

But use me gently, like a loving brother,

And search through all the secrets of my soul.

_Cham._ Fear nothing, I will show myself a brother,

A tender, honest, and a loving brother.

You've not forgot our father?

_Mon._ I shall never.

_Cham._ Then you'll remember too, he was a man

That lived up to the standard of his honour,

And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth:

He'd not have done a shameful thing but once;

Though kept in darkness from the world, and hidden,

He could not have forgiven it to himself.

This was the only portion that he left us;

And I more glory in't than if possessed

Of all that ever fortune threw on fools.

'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely.

Now if, by any chance, Monimia,

You've soiled this gem, and taken from its value,

How will you account with me?

_Mon._ I challenge envy,

Malice, and all the practices of hell,

To censure all the actions of my past

Unhappy life, and taint me if they can!

_Cham._ I'll tell thee then: three nights ago, as I

Lay musing in my bed, all darkness round me,

A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat

Dewed all my face, and trembling seized my limbs:

My bed shook under me, the curtains started,

And to my tortured fancy there appeared

The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art;

Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand

A wanton lover, which by turns caressed thee

With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure:

I snatched my sword, and in the very moment

Darted it at the phantom; straight it left me;

Then rose and called for lights; when, O dire omen!

I found my weapon had the arras pierced,

Just where that famous tale was interwoven,

How the unhappy Theban[19] slew his father.

_Mon._ And for this cause my virtue is suspected!

Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden,

I must be tortured waking!

_Cham._ Have a care;

Labour not to be justified too fast:

Hear all, and then let Justice hold the scale.

What followed was the riddle that confounds me:

Through a close lane as I pursued my journey,

And meditated on the last night's vision,

I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,

Picking dry sticks and mumbling to herself;

Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red;

Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seemed withered,

And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapped

The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging,

Which served to keep her carcass from the cold;

So there was nothing of a piece about her:

Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched

With different-coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow,

And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness.

I asked her of my way, which she informed me;

Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten

To save a sister:--at that word I started.

_Mon._ The common cheat of beggars every day;

They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts

Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes.

_Cham._ Oh! but she told me such a tale, Monimia,

As in it bore great circumstance of truth:--

Castalio and Polydore, my sister--

_Mon._ Ha!

_Cham._ What, altered! does your courage fail you?

Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest;

Answer me, if thou hast not lost to them

Thy honour at a sordid game?

_Mon._ I will,

I must; so hardly my misfortune loads me.

That both have offered me their loves, most true.

_Cham._ And 'tis as true too, they have both undone thee.

_Mon._ Though they both with earnest vows

Have pressed my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded

To any but Castalio--

_Cham._ But Castalio?

_Mon._ Still will you cross the line of my discourse?

Yes, I confess that he has won my soul

By generous love, and honourable vows:

Which he this day appointed to complete,

And make himself by holy marriage mine.

_Cham._ Art thou then spotless? hast thou still preserved

Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted?

_Mon._ When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject my prayers!

Or, more to make me wretched, may you know it!

_Cham._ Oh, then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me

Than all the comforts ever yet blessed man.

But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin.

Trust not a man; we are by nature false,

Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and unconstant:

When a man talks of love, with caution trust him;

But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee.

I charge thee let no more Castalio soothe thee:

Avoid it as thou wouldst preserve the peace

Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious.

_Mon._ I will.

_Cham._ Appear as cold, when next you meet, as great ones

When merit begs; then shalt thou see how soon

His heart will cool, and all his pains grow easy. [_Exit._

_Mon._ Yes, I will try him, torture him severely;

For, O Castalio! thou too much hast wronged me,

In leaving me to Polydore's ill usage.

He comes; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter,

Whilst a hard part's performed! for I must tempt,

Wound his soft nature, though my heart aches for it. [_Exit._

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO.

_Cast._ Monimia, Monimia!--She's gone;

And seemed to part with anger in her eyes:

I am a fool; and she has found my weakness;

She uses me already like a slave

Fast bound in chains, to be chastised at will.

'Twas not well done to trifle with my brother:

I might have trusted him with all the secret,

Opened my silly heart, and shown it bare.

But then he loves her too;--but not like me.

I am a doting, honest slave, designed

For bondage, marriage-bonds, which I have sworn

To wear. It is the only thing I e'er

Hid from his knowledge; and he'll sure forgive

The first transgression of a wretched friend,

Betrayed to love, and all its little follies.

_Re-enter_ POLYDORE _and_ Page _at the Door_.

_Pol._ Here place yourself, and watch my brother throughly:

If he should chance to meet Monimia, make

Just observation of each word and action;

Pass not one circumstance without remark:

Sir, 'tis your office; do't, and bring me word. [_Exit._

_Re-enter_ MONIMIA.

_Cast._ Monimia, my angel! 'twas not kind

To leave me like a turtle here alone,

To droop and mourn the absence of my mate.

When thou art from me, every place is desert,

And I, methinks, am savage and forlorn:

Thy presence only 'tis can make me blest,

Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul.

_Mon._ Oh, the bewitching tongues of faithless men!

'Tis thus the false hyæna makes her moan,

To draw the pitying traveller to her den:

Your sex are so, such false dissemblers all;

With sighs and plaints ye entice poor women's hearts,

And all that pity you are made your prey.

_Cast._ What means my love? Oh, how have I deserved

This language from the sovereign of my joys!

Stop, stop those tears, Monimia, for they fall

Like baneful dew from a distempered sky;

I feel them chill me to the very heart.

_Mon._ Oh, you are false, Castalio, most forsworn.

Attempt no farther to delude my faith;

My heart is fixed, and you shall shake't no more.

_Cast._ Who told you so? what hell-bred villain durst

Profane the sacred business of my love?

_Mon._ Your brother, knowing on what terms I'm here,

The unhappy object of your father's charity,

Licentiously discoursed to me of love,

And durst affront me with his brutal passion.

_Cast._ 'Tis I have been to blame, and only I;

False to my brother, and unjust to thee.

For, oh! he loves thee too, and this day owned it;

Taxed me with mine, and claimed a right above me.

_Mon._ And was your love so very tame, to shrink,

Or, rather than lose him, abandon me?

_Cast._ I, knowing him precipitate and rash,

To calm his heat, and to conceal my happiness,

Seemed to comply with his unruly will;

Talked as he talked, and granted all he asked;

Lest he in rage might have our loves betrayed,

And I for ever had Monimia lost.

_Mon._ Could you then? did you? can you own it too?

'Twas poorly done, unworthy of yourself,

And I can never think you meant me fair.

_Cast._ Is this Monimia? surely no; till now

I ever thought her dove-like, soft, and kind.

Who trusts his heart with woman's surely lost:

You were made fair on purpose to undo us,

Whilst greedily we snatch the alluring bait,

And ne'er distrust the poison that it hides.

_Mon._ When love ill-placed would find a means to break--

_Cast._ It never wants pretences or excuse.

_Mon._ Man therefore was a lord-like creature made,

Rough as the winds, and as inconstant too;

A lofty aspect given him for command,

Easily softened, when he would betray.

Like conquering tyrants, you our breasts invade,

Where you are pleased to forage for a while;

But soon you find new conquests out, and leave

The ravaged province ruinate and waste.

If so, Castalio, you have served my heart,

I find that desolation's settled there,

And I shall ne'er recover peace again.

_Cast._ Who can hear this, and bear an equal mind!

Since you will drive me from you, I must go;

But O, Monimia, when thou'st banished me,

No creeping slave, though tractable and dull

As artful woman for her ends would choose,

Shall ever dote as I have done: for oh!

No tongue my pleasure nor my pain can tell;

'Tis Heaven to have thee, and without thee hell.

_Mon._ Castalio! stay! we must not part. I find

My rage ebbs out, and love flows in apace.

These little quarrels love must needs forgive;

They rouse up drowsy thoughts, and wake the soul.

Oh! charm me with the music of thy tongue;

I'm ne'er so blest as when I hear thy vows,

And listen to the language of thy heart.

_Cast._ Where am I? surely paradise is round me!

Sweets planted by the hand of Heaven grow here,

And every sense is full of thy perfection.

To hear thee speak might calm a madman's frenzy,

Till by attention he forgot his sorrows;

But to behold thy eyes, thy amazing beauties,

Might make him rage again with love, as I do.

To touch thee's Heaven; but to enjoy thee, oh!

Thou Nature's whole perfection in one piece!

Sure, framing thee Heaven took unusual care;

As its own beauty it designed thee fair;

And formed thee by the best-loved angel there. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[18] "Superstitious" in old edition, but evidently a misprint.

[19] OEdipus.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.--_The Garden before_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ POLYDORE _and_ Page.

_Pol._ Were they so kind? Express it to me all

In words, 'twill make me think I saw it too.

_Page._ At first I thought they had been mortal foes;

Monimia raged, Castalio grew disturbed;

Each thought the other wronged, yet both so haughty,

They scorned submission, though love all the while

The rebel played, and scarce could be contained.

_Pol._ But what succeeded?

_Page._ Oh, 'twas wondrous pretty!

For of a sudden all the storm was past,

A gentle calm of love succeeded it;

Monimia sighed and blushed, Castalio swore;

As you, my lord, I well remember, did

To my young sister in the orange grove,

When I was first preferred to be your page.

_Pol._ Happy Castalio! now by my great soul,

My ambitious soul, that languishes to glory,

I'll have her yet; by my best hopes, I will.

She shall be mine, in spite of all her arts.

But for Castalio why was I refused?

Has he supplanted me by some foul play?

Traduced my honour? death! he durst not do't.

It must be so: we parted, and he met her,

Half to compliance brought by me; surprised

Her sinking virtue, till she yielded quite.

So poachers basely pick up tired game,

Whilst the fair hunter's cheated of his prey.

Boy!

_Page._ My lord!

_Pol._ Go to your chamber, and prepare your lute;

Find out some song to please me, that describes

Women's hypocrisies, their subtle wiles,

Betraying smiles, feigned tears, inconstancies;

Their painted outsides and corrupted minds;

The sum of all their follies, and their falsehoods. [_Exit_ Page.

_Enter_ Servant.

_Serv._ Oh, the unhappiest tidings tongue e'er told!

_Pol._ The matter?

_Serv._ Oh! your father, my good master,

As with his guests he sat in mirth raised high,

And chased the goblet round the joyful board,

A sudden trembling seized on all his limbs;

His eyes distorted grew; his visage pale;

His speech forsook him; life itself seemed fled;

And all his friends are waiting now about him.

_Enter_ ACASTO _leaning on two_ Attendants.

_Acast._ Support me, give me air; I'll yet recover:

'Twas but a slip decaying Nature made,

For she grows weary near her journey's end.

Where are my sons? Come near, my Polydore:

Your brother! where's Castalio?

_Serv._ My lord,

I've searched, as you commanded, all the house:

He and Monimia are not to be found.

_Acast._ Not to be found! then where are all my friends?

Tis well;--

I hope they'll pardon an unhappy fault

My unmannerly infirmity has made.

Death could not come in a more welcome hour,

For I'm prepared to meet him; and, methinks,

Would live and die with all my friends about me.

_Enter_ CASTALIO.

_Cast._ Angels preserve my dearest father's life;

Bless it with long, uninterrupted days!

Oh! may he live till time itself decay;

Till good men wish him dead, or I offend him!

_Acast._ Thank you, Castalio; give me both your hands,

And bear me up; I'd walk. So, now, methinks,

I appear as great as Hercules himself,

Supported by the pillars he had raised.

_Cast._ My lord, your chaplain.

_Acast._ Let the good man enter.

_Enter_ Chaplain.

_Chap._ Heaven guard your lordship, and restore your health!

_Acast._ I have provided for thee if I die.

No fawning! 'tis a scandal to thy office.

My sons, as thus, united, ever live;

And for the estate, you'll find, when I am dead,

I have divided it betwixt you both,

Equally parted, as you shared my love;

Only to sweet Monimia I've bequeathed

Ten thousand crowns; a little portion for her,

To wed her honourably as she's born.

Be not less friends because you're brothers; shun

The man that's singular,--his mind's unsound,

His spleen o'erweighs his brains; but, above all,

Avoid the politic, the factious fool,

The busy, buzzing, talking, hardened knave,

The quaint smooth rogue, that sins against his reason;

Calls saucy loud suspicion public zeal,

And mutiny the dictates of his spirit:

Be very careful how ye make new friends.

Men read not morals now; it was a custom:

But all are to their fathers' vices born,

And in their mothers' ignorance are bred.

Let marriage be the last mad thing ye do,

For all the sins and follies of the past.

If you have children, never give them knowledge;

'Twill spoil their fortune; fools are all the fashion.

If you've religion, keep it to yourselves;

Atheists will else make use of toleration,

And laugh you out on't: never show religion,

Except ye mean to pass for knaves of conscience,

And cheat believing fools that think ye honest.

_Enter_ SERINA.

_Ser._ My father!

_Acast._ My heart's darling!

_Ser._ Let my knees

Fix to the earth; ne'er let my eyes have rest,

But wake and weep, till Heaven restore my father!

_Acast._ Rise to my arms, and thy kind prayers are answered,

For thou'rt a wondrous extract of all goodness,

Born for my joy, and no pain's felt when near thee.

_Enter_ CHAMONT.

Chamont!

_Cham._ My lord, may't prove not an unlucky omen!

Many I see are waiting round about you,

And I am come to ask a blessing too.

_Acast._ Mayst thou be happy!

_Cham._ Where?

_Acast._ In all thy wishes.

_Cham._ Confirm me so, and make this fair one mine.

I am unpractised in the trade of courtship,

And know not how to deal love out with art:

Onsets in love seem best like those in war,

Fierce, resolute, and done with all the force;

So I would open my whole heart at once,

And pour out the abundance of my soul.

_Acast._ What says Serina? Canst thou love a soldier?

One born to honour, and to honour bred?

One that has learnt to treat even foes with kindness;

To wrong no good man's fame, nor praise himself?

_Ser._ Oh, name not love, for that's allied to joy;

And joy must be a stranger to my heart,

When you're in danger. May Chamont's good fortune

Render him lovely to some happier maid!

Whilst I at friendly distance see him blest,

Praise the kind gods, and wonder at his virtues.

_Acast._ Chamont, pursue her, conquer and possess her;

And, as my son, a third of all my fortune

Shall be thy lot.

But keep thy eyes from wandering, man of frailty:

Beware the dangerous beauty of the wanton;

Shun their enticements; ruin, like a vulture,

Waits on their conquests: falsehood too's their business;

They put[20] false beauty off to all the world;

Use false endearments to the fools that love 'em;

And, when they marry, to their silly husbands

They bring false virtue, broken fame and fortune.

_Ser._ Hear ye that, my lord?

_Cham._ Yes, my fair monitor, old men always talk thus.

_Acast._ Chamont, you told me of some doubts that pressed you.

Are you yet satisfied that I'm your friend?

_Cham._ My lord, I would not lose that satisfaction

For any blessing I could wish for.

As to my fears, already I have lost them;

They ne'er shall vex me more, nor trouble you.

_Acast._ I thank you. Daughter, you must do so too.

My friends, 'tis late;

For my disorder, it seems all past and over,

And I methinks begin to feel new health.

_Cast._ Would you but rest, it might restore you quite.

_Acast._ Yes, I'll to bed; old men must humour weakness.

Let me have music then, to lull and chase

This melancholy thought of death away.

Good-night, my friends! Heaven guard ye all! Good-night!

To-morrow early we'll salute the day,

Find out new pleasures, and redeem lost time.

[_Exeunt all but_ CHAMONT _and_ Chaplain.

_Cham._ Hist, hist, Sir Gravity, a word with you.

_Chap._ With me, sir?

_Cham._ If you're at leisure, sir, we'll waste an hour;

'Tis yet too soon to sleep, and 'twill be charity

To lend your conversation to a stranger.

_Chap._ Sir, you're a soldier?

_Cham._ Yes.

_Chap._ I love a soldier;

And had been one myself, but my parents would make me what you

see me: yet I'm honest, for all I wear black.

_Cham._ And that's a wonder.

Have you had long dependence on this family?

_Chap._ I have not thought it so, because my time's

Spent pleasantly. My lord's not haughty nor imperious,

Nor I gravely whimsical; he has good nature,

And I have manners:

His sons too are civil to me, because I do not pretend to be

wiser than they are; I meddle with no man's business but my

own; I rise in a morning early, study moderately, eat and drink

cheerfully, live soberly, take my innocent pleasures freely;

so meet with respect, and am not the jest of the family.

_Cham._ I'm glad you are so happy.--

A pleasant fellow this, and may be useful. [_Aside._

Knew you my father, the old Chamont?

_Chap._ I did, and was most sorry when we lost him.

_Cham._ Why? didst thou love him?

_Chap._ Everybody loved him; besides, he was my master's friend.

_Cham._ I could embrace thee for that very notion.

If thou didst love my father, I could think

Thou wouldst not be an enemy to me.

_Chap._ I can be no man's foe.

_Cham._ Then pr'ythee tell me,

Think'st thou the Lord Castalio loves my sister?

Nay, never start. Come, come, I know thy office

Opens thee all the secrets of the family.

Then, if thou'rt honest, use this freedom kindly.

_Chap._ Loves your sister!

_Cham._ Ay, loves her.

_Chap._ Sir, I never asked him; and wonder you should ask it me.

_Cham._ Nay, but thou'rt an hypocrite; is there not one

Of all thy tribe that's honest in your schools?

The pride of your superiors makes ye slaves:

Ye all live loathsome, sneaking, servile lives;

Not free enough to practise generous truth,

Though ye pretend to teach it to the world.

_Chap._ I would deserve a better thought from you.

_Cham._ If thou wouldst have me not contemn thy office

And character, think all thy brethren knaves,

Thy trade a cheat, and thou its worst professor,

Inform me; for I tell thee, priest, I'll know.

_Chap._ Either he loves her, or he much has wronged her.

_Cham._ How, wronged her! have a care; for this may lay

A scene of mischief to undo us all.

But tell me--wronged her, saidst thou?

_Chap._ Ay, sir, wronged her.

_Cham._ This is a secret worth a monarch's fortune:

What shall I give thee for't? thou dear physician

Of sickly souls, unfold this riddle to me,

And comfort mine--

_Chap._ I would hide nothing from you willingly.

_Cham._ Nay, then again thou'rt honest. Wouldst thou tell me?

_Chap._ Yes, if I durst.

_Cham._ Why, what affrights thee?

_Chap._ You do,

Who are not to be trusted with the secret.

_Cham._ Why, I am no fool.

_Chap._ So, indeed, you say.

_Cham._ Pr'ythee, be serious then.

_Chap._ You see I am so,

And hardly shall be mad enough to-night

To trust you with my ruin.

_Cham._ Art thou then

So far concerned in't? What has been thy office?

Curse on that formal steady villain's face!

Just so do all bawds look; nay, bawds, they say,

Can pray upon occasion, talk of Heaven,

Turn up their goggling eye-balls, rail at vice,

Dissemble, lie, and preach like any priest.

Art thou a bawd?

_Chap._ Sir, I'm not often used thus.

_Cham._ Be just then.

_Chap._ So I shall be to the trust

That's laid upon me.

_Cham._ By the reverenced soul

Of that great honest man that gave me being,

Tell me but what thou know'st concerns my honour,

And if I e'er reveal it to thy wrong,

May this good sword ne'er do me right in battle!

May I ne'er know that blessed peace of mind,

That dwells in good and pious men, like thee!

_Chap._ I see your temper's moved, and I will trust you.

_Cham._ Wilt thou?

_Chap._ I will; but if it ever 'scape you--

_Cham._ It never shall.

_Chap._ Swear then.

_Cham._ I do, by all

That's dear to me, by the honour of my name,

And by that Power I serve, it never shall.

_Chap._ Then this good day, when all the house was busy,

When mirth and kind rejoicing filled each room,

As I was walking in the grove I met them.

_Cham._ What, met them in the grove together? tell me,

How? walking, standing, sitting, lying? ha!

_Chap._ I, by their own appointment, met them there;

Received their marriage-vows, and joined their hands.

_Cham._ How! married!

_Chap._ Yes, sir.

_Cham._ Then my soul's at peace:

But why would you delay so long to give it?

_Chap._ Not knowing what reception it may find

With old Acasto; may be I was too cautious

To trust the secret from me.

_Cham._ What's the cause

I cannot guess: though 'tis my sister's honour,

I do not like this marriage,

Huddled i' the dark, and done at too much venture:

The business looks with an unlucky face.

Keep still the secret; for it ne'er shall 'scape me,

Not even to them, the new-matched pair. Farewell.

Believe my truth, and know me for thy friend. [_Exeunt._

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ MONIMIA.

_Cast._ Young Chamont, and the chaplain! sure 'tis they!

No matter what's contrived, or who consulted,

Since my Monimia's mine; though this sad look

Seems no good-boding omen to her bliss;

Else, pr'ythee, tell me why that look cast down?

Why that sad sigh, as if thy heart were breaking?

_Mon._ Castalio, I am thinking what we've done.

The heavenly powers were sure displeased to-day;

For at the ceremony as we stood,

And as your hand was kindly joined with mine,

As the good priest pronounced the sacred words,

Passion grew big, and I could not forbear;

Tears drowned my eyes, and trembling seized my soul.

What should that mean?

_Cast._ Oh, thou art tender all;

Gentle and kind as sympathising nature!

When a sad story has been told, I've seen

Thy little breasts, with soft compassion swelled,

Shove up and down, and heave like dying birds:

But now let fear be banished, think no more

Of danger, for there's safety in my arms;

Let them receive thee: Heaven, grow jealous now!

Sure she's too good for any mortal creature;

I could grow wild, and praise thee even to madness.

But wherefore do I dally with my bliss?

The night's far spent, and day draws on apace;

To bed, my love, and wake till I come thither.

_Re-enter_ POLYDORE, _behind_.

_Pol._ So hot, my brother? [_Aside._

_Mon._ 'Twill be impossible:

You know your father's chamber's next to mine,

And the least noise will certainly alarm him.

_Cast._ Impossible! impossible! alas!

Is't possible to live one hour without thee?

Let me behold those eyes, they'll tell me truth.

Hast thou no longing? Art thou still the same

Cold, icy virgin? No; thou'rt altered quite.

Haste, haste to bed, and let loose all thy wishes.

_Mon._ 'Tis but one night, my lord; I pray be ruled.

_Cast._ Try if thou'st power to stop a flowing tide,

Or in a tempest make the seas be calm;

And, when that's done, I'll conquer my desires.

No more, my blessing. What shall be the sign?

When shall I come? for to my joys I'll steal,

As if I ne'er had paid my freedom for them.

_Mon._ Just three soft strokes upon the chamber-door;

And at that signal you shall gain admittance:

But speak not the least word; for if you should,

'Tis surely heard, and all will be betrayed.

_Cast._ Oh! doubt it not, Monimia; our joys

Shall be as silent as the ecstatic bliss

Of souls that by intelligence converse:

Immortal pleasures shall our senses drown;

Thought shall be lost, and every power dissolved:

Away, my love! first take this kiss. Now haste.

I long for that to come, yet grudge each minute past.

[_Exit_ MONIMIA.

My brother wandering too so late this way!

_Pol._ [_Coming forward_]. Castalio!

_Cast._ My Polydore, how dost thou?

How does our father; is he well recovered?

_Pol._ I left him happily reposed to rest;

He's still as gay as if his life were young.

But how does fair Monimia?

_Cast._ Doubtless well.

A cruel beauty with her conquests pleased

Is always joyful, and her mind in health.

_Pol._ Is she the same Monimia still she was?

May we not hope she's made of mortal mould?

_Cast._ She's not woman else:

Though I'm grown weary of this tedious hoping;

We've in a barren desert strayed too long.

_Pol._ Yet may relief be unexpected found,

And love's sweet manna cover all the field.

Met ye to-day?

_Cast._ No; she has still avoided me.

Her brother too is jealous of her grown,

And has been hinting something to my father.

I wish I'd never meddled with the matter;

And would enjoin thee, Polydore--

_Pol._ To what?

_Cast._ To leave this peevish beauty to herself.

_Pol._ What, quit my love? as soon I'd quit my post

In fight, and like a coward run away.

No, by my stars! I'll chase her till she yields

To me, or meets her rescue in another.

_Cast._ Nay, she has beauty that might shake the leagues

Of mighty kings, and set the world at odds;

But I have wondrous reasons on my side

That would persuade thee, were they known.

_Pol._ Then speak them.

What are they? came ye to her window here

To learn them now? Castalio, have a care;

Use honest dealing with your friend and brother.

Believe me, I'm not with my love so blinded,

But can discern your purpose to abuse me.

Quit your pretences to her.

_Cast._ Grant I do;

You love capitulation, Polydore,

And but upon conditions would oblige me.

_Pol._ You say, you've reasons; why are they concealed?

_Cast._ To-morrow I may tell you:

It is a matter of such circumstance,

As I must well consult ere I reveal.

But, pr'ythee, cease to think I would abuse thee,

Till more be known.

_Pol._ When you, Castalio, cease

To meet Monimia unknown to me,

And then deny it slavishly, I'll cease

To think Castalio faithless to his friend.

Did I not see you part this very moment?

_Cast._ It seems you've watched me then?

_Pol._ I scorn the office.

_Cast._ Pr'ythee avoid a thing thou mayst repent.

_Pol._ That is, henceforward making leagues with you.

_Cast._ Nay, if you're angry, Polydore, good night. [_Exit._

_Pol._ Good-night, Castalio, if you're in such haste.

He little thinks I've overheard the appointment,

But to his chamber's gone to wait awhile,

Then come and take possession of my love.

This is the utmost point of all my hopes;

Or now she must or never can be mine.

Oh, for a means now how to counterplot,

And disappoint this happy elder brother!

In every thing we do or undertake,

He soars above me, mount what height I can,

And keeps the start he got of me in birth.

Cordelio!

_Re-enter_ Page.

_Page._ My lord.

_Pol._ Come hither, boy.

Thou hast a pretty, forward, lying face,

And mayst in time expect preferment; canst thou

Pretend to secrecy, cajole and flatter

Thy master's follies, and assist his pleasures?

_Page._ My lord, I could do anything for you,

And ever be a very faithful boy.

Command, whate'er's your pleasure I'll observe,

Be it to run, or watch, or to convey

A letter to a beauteous lady's bosom:

At least I am not dull, and soon should learn.

_Pol._ 'Tis pity then thou shouldst not be employed.

Go to my brother; he's in's chamber now

Undressing, and preparing for his rest;

Find out some means to keep him up awhile

Tell him a pretty story that may please

His ear; invent a tale, no matter what;

If he should ask of me, tell him I'm gone

To bed, and sent you there to know his pleasure,

Whether he'll hunt to-morrow.--Well said, Polydore;

Dissemble with thy brother.--That's one point;

But do not leave him till he's in his bed:

Or if he chance to walk again this way,

Follow and do not quit him, but seem fond

To do him little offices of service.

Perhaps at last it may offend him; then

Retire, and wait till I come in. Away:

Succeed in this, and be employed again.

_Page._ Doubt not, my lord: he has been always kind

To me; would often set me on his knees;

Then give me sweetmeats, call me pretty boy,

And ask me what the maids talked of at nights.

_Pol._ Run quickly then, and prosperous be thy wishes! [_Exit_ PAGE.

Here I'm alone, and fit for mischief; now

To cheat this brother, will't be honest that?

I heard the sign she ordered him to give.

O for the art of Proteus, but to change

The happy Polydore to blest Castalio!

She's not so well acquainted with him yet,

But I may fit her arms as well as he.

Then when I'm happily possessed of more

Than sense can think, all loosened into joy,

To hear my disappointed brother come,

And give the unregarded signal--oh,

What a malicious pleasure will that be!

"Just three soft strokes against the chamber-door:

But speak not the least word; for if you should,

'Tis surely heard, and we are both betrayed."

How I adore a mistress that contrives

With care to lay the business of her joys!

One that has wit to charm the very soul,

And give a double relish to delight!

Blest Heaven, assist me but in this dear hour,

And my kind stars be but propitious now,

Dispose of me hereafter as you please!

Monimia! Monimia! [_Gives the sign._

_Flor._ [_At the window._] Who's there?

_Pol._ 'Tis I.

_Flor._ My Lord Castalio?

_Pol._ The same.

How does my love, my dear Monimia?

_Flor._ Oh!

She wonders much at your unkind delay;

You've stayed so long, that at each little noise

The wind but makes, she asks if you are coming.

_Pol._ Tell her I'm here, and let the door be opened.

[FLORELLA _retires_.

Now boast, Castalio; triumph now, and tell

Thyself strange stories of a promised bliss! [_The door is unbolted._

It opens: ha! what means my trembling flesh?

Limbs, do your office and support me well;

Bear me to her, then fail me if you can. [_Exit._

_Re-enter_ CASTALIO _and_ Page.

_Page._ Indeed, my lord, 'twill be a lovely morning;

Pray let us hunt.

_Cast._ Go, you're an idle prattler.

I'll stay at home to-morrow: if your lord

Thinks fit, he may command my hounds. Go, leave me;

I must to bed.

_Page._ I'll wait upon your lordship,

If you think fit, and sing you to repose.

_Cast._ No, my kind boy, the night is too far wasted;

My senses too are quite disrobed of thought,

And ready all with me to go to rest.

Good-night: commend me to my brother.

_Page._ Oh! you never heard the last new song I learnt; it is

the finest, prettiest song indeed, of my lord and my lady you

know who, that were caught together, you know where. My lord,

indeed, it is.

_Cast._ You must be whipped, youngster, if you get such songs

as those are. What means this boy's impertinence to-night?

_Page._ Why, what must I sing, pray, my dear lord?

_Cast._ Psalms, child, psalms.

_Page._ Oh dear me! boys that go to school learn psalms; but

pages, that are better bred, sing lampoons.

_Cast._ Well, leave me; I'm weary.

_Page._ Oh! but you promised me, last time I told you what

colour my Lady Monimia's stockings were of, and that she

gartered them above the knee, that you would give me a little

horse to go a-hunting upon; so you did. I'll tell you no more

stories, except you keep your word with me.

_Cast._ Well, go, you trifler, and to-morrow ask me.

_Page._ Indeed, my lord, I can't abide to leave you.

_Cast._ Why, wert thou instructed to attend me?

_Page._ No, no, indeed, indeed, my lord, I was not; But I know

what I know.

_Cast._ What dost thou know? Death! what can all this mean?

_Page._ Oh! I know who loves somebody.

_Cast._ What's that to me, boy?

_Page._ Nay, I know who loves you too.

_Cast._ That is a wonder; pr'ythee tell it me.

_Page._ That--'tis--I know who--but will you give me the horse

then?

_Cast._ I will, my child.

_Page._ It is my Lady Monimia, look you; but don't you tell

her I told you: she'll give me no more playthings then, I heard

her say so as she lay a-bed, man.

_Cast._ Talked she of me when in her bed, Cordelio?

_Page._ Yes, and I sung her the song you made too; and she did

so sigh, and so look with her eyes, and her breasts did so lift

up and down; I could have found in my heart to have beat them,

for they made me ashamed.

_Cast._ Hark, what's that noise? Take this, begone, and leave me.

You knave, you little flatterer, get you gone. [_Exit_ Page.

Surely it was a noise. Hist!--only fancy;

For all is hushed, as Nature were retired,

And the perpetual motion standing still,

So much she from her work appears to cease,

And every warring element's at peace;

All the wild herds are in their coverts couched;

The fishes to their banks or ooze repaired,

And to the murmurs of the waters sleep;

The feeling air's at rest, and feels[21] no noise,

Except of some soft breaths among the trees,

Rocking the harmless birds that rest upon them.

'Tis now that, guided by my love, I go

To take possession of Monimia's arms.

Sure Polydore's by this time gone to bed.

At midnight thus the usurer steals untracked,

To make a visit to his hoarded gold,

And feast his eyes upon the shining mammon. [_Knocks._

She hears me not; sure she already sleeps;

Her wishes could not brook my long delay,

And her poor heart has beat itself to rest. [_Knocks again._

Monimia! my angel--ha!--not yet--

How long's the shortest[22] moment of delay

To a heart impatient of its pangs, like mine,

In sight of ease, and panting to the goal!

Once more--[_Knocks again._

_Flor._ [_At the window._] Who's there,

That comes thus rudely to disturb our rest?

_Cast._ 'Tis I.

_Flor._ Who are you? what's your name?

_Cast._ Suppose

The Lord Castalio.

_Flor._ I know you not.

The Lord Castalio has no business here.

_Cast._ Ha! have a care; what can this mean? whoe'er

Thou art, I charge thee to Monimia fly;

Tell her I'm here, and wait upon my doom.

_Flor._ Whoe'er ye are, ye may repent this outrage;

My lady must not be disturbed. Good-night.

_Cast._ She must, tell her she shall; go, I'm in haste,

And bring her tidings from the State of Love;

They're all in consultation met together,

How to reward my truth, and crown her vows.

_Flor._ Sure the man's mad!

_Cast._ Or this will make me so.

Obey me, or, by all the wrongs I suffer,

I'll scale the window, and come in by force,

Let the sad consequence be what it will.--

This creature's trifling folly makes me mad.

_Flor._ My lady's answer is, you may depart;

She says she knows you: you are Polydore,

Sent by Castalio, as you were to-day,

To affront and do her violence again.

_Cast._ I'll not believe't.

_Flor._ You may, sir.

_Cast._ Curses blast thee!

_Flor._ Well, 'tis a fine cool evening; and I hope

May cure the raging fever in your blood.

Good-night. [_Retires._

_Cast._ And farewell all that's just in woman!

This is contrived, a studied trick to abuse

My easy nature, and torment my mind;

Sure now she has bound me fast, and means to lord it,

To rein me hard, and ride me at her will,

Till by degrees she shape me into fool

For all her future uses. Death and torment!

'Tis impudence to think my soul will bear it.

Oh, I could grow even wild, and tear my hair

'Tis well, Monimia, that thy empire's short

Let but to-morrow, but to-morrow come,

And try if all thy arts appease my wrong;

Till when, be this detested place my bed, [_Lies down._

Where I will ruminate on woman's ills,

Laugh at myself, and curse the inconstant sex.

Faithless Monimia! O Monimia!

_Enter_ ERNESTO.

_Ern._ Either

My sense has been deluded, or this way

I heard the sound of sorrow; 'tis late night,

And none whose mind's at peace would wander now.

_Cast._ Who's there?

_Ern._ A friend.

_Cast._ If thou art so, retire,

And leave this place; for I would be alone.

_Ern._ Castalio! My lord, why in this posture,

Stretched on the ground? Your honest, true, old servant,

Your poor Ernesto, cannot see you thus;

Rise, I beseech you.

_Cast._ If thou art Ernesto,

As by thy honesty thou seem'st to be,

Once leave me to my folly.

_Ern._ I can't leave you,

And not the reason know of your disorders.

Remember how, when young, I in my arms

Have often borne you, pleased you in your pleasures,

And sought an early share in your affection.

Do not discard me now, but let me serve you.

_Cast._ Thou canst not serve me.

_Ern._ Why?

_Cast._ Because my thoughts

Are full of woman; thou, poor wretch, art past them.

_Ern._ I hate the sex.

_Cast._ Then I'm thy friend, Ernesto. [_Rises._

I'd leave the world for him that hates a woman.

Woman, the fountain of all human frailty!

What mighty ills have not been done by woman!

Who was't betrayed the Capitol? A woman.

Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman.

Who was the cause of a long ten years' war,

And laid at last old Troy in ashes? Woman,

Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!

Woman to man first as a blessing given,

When innocence and love were in their prime!

Happy awhile in Paradise they lay,

But quickly woman longed to go astray;

Some foolish new adventure needs must prove,

And the first devil she saw, she changed her love;

To his temptations lewdly she inclined

Her soul, and for an apple damned mankind. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[20] _i.e._ Palm off false beauty.

[21] Hears.

[22] "Softest" in original edition.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.--_A Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ ACASTO.

Acast. Blest be the morning that has brought me health;

A happy rest has softened pain away,

And I'll forget it, though my mind's not well:

A heavy melancholy clogs my heart;

I droop and sigh, I know not why. Dark dreams,

Sick fancy's children, have been over-busy,

And all the night played farces in my brains.

Methought I heard the midnight raven cry;

Waked with the imagined noise, my curtains seemed

To start, and at my feet my sons appeared,

Like ghosts, all pale and stiff: I strove to speak,

But could not; suddenly the forms were lost,

And seemed to vanish in a bloody cloud.

'Twas odd, and for the present shook my thoughts;

But was the effect of my distempered blood;

And, when the health's disturbed, the mind's unruly.

_Enter_ POLYDORE.

Good-morning, Polydore.

_Pol._ Heaven keep your lordship!

_Acast._ Have you yet seen Castalio to-day?

_Pol._ My lord, 'tis early day; he's hardly risen.

_Acast._ Go, call him up, and meet me in the chapel. [_Exit_ POLYDORE.

I cannot think all has gone well to-night;

For as I waking lay (and sure my sense

Was then my own) methought I heard my son

Castalio's voice; but it seemed low and mournful;

Under my window too I thought I heard it:

My untoward fancy could not be deceived

In everything; and I will search the truth out.

_Enter_ MONIMIA _and_ FLORELLA.

Already up, Monimia! you rose

Thus early surely to outshine the day!

Or was there anything that crossed your rest?

They were naughty thoughts that would not let you sleep.

_Mon._ Whatever are my thoughts, my lord, I've learnt

By your example to correct their ills,

And morn and evening give up the account.

_Acast._ Your pardon, sweet one; I upbraid you not;

Or, if I would, you are so good I could not;

Though I'm deceived, or you're more fair to-day;

For beauty's heightened in your cheeks, and all

Your charms seem up and ready in your eyes.

_Mon._ The little share I have's so very mean

That it may easily admit addition;

Though you, my lord, should most of all beware

To give it too much praise, and make me proud.

_Acast._ Proud of an old man's praises! No, Monimia!

But if my prayers can do you any good,

Thou shalt not want the largest share of them.

Heard you no noise to-night?

_Mon._ Noise, my good lord!

_Acast._ Ay, about midnight?

_Mon._ Indeed, my lord, I don't remember any.

_Acast._ You must, sure! Went you early to your rest?

_Mon._ About the wonted hour.--Why this inquiry? [_Aside._

_Acast._ And went your maid to bed too?

_Mon._ My lord, I guess so:

I've seldom known her disobey my orders.

_Acast._ Sure goblins then, or fairies, haunt the dwelling!

I'll have inquiry made through all the house,

But I'll find out the cause of these disorders.

Good-day to thee, Monimia. I'll to chapel. [_Exit._

_Mon._ I'll but dispatch some orders to my woman,

And wait upon your lordship there.

I fear the priest has played us false; if so,

My poor Castalio loses all for me.

I wonder, though, he made such haste to leave me;

Was't not unkind, Florella? surely 'twas!

He scarce afforded one kind parting word,

But went away so cold!--the kiss he gave me

Seemed the forced compliment of sated love.

Would I had never married!

_Flor._ Why?

_Mon._ Methinks

The scene's quite altered; I am not the same;

I've bound up for myself a weight of cares,

And how the burden will be borne, none knows.

A husband may be jealous, rigid, false;

And, should Castalio e'er prove so to me,

So tender is my heart, so nice my love,

'Twould ruin and distract my rest for ever.

_Flor._ Madam, he's coming.

_Mon._ Where, Florella? where?

Is he returning? To my chamber lead;

I'll meet him there: the mysteries of our love

Should be kept private as religious rites

From the unhallowed view of common eyes. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_Another Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ CASTALIO.

_Cast._ Wished morning's come! And now, upon the plains

And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,

The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,

And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day.

The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip

Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,

With much content and appetite, he eats,

To follow in the fields his daily toil,

And dress the grateful glebe, that yields him fruits.

The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,

And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up,

And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise

The voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow

The cheerful birds too, on the tops of trees,

Assemble all in quires, and with their notes

Salute and welcome up the rising sun.

There's no condition sure so cursed as mine;

I'm married! 'Sdeath! I'm sped. How like a dog

Looked Hercules, thus to a distaff chained!

Monimia! O Monimia!

_Enter_ MONIMIA _and_ FLORELLA.

_Mon._ I come,

I fly to my adored Castalio's arms,

My wishes' lord. May every morn begin

Like this; and with our days our loves renew!

Now I may hope you're satisfied-- [_Looking languishingly on him._

_Cast._ I am

Well satisfied--that thou art--Oh!--

_Mon._ What? speak.

Art thou not well, Castalio? Come, lean

Upon my breasts, and tell me where's thy pain.

_Cast._ 'Tis here; 'tis in my head; 'tis in my heart;

'Tis everywhere; it rages like a madness;

And I most wonder how my reason holds!

Nay, wonder not, Monimia: the slave

You thought you had secured within my breast

Is grown a rebel, and has broke his chain,

And now he walks there like a lord at large.

_Mon._ Am I not then your wife, your loved Monimia?

I once was so, or I've most strangely dreamt.

What ails my love?

_Cast._ Whate'er thy dreams have been,

Thy waking thoughts ne'er meant Castalio well.

No more, Monimia, of your sex's arts,

They're useless all: I'm not that pliant tool,

That necessary utensil you'd make me:

I know my charter better--I am man,

Obstinate man, and will not be enslaved.

_Mon._ You shall not fear't: indeed my nature's easy;

I'll ever live your most obedient wife,

Nor ever any privilege pretend

Beyond your will; for that shall be my law;--

Indeed I will not.

_Cast._ Nay, you shall not, madam;

By yon bright Heaven, you shall not! All the day

I'll play the tyrant, and at night forsake thee;

Till by afflictions, and continued cares,

I've worn thee to a homely household drudge:

Nay, if I've any too, thou shalt be made

Subservient to all my looser pleasures;

For thou hast wronged Castalio.

_Mon._ No more:

Oh, kill me here, or tell me my offence;

I'll never quit you else, but on these knees

Thus follow you all day, till they're worn bare,

And hang upon you like a drowning creature.

Castalio!

_Cast._ Away! Last night, last night!

_Mon._ It was our wedding-night.

_Cast._ No more! forget it.

_Mon._ Why? do you then repent?

_Cast._ I do.

_Mon._ O Heaven!

And will you leave me thus? Help, help, Florella!

[_He drags her to the door, breaks from her, and exit._

Help me to hold this yet loved cruel man.

Oh, my heart breaks--I'm dying! Oh--stand off!

I'll not indulge this woman's weakness; still,

Chafed and fomented, let my heart swell on,

Till with its injuries it burst, and shake,

With the dire blow, this prison to the earth.

_Flor._ What sad mistake has been the cause of this?

_Mon._ Castalio! Oh, how often has he swore

Nature should change, the sun and stars grow dark,

Ere he would falsify his vows to me!

Make haste, confusion, then! sun, lose thy light,

And stars, drop dead with sorrow to the earth!

For my Castalio's false.

_Flor._ Unhappy day!

_Mon._ False as the wind, the water, or the weather;

Cruel as tigers o'er their trembling prey:

I feel him in my breast, he tears my heart,

And at each sigh he drinks the gushing blood.

Must I be long in pain?

_Enter_ CHAMONT.

_Cham._ In tears, Monimia?

_Mon._ Whoe'er thou art,

Leave me alone to my beloved despair.

_Cham._ Lift up thy eyes, and see who comes to cheer thee.

Tell me the story of thy wrongs, and then

See if my soul has rest till thou hast justice.

_Mon._ My brother!

_Cham._ Yes, Monimia, if thou think'st

That I deserve the name, I am thy brother.

_Mon._ O Castalio!

_Cham._ Ha!

Name me that name again! My soul's on fire

Till I know all: there's meaning in that name.

I know he is thy husband; therefore trust me

With all the following truth--

_Mon._ Indeed, Chamont,

There's nothing in it but the fault of nature:

I'm often thus seized suddenly with grief,

I know not why.

_Cham._ You use me ill, Monimia;

And I might think, with justice, most severely

Of this unfaithful dealing with your brother.

_Mon._ Truly I'm not to blame: suppose I'm fond,

And grieve for what as much may please another?

Should I upbraid the dearest friend on earth

For the first fault? you would not do so, would you?

_Cham._ Not if I'd cause to think it was a friend.

_Mon._ Why do you then call this unfaithful dealing?

I ne'er concealed my soul from you before:

Bear with me now, and search my wounds no farther;

For every probing pains me to the heart.

_Cham._ 'Tis sign there's danger in't must be prevented.

Where's your new husband? still that thought disturbs you.

What! only answer me with tears? Castalio!

Nay, now they stream;--

Cruel, unkind Castalio! is't not so?

_Mon._ I cannot speak, grief flows so fast upon me;

It chokes, and will not let me tell the cause.

Oh!

_Cham._ My Monimia, to my soul thou'rt dear,

As honour to my name; dear as the light

To eyes but just restored, and healed of blindness.

Why wilt thou not repose within my breast

The anguish that torments thee?

_Mon._ Oh! I dare not.

_Cham._ I have no friend but thee; we must confide

In one another. Two unhappy orphans,

Alas, we are; and, when I see thee grieve,

Methinks it is a part of me that suffers.

_Mon._ Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,

I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn me;

Thou wouldst despise the abject, lost Monimia;

No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but

When in some cell, distracted, as I shall be,

Thou seest me lie, these unregarded locks

Matted like furies' tresses; my poor limbs

Chained to the ground; and, 'stead of the delights

Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes,

A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish

Of wretched sustenance;--when thus thou seest me,

Pr'ythee have charity and pity for me:

Let me enjoy this thought!

_Cham._ Why wilt thou rack

My soul so long, Monimia? Ease me quickly;

Or thou wilt run me into madness first.

_Mon._ Could you be secret?

_Cham._ Secret as the grave.

_Mon._ But when I've told you, will you keep your fury

Within its bounds? will you not do some rash

And horrid mischief? for, indeed, Chamont,

You would not think how hardly I've been used

From a near friend; from one that has my soul

A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant.

_Cham._ I will be calm. But has Castalio wronged thee?

Has he already wasted all his love?

What has he done? quickly; for I'm all trembling

With expectation of a horrid tale.

_Mon._ Oh! could you think it?

_Cham._ What?

_Mon._ I fear he'll kill me.

_Cham._ Ha!

_Mon._ Indeed I do; he's strangely cruel to me;

Which, if it lasts, I'm sure must break my heart.

_Cham._ What has he done?

_Mon._ Most barbarously used me:

Nothing so kind as he, when in my arms,

In thousand kisses, tender sighs and joys,

Not to be thought again, the night was wasted.

At dawn of day, he rose, and left his conquest;

But when we met, and I with open arms

Ran to embrace the lord of all my wishes,

Oh, then--

_Cham._ Go on!

_Mon._ He threw me from his breast,

Like a detested sin.

_Cham._ How!

_Mon._ As I hung too

Upon his knees, and begged to know the cause,

He dragged me like a slave upon the earth,

And had no pity on my cries.

_Cham._ How! did he

Dash thee disdainfully away with scorn?

_Mon._ He did; and more, I fear will ne'er be friends,

Though I still love him with unbated passion.

_Cham._ What, throw thee from him!

_Mon._ Yes, indeed, he did.

_Cham._ So may this arm

Throw him to the earth, like a dead dog despised!

Lameness and leprosy, blindness and lunacy,

Poverty, shame, pride, and the name of villain,

Light on me, if, Castalio, I forgive thee!

_Mon._ Nay, now, Chamont, art thou unkind as he is:

Didst thou not promise me thou wouldst be calm?

Keep my disgrace concealed; why shouldst thou kill him?

By all my love, this arm should do him vengeance.

Alas! I love him still; and though I ne'er

Clasp him again within these longing arms,

Yet bless him, bless him, gods, where'er he goes!

_Enter_ ACASTO.

_Acast._ Sure some ill fate is towards me; in my house

I only meet with oddness and disorder:

Each vassal has a wild distracted face,

And looks as full of business as a blockhead

In times of danger: just this very moment

I met Castalio--

_Cham._ Then you met a villain.

_Acast._ Ha!

_Cham._ Yes, a villain.

_Acast._ Have a care, young soldier,

How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame;

I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance.

Villain to thee!

_Cham._ Curse on thy scandalous age,

Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat,

And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!

_Acast._ Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend

Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee:

What have I done in my unhappy age,

To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy;

But I could put thee in remembrance--

_Cham._ Do.

_Acast._ I scorn it!

_Cham._ No, I'll calmly hear the story;

For I would fain know all, to see which scale

Weighs most--Ha! is not that good old Acasto?

What have I done?--can you forgive this folly?

_Acast._ Why dost thou ask it?

_Cham._ 'Twas the rude o'erflowing

Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [_Kneels._

_Acast._ Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a wrong.

_Cham._ I know it well; but for this thought of mine,

Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it.

_Acast._ I will; but henceforth, pr'ythee, be more kind.

[_Raises him._

Whence came the cause?

_Cham._ Indeed I've been to blame:

But I'll learn better; for you've been my father:

You've been her father too-- [_Takes_ MONIMIA _by the hand_.

_Acast._ Forbear the prologue,

And let me know the substance of thy tale.

_Cham._ You took her up a little tender flower,

Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost

Had nipped; and, with a careful loving hand,

Transplanted her into your own fair garden,

Where the sun always shines; there long she flourished,

Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye;

Till, at the last, a cruel spoiler came,

Cropped this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,

Then cast it, like a loathsome weed, away.

_Acast._ You talk to me in parables, Chamont.

You may have known that I'm no wordy man:

Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves,

Or fools, that use them when they want good sense;

But honesty

Needs no disguise nor ornament. Be plain.

_Cham._ Your son--

_Acast._ I've two; and both, I hope, have honour.

_Cham._ I hope so too--but--

_Acast._ Speak.

_Cham._ I must inform you,

Once more, Castalio--

_Acast._ Still Castalio!

_Cham._ Yes.

Your son Castalio has wronged Monimia.

_Acast._ Ha! wronged her?

_Cham._ Married her.

_Acast._ I'm sorry for't.

_Cham._ Why sorry? By yon blest Heaven! there's not a lord

But might be proud to take her to his heart.

_Acast._ I'll not deny't.

_Cham._ You dare not; by the gods!

You dare not; all your family, combined

In one damned falsehood to out-do Castalio,

Dare not deny't.

_Acast._ How has Castalio wronged her?

_Cham._ Ask that of him: I say, my sister's wronged;

Monimia, my sister, born as high

And noble as Castalio. Do her justice,

Or, by the gods! I'll lay a scene of blood

Shall make this dwelling horrible to nature.

I'll do't. Hark you, my lord; your son Castalio,

Take him to your closet, and there teach him manners.

_Acast._ You shall have justice.

_Cham._ Nay, I will have justice.

Who'll sleep in safety that has done me wrong?

My lord, I'll not disturb you to repeat

The cause of this: I beg you (to preserve

Your house's honour) ask it of Castalio.

_Acast._ I will.

_Cham._ Till then, farewell! [_Exit._

_Acast._ Farewell, proud boy!

Monimia!

_Mon._ My lord.

_Acast._ You are my daughter.

_Mon._ I am, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe to own me.

_Acast._ When you'll complain to me, I'll prove a father. [_Exit._

_Mon._ Now I'm undone for ever: who on earth

Is there so wretched as Monimia?

First by Castalio cruelly forsaken;

I've lost Acasto now: his parting frowns

May well instruct me rage is in his heart:

I shall be next abandoned to my fortune,

Thrust out a naked wanderer to the world,

And branded for the mischievous Monimia!

What will become of me? My cruel brother

Is framing mischiefs too, for aught I know,

That may produce bloodshed, and horrid murder;

I would not be the cause of one man's death,

To reign the empress of the earth; nay, more,

I'd rather lose for ever my Castalio,

My dear unkind Castalio!

_Enter_ POLYDORE.

_Pol._ Monimia weeping!

So morning dews on new-blown roses lodge,

By the sun's amorous heat to be exhaled.

I come, my love, to kiss all sorrow from thee.

What mean these sighs? and why thus beats thy heart?

_Mon._ Let me alone to sorrow: 'tis a cause

None e'er shall know; but it shall with me die.

_Pol._ Happy, Monimia, he to whom these sighs,

These tears, and all these languishings are paid!

I am no stranger to your dearest secret;

I know your heart was never meant for me:

That jewel's for an elder brother's price.

_Mon._ My lord!

_Pol._ Nay, wonder not; last night I heard

His oaths, your vows, and to my torment saw

Your wild embraces; heard the appointment made:

I did, Monimia, and I cursed the sound.

Wilt thou be sworn my love? wilt thou be ne'er

Unkind again?

_Mon._ Banish such fruitless hopes:

Have you sworn constancy to my undoing?

Will you be ne'er my friend again?

_Pol._ What means

My love?

_Mon._ Away! What meant my lord, last night?

_Pol._ Is that a question now to be demanded?

I hope Monimia was not much displeased.

_Mon._ Was it well done to treat me like a prostitute?

To assault my lodging at the dead of night,

And threaten me if I denied admittance?--

You said you were Castalio--

_Pol._ By those eyes!

It was the same; I spent my time much better;

I tell thee, ill-natured fair one, I was posted

To more advantage,--on a pleasant hill

Of springing joy, and everlasting sweetness.

_Mon._ Ha!--have a care--

_Pol._ Where is the danger near me?

_Mon._ I fear you're on a rock will wreck your quiet,

And drown your soul in wretchedness for ever;

A thousand horrid thoughts crowd on my memory.

Will you be kind, and answer me one question?

_Pol._ I'd trust thee with my life; on those soft breasts

Breathe out the choicest secrets of my heart,

Till I had nothing in it left but love.

_Mon._ Nay, I'll conjure you, by the gods, and angels,

By the honour of your name, that's most concerned,

To tell me, Polydore, and tell me truly,

Where did you rest last night?

_Pol._ Within thy arms

I triumphed: rest had been my foe.

_Mon._ 'Tis done. [_She faints._

_Pol._ She faints! No help! Who waits? A curse

Upon my vanity, that could not keep

The secret of my happiness in silence.

Confusion! we shall be surprised anon;

And consequently all must be betrayed.

Monimia!--she breathes.--Monimia!

_Mon._ Well;

Let mischiefs multiply! Let every hour

Of my loathed life yield me increase of horror!

Oh, let the sun to these unhappy eyes

Ne'er shine again, but be eclipsed for ever!

May every thing I look on seem a prodigy,

To fill my soul with terrors, till I quite

Forget I ever had humanity,

And grow a curser of the works of nature!

_Pol._ What means all this?

_Mon._ Oh, Polydore, if all

The friendship e'er you vowed to good Castalio

Be not a falsehood; if you ever loved

Your brother, you've undone yourself and me.

_Pol._ Which way can ruin reach the man that's rich,

As I am, in possession of thy sweetness?

_Mon._ Oh! I'm his wife.

_Pol._ What says Monimia? ha!

Speak that again.

_Mon._ I am Castalio's wife.

_Pol_. His married, wedded wife?

_Mon._ Yesterday's sun

Saw it performed.

_Pol._ And then have I enjoyed

My brother's wife?

_Mon._ As surely as we both

Must taste of misery, that guilt is thine.

_Pol._ Must we be miserable then?

_Mon._ Oh!

_Pol_. Oh! thou mayst yet be happy.

_Mon._ Couldst thou be

Happy, with such a weight upon thy soul?

_Pol._ It may be yet a secret: I'll go try

To reconcile and bring Castalio to thee;

Whilst from the world I take myself away,

And waste my life in penance for my sin.

_Mon._ Then thou wouldst more undo me; heap a load

Of added sins upon my wretched head:

Wouldst thou again have me betray thy brother,

And bring pollution to his arms? curst thought!

Oh, when shall I be mad indeed!

_Pol._ Nay, then,

Let us embrace, and from this very moment

Vow an eternal misery together.

_Mon._ And wilt thou be a very faithful wretch?

Never grow fond of cheerful peace again?

Wilt thou with me study to be unhappy,

And find out ways how to increase affliction?

_Pol._ We'll institute new arts unknown before

To vary plagues, and make them look like new ones.

First, if, the fruit of our detested joy,

A child be born, it shall be murdered--

_Mon._ No;

Sure that may live?

_Pol._ Why?

_Mon._ To become a thing

More wretched than its parents; to be branded

With all our infamy, and curse its birth.

_Pol._ That's well contrived; then thus let's go together,

Full of our guilt, distracted where to roam,

Like the first wretched pair expelled their paradise.

Let's find some place where adders nest in winter,

Loathsome and venomous; where poisons hang

Like gums against the walls; where witches meet

By night, and feed upon some pampered imp,

Fat with the blood of babes: there we'll inhabit,

And live up to the height of desperation.

Desire shall languish like a withering flower,

And no distinction of the sex be thought of.

Horrors shall fright me from those pleasing harms,

And I'll no more be caught with beauty's charms;

But when I'm dying, take me in thy arms! [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.--_The Garden before_ ACASTO'S _House_.

CASTALIO _discovered lying on the ground_.

SONG.

Come, all ye youths, whose hearts e'er bled

By cruel beauty's pride;

Bring each a garland on his head,

Let none his sorrows hide:

But hand in hand around me move,

Singing the saddest tales of love;

And see, when your complaints ye join,

If all your wrongs can equal mine.

The happiest mortal once was I;

My heart no sorrows knew:

Pity the pain with which I die;

But ask not whence it grew.

Yet if a tempting fair you find,

That's very lovely, very kind,

Though bright as Heaven, whose stamp she bears,

Think of my fate, and shun her snares.

_Cast._ See where the deer trot after one another,

Male, female, father, daughter, mother, son,

Brother and sister, mingled all together;

No discontent they know, but in delightful

Wildness and freedom, pleasant springs, fresh herbage,

Calm harbours, lusty health and innocence,

Enjoy their portion; if they see a man,

How will they turn together all, and gaze

Upon the monster!

Once in a season too they taste of love:

Only the beast of reason is its slave,

And in that folly drudges all the year.

_Enter_ ACASTO.

_Acast._ Castalio! Castalio!

_Cast._ Who's there

So wretched but to name Castalio?

_Acast._ I hope my message may succeed.

_Cast._ My father!

'Tis joy to see you, though where sorrow's nourished.

_Acast._ I'm come in beauty's cause; you'll guess the rest.

_Cast._ A woman! if you love my peace of mind,

Name not a woman to me; but to think

Of woman, were enough to taint my brains,

Till they ferment to madness! O my father!

_Acast._ What ails my boy?

_Cast._ A woman is the thing

I would forget, and blot from my remembrance.

_Acast._ Forget Monimia!

_Cast._ She to choose: Monimia!

The very sound's ungrateful to my sense.

_Acast._ This might seem strange; but you, I've found, will hide

Your heart from me; you dare not trust your father.

_Cast._ No more Monimia!

_Acast._ Is she not your wife?

_Cast._ So much the worse: who loves to hear of wife?

When you would give all worldly plagues a name

Worse than they have already, call them wife:

But a new-married wife's a teeming mischief,

Full of herself: why, what a deal of horror

Has that poor wretch to come, that wedded yesterday!

_Acast._ Castalio, you must go along with me,

And see Monimia.

_Cast._ Sure, my lord but mocks me:

Go see Monimia! Pray, my lord, excuse me;

And leave the conduct of this part of life

To my own choice.

_Acast._ I say, no more dispute:

Complaints are made to me, that you have wronged her.

_Cast._ Who has complained?

_Acast._ Her brother to my face proclaimed her wronged,

And in such terms they've warmed me.

_Cast._ What terms? Her brother! Heaven! where learnt he that?

What, does she send her hero with defiance?

He durst not sure affront you?

_Acast._ No, not much.

But--

_Cast._ Speak, what said he?

_Acast._ That thou wert a villain:

Methinks I would not have thee thought a villain.

_Cast._ Shame on the ill-mannered brute! Your age secured him;

He durst not else have said so.

_Acast._ By my sword,

I would not see thee wronged, and bear it vilely;

Though I have passed my word she shall have justice.

_Cast._ Justice! to give her justice would undo her:

Think you this solitude I now have chosen,

Left joys just opening to my sense, sought here

A place to curse my fate in, measured out

My grave at length, wished to have grown one piece

With this cold clay, and all without a cause?

_Enter_ CHAMONT.

_Cham._ Where is the hero, famous and renowned

For wronging innocence, and breaking vows;

Whose mighty spirit, and whose stubborn heart,

No woman can appease, nor man provoke?

_Acast._ I guess, Chamont, you come to seek Castalio.

_Cham._ I come to seek the husband of Monimia.

_Cast._ The slave is here.

_Cham._ I thought ere now to have found you

Atoning for the ills you've done Chamont;

For you have wronged the dearest part of him.

Monimia, young lord, weeps in this heart;

And all the tears thy injuries have drawn

From her poor eyes are drops of blood from hence.

_Cast._ Then you're Chamont?

_Cham._ Yes, and I hope no stranger

To great Castalio.

_Cast._ I've heard of such a man,

That has been very busy with my honour.

I own I'm much indebted to you, sir;

And here return the villain back again

You sent me by my father.

_Cham._ Thus I'll thank you. [_Draws._

_Acast._ By this good sword, who first presumes to violence

Makes me his foe! [_Draws, and interposes._

Young man, it once was thought [_To_ CASTALIO.

I was fit guardian of my house's honour,

And you might trust your share with me.--For you, [_To_ CHAMONT.

Young soldier, I must tell you, you have wronged me:

I promised you to do Monimia right;

And thought my word a pledge I would not forfeit:

But you, I find, would fright us to performance.

_Cast._ Sir, in my younger years with care you taught me

That brave revenge was due to injured honour;

Oppose not then the justice of my sword,

Lest you should make me jealous of your love.

_Cham._ Into thy father's arms thou fliest for safety,

Because thou know'st the place is sanctified

With the remembrance of an ancient friendship.

_Cast._ I am a villain if I will not seek thee,

Till I may be revenged for all the wrongs

Done me by that ungrateful fair thou plead'st for.

_Cham._ She wronged thee! by the fury in my heart,

Thy father's honour's not above Monimia's!

Nor was thy mother's truth and virtue fairer.

_Acast._ Boy, don't disturb the ashes of the dead

With thy capricious follies: the remembrance

Of the loved creature that once filled these arms--

_Cham._ Has not been wronged.

_Cast._ It shall not.

_Cham._ No, nor shall

Monimia, though a helpless orphan, destitute

Of friends and fortune, though the unhappy sister

Of poor Chamont, whose sword is all his portion,

Be oppressed by thee, thou proud, imperious traitor!

_Cast._ Ha! set me free.

_Cham._ Come both!

_Enter_ SERINA.

_Ser._ Alas! alas!

The cause of these disorders, my Chamont?

Who is't has wronged thee?

_Cast._ Now where art thou fled

For shelter?

_Cham._ Come from thine, and see what safeguard

Shall then betray my fears.

_Ser._ Cruel Castalio,

Sheathe up thy angry sword, and don't affright me.

Chamont, let once Serina calm thy breast;

If any of my friends have done thee injuries,

I'll be revenged, and love thee better for it.

_Cast._ Sir, if you'd have me think you did not take

This opportunity to show your vanity,

Let's meet some other time, when by ourselves

We fairly may dispute our wrongs together.

_Cham._ Till then, I am Castalio's friend.

_Cast._ Serina,

Farewell; I wish much happiness attend you.

_Ser._ Chamont's the dearest thing I have on earth;

Give me Chamont, and let the world forsake me!

_Cham._ Witness the gods, how happy I'm in thee!

No beauteous blossom of the fragrant spring,

Though the fair child of nature newly born,

Can be so lovely.--Angry, unkind Castalio,

Suppose I should awhile lay by my passions,

And be a beggar in Monimia's cause,

Might it be heard?

_Cast._ Sir, 'twas my last request

You would, though you I find will not be satisfied:

So, in a word, Monimia is my scorn;

She basely sent you here to try my fears;

That was your business.

No artful prostitute, in falsehoods practised,

To make advantage of her coxcomb's follies,

Could have done more--disquiet vex her for't!

_Cham._ Farewell. [_Exeunt_ CHAMONT _and_ SERINA.

_Cast._ Farewell.--My father, you seem troubled.

_Acast._ Would I'd been absent when this boisterous brave

Came to disturb thee thus! I'm grieved I hindered

Thy just resentment. But Monimia--

_Cast._ Damn her!

_Acast._ Don't curse her.

_Cast._ Did I?

_Acast._ Yes.

_Cast._ I'm sorry for't.

_Acast._ Methinks, if, as I guess, the fault's but small,

It might be pardoned.

_Cast._ No.

_Acast._ What has she done?

_Cast._ That she's my wife, may Heaven and you forgive me!

_Acast._ Be reconciled then.

_Cast._ No.

_Acast._ Go see her.

_Cast._ No.

_Acast._ I'll send and bring her hither.

_Cast._ No.

_Acast._ For my sake,

Castalio, and the quiet of my age.

_Cast._ Why will you urge a thing my nature starts at?

_Acast._ Pr'ythee forgive her.

_Cast._ Lightnings first shall blast me!

I tell you, were she prostrate at my feet,

Full of her sex's best dissembled sorrows,

And all that wondrous beauty of her own,

My heart might break, but it should never soften.

_Enter_ FLORELLA.

_Flor._ My lord, where are you? O Castalio!

_Acast._ Hark!

_Cast._ What's that?

_Flor._ Oh, show me quickly, where's Castalio?

_Acast._ Why, what's the business?

_Flor._ Oh, the poor Monimia!

_Cast._ Ha!

_Acast._ What's the matter?

_Flor._ Hurried by despair,

She flies with fury over all the house,

Through every room of each apartment, crying,

"Where's my Castalio? give me my Castalio!"

Except she sees you, sure she'll grow distracted.

_Cast._ Ha! will she? does she name Castalio?

And with such tenderness? Conduct me quickly

To the poor lovely mourner. O my father!

_Acast._ Then wilt thou go? Blessings attend thy purpose.

_Cast._ I cannot hear Monimia's soul in sadness,

And be a man; my heart will not forget her.

But do not tell the world you saw this of me.

_Acast._ Delay not then, but haste and cheer thy love.

_Cast._ Oh! I will throw my impatient arms about her,

In her soft bosom sigh my soul to peace:

Till through the panting breast she finds the way

To mould my heart, and make it what she will.

Monimia! Oh! [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_A Room in_ ACASTO'S _House_.

_Enter_ MONIMIA.

_Mon._ Stand off, and give me room!

I will not rest till I have found Castalio,

My wishes' lord, comely as rising day,

Amidst ten thousand eminently known.

Flowers spring up where'er he treads; his eyes,

Fountains of brightness, cheering all about him--

When will they shine on me?--O stay, my soul!

I cannot die in peace till I have seen him.

_Enter_ CASTALIO.

_Cast._ Who talks of dying, with a voice so sweet

That life's in love with't?

_Mon._ Hark! 'tis he that answers;

So in a camp, though at the dead of night,

If but the trumpet's cheerful noise is heard,

All at the signal leap from downy rest,

And every heart awakes, as mine does now.

Where art thou?

_Cast._ Here, my love.

_Mon._ No nearer, lest I vanish.

_Cast._ Have I been in a dream then all this while?

And art thou but the shadow of Monimia?

Why dost thou fly me thus?

_Mon._ Oh! were it possible that we could drown

In dark oblivion but a few past hours,

We might be happy.

_Cast._ Is't then so hard, Monimia, to forgive

A fault, where humble love, like mine, implores thee?

For I must love thee, though it prove my ruin.

Which way shall I court thee?

What shall I do to be enough thy slave,

And satisfy the lovely pride that's in thee?

I'll kneel to thee, and weep a flood before thee:

Yet pr'ythee, tyrant, break not quite my heart;

But when my task of penitence is done,

Heal it again, and comfort me with love.

_Mon._ If I am dumb, Castalio, and want words

To pay thee back this mighty tenderness,

It is because I look on thee with horror,

And cannot see the man I so have wronged.

_Cast._ Thou hast not wronged me.

_Mon._ Ah! alas, thou talk'st

Just as thy poor heart thinks. Have not I wronged thee?

_Cast._ No.

_Mon._ Still thou wander'st in the dark, Castalio;

But wilt ere long stumble on horrid danger.

_Cast._ What means my love?

_Mon._ Couldst thou but forgive me!

_Cast._ What?

_Mon._ For my fault last night: alas, thou canst not!

_Cast._ I can, and do.

_Mon._ Thus crawling on the earth [_Kneels._

Would I that pardon meet; the only thing

Can make me view the face of Heaven with hope.

_Cast._ Then let's draw near. [_Raises her._

_Mon._ Ah me!

_Cast._ So in the fields,

When the destroyer has been out for prey,

The scattered lovers of the feathered kind,

Seeking, when danger's past, to meet again,

Make moan and call, by such degrees approach,

Till joining thus they bill, and spread their wings,

Murmuring love, and joy their fears are over.

_Mon._ Yet have a care, be not too fond of peace,

Lest, in pursuance of the goodly quarry,

Thou meet a disappointment that distracts thee.

_Cast._ My better angel, then, do thou inform me

What danger threatens me, and where it lies:

Why didst thou,--pr'ythee smile and tell me why,--

When I stood waiting underneath the window,

Quaking with fierce and violent desires

(The dropping dews fell cold upon my head,

Darkness enclosed, and the winds whistled round me,

Which with my mournful sighs made such sad music

As might have moved the hardest heart); why wert thou

Deaf to my cries, and senseless of my pains?

_Mon._ Did I not beg thee to forbear inquiry?

Read'st thou not something in my face, that speaks

Wonderful change and horror from within me?

_Cast._ Then there is something yet which I've not known:

What dost thou mean by horror, and forbearance

Of more inquiry? Tell me, I beg thee tell me;

And don't betray me to a second madness.

_Mon._ Must I?

_Cast._ If, labouring in the pangs of death,

Thou wouldst do anything to give me ease,

Unfold this riddle ere my thoughts grow wild,

And let in fears of ugly form upon me.

_Mon._ My heart won't let me speak it; but remember,

Monimia, poor Monimia tells you this,

We ne'er must meet again.

_Cast._ What means my destiny?

For all my good or evil fate dwells in thee.

Ne'er meet again!

_Mon._ No, never.

_Cast._ Where's the power

On earth, that dares not look like thee, and say so?

Thou art my heart's inheritance; I served

A long and painful, faithful slavery for thee,

And who shall rob me of the dear-bought blessing?

_Mon._ Time will clear all, but now let this content you:

Heaven has decreed, and therefore I've resolved,--

With torment I must tell it thee, Castalio,--

Ever to be a stranger to thy love;

In some far-distant country waste my life,

And from this day to see thy face no more.

_Cast._ Where am I? Sure I wander 'midst enchantment,

And never more shall find the way to rest.

But, O Monimia! art thou indeed resolved

To punish me with everlasting absence?

Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone already.

Methinks I stand upon a naked beach,

Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining,

Whilst afar off the vessel sails away,

Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked.

Wilt thou not turn?--Oh! could those eyes but speak,

I should know all, for love is pregnant in them;

They swell, they press their beams upon me still.

Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever,

Give me but one kind word to think upon,

And please myself withal, whilst my heart's breaking!

_Mon._ Ah, poor Castalio! [_Exit._

_Cast._ Pity! by the gods,

She pities me! Then thou wilt go eternally?

What means all this? why all this stir, to plague

A single wretch? If but your word can shake

This world to atoms, why so much ado

With me? Think me but dead, and lay me so.

_Enter_ POLYDORE.

_Pol._ To live, and live a torment to myself!

What dog would bear't, that knew but his condition?

We've little knowledge, and that makes us cowards,

Because it cannot tell us what's to come.

_Cast._ Who's there?

_Pol._ Why, what art thou?

_Cast._ My brother Polydore?

_Pol._ My name is Polydore.

_Cast._ Canst thou inform me--

_Pol._ Of what?

_Cast._ Of my Monimia?

_Pol._ No. Good-day.

_Cast._ In haste?

Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.

_Pol._ Indeed, and so to me does my Castalio.

_Cast._ Do I?

_Pol._ Thou dost.

_Cast._ Alas! I've wondrous reason;

I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee.

_Pol._ Why?

_Cast._ Oh! to tell thee would but put thy heart

To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,

And weep upon thy neck; I would repose

Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;

For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.

_Pol._ Be not too credulous; consider first;

Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?

_Cast._ Why dost thou ask me that? does this appear

Like a false friendship, when with open arms

And streaming eyes I run upon thy breast?

Oh, 'tis in thee alone I must have comfort!

_Pol._ I fear, Castalio, I have none to give thee.

_Cast._ Dost thou not love me then?

_Pol._ Oh, more than life:

I never had a thought of my Castalio

Might wrong the friendship we had vowed together.

Hast thou dealt so by me?

_Cast._ I hope I have.

_Pol._ Then tell me why this mourning; this disorder?

_Cast._ O Polydore! I know not how to tell thee;

Shame rises in my face, and interrupts

The story of my tongue.

_Pol._ I grieve my friend

Knows anything which he's ashamed to tell me;

Or didst thou e'er conceal thy thoughts from Polydore?

_Cast._ Oh! much too oft; but let me here conjure thee,

By all the kind affection of a brother,--

For I'm ashamed to call myself thy friend,--

Forgive me.

_Pol._ Well, go on.

_Cast._ Our destiny contrived

To plague us both with one unhappy love:

Thou, like a friend, a constant generous friend,

In its first pangs didst trust me with thy passion;

Whilst I still smoothed my pain with smiles before thee,

And made a contract I ne'er meant to keep.

_Pol._ How!

_Cast._ Still new ways I studied to abuse thee,

And kept thee as a stranger to my passion,

Till yesterday I wedded with Monimia.

_Pol._ Ah, Castalio,

Was that well done?

_Cast._ No; to conceal't from thee

Was much a fault.

_Pol._ A fault! When thou hast heard

The tale I'll tell, what wilt thou call it then?

_Cast._ How my heart throbs!

_Pol._ First, for thy friendship, traitor,

I cancel it thus; after this day I'll ne'er

Hold trust or converse with the false Castalio:

This witness Heaven!

_Cast._ What will my fate do with me?

I've lost all happiness, and know not why.

What means this, brother?

_Pol._ Perjured, treacherous wretch,

Farewell!

_Cast._ I'll be thy slave; and thou shalt use me

Just as thou wilt, do but forgive me.

_Pol._ Never.

_Cast._ Oh! think a little what thy heart is doing;

How from our infancy we hand in hand

Have trod the path of life in love together;

One bed has held us, and the same desires,

The same aversions, still employed our thoughts;

Whene'er had I a friend that was not Polydore's,

Or Polydore a foe that was not mine?

Even in the womb we embraced; and wilt thou now,

For the first fault, abandon and forsake me,

Leave me amidst afflictions to myself,

Plunged in the gulf of grief, and none to help me?

_Pol._ Go to Monimia; in her arms thou'lt find

Repose; she has the art of healing sorrows.

_Cast._ What arts?

_Pol._ Blind wretch, thou husband! there's a question!

Go to her fulsome bed, and wallow there,

Till some hot ruffian, full of lust and wine,

Come storm thee out, and show thee what's thy bargain.

_Cast._ Hold there, I charge thee!

_Pol._ Is she not a--

_Cast._ Whore?

_Pol._ Ay, whore; I think that word needs no explaining.

_Cast._ Alas! I can forgive even this to thee:

But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved

To find thee guilty of such low revenge,

To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.

_Pol._ It seems I lie then?

_Cast._ Should the bravest man

That e'er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper

What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars:

My friend may be mistaken.

_Pol._ Damn the evasion!

Thou mean'st the worst; and he's a base-born villain

That said I lied.

_Cast._ Do, draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;

There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.

A base-born villain!

_Pol._ Yes, thou never camest

From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put

A cheat upon my mother, and, instead

Of a true brother, in the cradle by me

Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.

_Cast._ Thou art my brother still.

_Pol._ Thou liest.

_Cast._ Nay then: [_He draws._

Yet I am calm.

_Pol._ A coward's always so.

_Cast._ Ah--ah--that stings home: coward!

_Pol._ Ay, base-born coward, villain.

_Cast._ This to thy heart then, though my mother bore thee.

[_They fight_; POLYDORE _drops his sword, and runs on_

CASTALIO'S.

_Pol._ Now my Castalio is again my friend.

_Cast._ What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!

_Pol._ So I would have it be, thou best of men,

Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.

_Cast._ Ye gods, we're taught that all your works are justice;

You're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:

If so, then why these plagues upon my head?

_Pol._ Blame not the Heavens; here lies thy fate, Castalio.

They're not the gods, 'tis Polydore has wronged thee;

I've stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys

Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.

_Cast._ By thee!

_Pol._ By me: last night the horrid deed

Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.

_Cast._ Now where's Monimia? Oh!

_Re-enter_ MONIMIA.

_Mon._ I'm here; who calls me?

Methought I heard a voice

Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,

When all his little flock's at feed before him.

But what means this? here's blood!

_Cast._ Ay, brother's blood.

Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?

_Pol._ Oh, let me charge thee by the eternal justice,

Hurt not her tender life!

_Cast._ Not kill her! Rack me,

Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,

Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,

If I not practise cruelty upon her,

And wreak revenge some way yet never known!

_Mon._ That task myself have finished: I shall die

Before we part; I've drunk a healing draught

For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.

_Pol._ Oh, she is innocent.

_Cast._ Tell me that story,

And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.

_Pol._ Hadst thou, Castalio, used me like a friend,

This ne'er had happened; hadst thou let me know

Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:

But, ignorant of that,

Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think

Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,

I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;

Whilst all the night, 'midst our triumphant joys,

The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia

Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.

_Cast._ And all this is the work of my own fortune!

None but myself could e'er have been so curst.

My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,

Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e'er made,

Or ever human eyes and heart adored!

I've murdered too my brother.

Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,

And force the sin of parricide upon me?

_Pol._ 'Twas my own fault, and thou art innocent.

Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;

'Twas a hard violence; I could have died

With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;

Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,

My heart recoiled, and 'twas half death to speak them.

_Mon._ Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,

Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,

And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?

_Cast._ Oh, I'm the unhappy wretch whose cursèd fate

Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;

Why then thus kind to me?

_Mon._ When I'm laid low i' the grave, and quite forgotten,

Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!

But none can ever love thee like Monimia.

When I am dead,--as presently I shall be,

For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already,--

Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues

Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wronged;

'Twill be a noble justice to the memory

Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.

How my head swims!--'tis very dark. Good-night! [_Dies._

_Cast._ If I survive thee! what a thought was that!

Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!

_Enter_ CHAMONT, _disarmed, and held by_ ACASTO

_and_ Servants.

_Cham._ Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,

If I forgive your house, if I not live

An everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,

And all thy race! You've overpowered me now;

But hear me, Heaven!--Ah! here's the scene of death.

My sister, my Monimia! breathless!--Now,

Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,

Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!

_Acast._ My Polydore!

_Pol._ Who calls?

_Acast._ How camest thou wounded?

_Cast._ Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,

And leave me to my sorrows.

_Cham._ By the love

I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!

But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.

_Cast._ Vanish, I charge thee, or-- [_Draws a dagger._

_Cham._ Thou canst not kill me;

That would be kindness, and against thy nature.

_Acast._ What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull

More sorrows on thy agèd father's head.

Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause

Of all this ruin.

_Pol._ That must be my task:

But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;

You'll in my closet find the story written

Of all our woes. Castalio's innocent,

And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:

Inquire no farther.

_Cast._ Thou, unkind Chamont,

Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,

And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:

Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,

Come join with me and curse.

_Cham._ What?

_Cast._ First thyself,

As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.

Confusion and disorder seize the world,

To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;

'Twixt families engender endless feuds,

In countries needless fears, in cities factions,

In states rebellion, and in churches schism;

Till all things move against the course of nature;

Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,

And the originals of being lost!

_Acast._ Have patience.

_Cast._ Patience! preach it to the winds,

To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves

That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.

Strip me of all the common needs of life,

Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,

I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree

That I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:

Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more.[23] [_Stabs himself._

[_Dies._

_Pol._ Castalio! Oh!

_Cast._ I come.

Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:

Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,

[ACASTO _faints into the arms of a_ Servant.

For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;

And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find

I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.

Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave

Thus with my love. Farewell! I now am--nothing. [_Dies._

_Cham._ Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go

To search the means by which the fates have plagued us.

'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;

It may afflict, but man must not complain. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[23] This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is

a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance

of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is

often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes

vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us

feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends

on his own sympathy with the situation.

[Illustration:

EPILOGUE.]

SPOKEN BY SERINA.

You've seen one Orphan ruined here; and I

May be the next, if old Acasto die.

Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find

Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind.

To whose protection might I safely go?

Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.

What should I do? Should I the godly seek,

And go a conventicling twice a week;

Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,

Affect each form and saint-like institution;

So draw the brethren all to contribution?

Or shall I (as I guess the poet may

Within these three days) fairly run away?

No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire;

Seem very grave, and privacy desire;

Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,

Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:

Which may produce a story worth the telling,

Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE._

Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;

Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus.[24]--

MARTIAL, Lib. I., Ep. 39.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

This Play is neither more nor less indecent than Otway's other

comedies, but less uninteresting, on account of its autobiographical

allusions to the writer's own adventures in Flanders, and the

disbandment without their pay of the troops he was sent to join. Like

most of the old comedies, this one throws light upon the manners,

customs, and costumes of the period represented. Its distinctive

quality is a certain rollicking vein of fun and mere buffoonery,

together with a rapidity of movement and variety of incident, that

vindicate the work from any charge of absolute dulness--nay, it is

undeniably amusing to those whose stomach is strong enough not to be

nauseated with the dirt. The play is not a mere jumble of bustling

incidents, as many of the contemporary comedies are, written by one

who "faggoted his notions as they fell." At least the main intrigue is

regular and connected, and the characters speak naturally.

Otway wrote hastily, and "lived to please," since he must "please to

live." _The Soldier's Fortune_ is the kind of thing that pleased very

much. For Downes tells us that the play was extraordinarily successful,

bringing both profit and reputation to the theatre. Betterton acted the

part of Beaugard, and Mrs. Barry played Lady Dunce. The dedication to

Bentley, the publisher, is unique and curious, while the Epilogue shows

the gloomy and bitter feelings to which the writer was now frequently a

prey. Langbaine and Thornton have respectively drawn attention to the

many different sources from which much of the plot and material of the

play seems to have been taken. Thus Lady Dunce's scheme for conveying

the ring and letter to her lover may be found in several earlier plays,

and Otway probably derived it from Molière's _L'Ecole des Maris_; the

story comes originally from Boccaccio.

_The Soldier's Fortune_ was acted in 1681 and printed in 4to in the

same year. In 1748 a farce, founded upon it, was brought out at Covent

Garden, but was never printed.

[Illustration]

TO MR. BENTLEY.

I have often (during this play's being in the press) been importuned

for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in

vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as

briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be

pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a

preface to the book.

And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be

the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to

his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr.

Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort

of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of

higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which

he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part

with ready money for.

As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance,

I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as

heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish

qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay,

I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once

brought into the world, e'en let the brat shift for itself, I say.

The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must

confess, are very grievous--

First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think

civilly of her: "Faugh! Oh, sherreu! 'tis so filthy, so bawdy, no

modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick!"

When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily

digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington,

and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can

extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can

poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much

concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct;

they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as

well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I

have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics,

and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of

her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called _bawdy_. So,

Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and

the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above

her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal

education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent

neither.

This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I

throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your

customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will

complete the wishes of

Your Friend and Servant,

THO. OTWAY.

FOOTNOTES:

[24]

"The lines you read were writ by me alone,

But your bad reading makes them half your own."--H. S.

[Illustration:

PROLOGUE.]

BY LORD FALKLAND.

Forsaken dames with less concern reflect

On their inconstant hero's cold neglect

Than we (provoked by this ungrateful age)

Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.

With grief we see you ravished from our arms,

And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:

Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,

And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.

Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,

(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime!)

When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,

And we believed your treach'rous hearts as true

As e'er was nymph of ours to one of you.

But a more powerful Saint[25] enjoys ye now;

Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:

To her are all your pious vows addressed;

She's both your love's and your religion's test,

The fairest prelate of her time, and best.

We own her more deserving far than we,

A just excuse for your inconstancy.

Yet 'twas unkindly done to leave us so;

First to betray with love, and then undo,

A horrid crime you're all addicted to.

Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,

And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.

But all rash oaths of love and constancy

With the too short, forgotten pleasures die;

Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,

Still drudges on with vain desire to please;

And restless follows you from place to place,

For tributes due to her autumnal face.

Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,

How can we hope you'll e'er return again?

Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,

Wit now's our only treasure left in store,

And that's a coin will pass with you no more.

You who such dreadful bullies would appear,--

True bullies! quiet when there's danger near,--

Show your great souls in damning poets here.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] This was the _Female Prelate_, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon

the well-known story of a female Pope.

[Illustration:

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._]

Captain BEAUGARD.

COURTINE.

Sir DAVY DUNCE.

Sir JOLLY JUMBLE.

FRISK.

FOURBIN, a Servant To Beaugard.

BLOODY-BONES.

VERMIN, a Servant To Sir Davy.

WILL, Sylvia's Footman.

A Constable, Watchmen, Whores, Bullies, Drawer, &c.

Lady DUNCE.

SYLVIA.

Maid.

SCENE--LONDON.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE._

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.--_The Mall in St. James's Park._

_Enter_ BEAUGARD, COURTINE, _and_ FOURBIN.

Beau. A pox o' fortune! Thou art always teasing me about

fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth;

nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after

it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned,

since the world's so wide!

_Cour._ As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with

knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in

it.

_Beau._ Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.

_Cour._ At you I ought to rail; 'twas your fault we left our

employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as

loyally starve for it.

_Beau._ Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell

thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got

such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity

could never thrive since.

_Cour._ 'Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I

shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping

hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten

peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long

scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a--

_Beau._ Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.

_Cour._ My companions the worthy knights of the most noble

order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the

Temple-walks,[26] rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains

that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a

dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.

_Beau._ I am ashamed to hear a soldier talk of starving.

_Cour._ Why, what shall I do? I can't steal.

_Beau._ Though thou canst not steal, thou hast other vices

enough for any industrious fellow to live comfortably upon.

_Cour._ What! wouldst thou have me turn rascal, and run

cheating up and down the town for a livelihood? I would no more

keep a blockhead company, and endure his nauseous nonsense,

in hopes to get him, than I would be a drudge to an old woman

with rheumatic eyes, hollow teeth, and stinking breath, for a

pension: of all rogues, I would not be a fool-monger.

_Beau._ How well this niceness becomes thee! I'd fain see e'en

thee turn parson in a pet, o' purpose to rail at all those

vices which I know thou naturally art fond of. Why, surely an

old lady's pension need not be so despicable in the eyes of a

disbanded officer, as times go, friend.

_Cour._ I am glad, Beaugard, you think so.

_Beau._ Why thou shalt think so too, man; be ruled by me,

and I'll bring thee into good company,--families, Courtine,

families; and such families, where formality's a scandal, and

pleasure is the business; where the women are all wanton, and

the men all witty, you rogue.

_Cour._ What, some of your worship's Wapping acquaintance, that

you made last time you came over for recruits, and spirited

away your landlady's daughter a-volunteering with you into

France?

_Beau._ I'll bring thee, Courtine, where cuckoldom's in credit,

and lewdness laudable; where thou shalt wallow in pleasures and

preferments, revel all day, and every night lie in the arms of

melting beauty, sweet as roses, and as springs refreshing.

_Cour._ Pr'ythee don't talk thus; I had rather thou wouldst

tell me where new levies are to be raised: a pox of whores,

when a man has not money to make 'em comfortable!

_Beau._ That shall shower upon us in abundance; and for

instance, know, to thy everlasting amazement, all this dropped

out of the clouds to-day.

_Cour._ Ha! gold, by this light!

_Four._ Out of the clouds?

_Beau._ Ay, gold! does it not smell of the sweet hand that sent

it? Smell--smell, you dog!

[_To_ FOURBIN.

[FOURBIN _smells the handful of gold, and_

_gathers up some pieces in his mouth_.

_Four._ Truly, sir, of heavenly sweetness, and very refreshing.

_Cour._ Dear Beaugard, if thou hast any good-nature in thee, if

thou wouldst not have me hang myself before my time, tell me

where the devil haunts that helped thee to this, that I may go

make a bargain with him presently: speak, speak, or I am a lost

man.

_Beau._ Why, thou must know this devil, which I have given

my soul to already, and must I suppose have my body very

speedily, lives I know not where, and may, for aught I know, be

a real devil; but if it be, 'tis the best natured devil under

Beelzebub's dominions,--that I'll swear to.

_Cour._ But how came the gold, then?

_Beau._ To deal freely with my friend, I am lately happened

into the acquaintance of a very reverend pimp, as fine a

discreet, sober, grey-bearded old gentleman as one would wish;

as good a natured public-spirited person as the nation holds;

one that is never so happy as when he is bringing good people

together, and promoting civil understanding betwixt the sexes:

nay, rather than want employment, he will go from one end of

the town to t'other, to procure my lord's little dog to be

civil to my lady's little languishing bitch.

_Cour._ A very worthy member of the commonwealth!

_Beau._ This noble person one day--but Fourbin can give you

a more particular account of the matter. Sweet sir, if you

please, tell us the story of the first encounter betwixt you

and Sir Jolly Jumble. You must know that's his title.

_Four._ Sir, it shall be done. Walking one day upon the

Piazza,[27] about three of the clock i' the afternoon, to get

me a stomach to my dinner, I chanced to encounter a person

of goodly presence and worthy appearance; his beard and hair

white, grave, and comely; his countenance ruddy, plump, smooth,

and cheerful; who perceiving me also equipped as I am, with

a mien and air which might well inform him I was a person of

no inconsiderable quality, came very respectfully up to me,

and, after the usual ceremonies between persons of parts and

breeding had passed, very humbly inquired of me "What is it

o'clock?" I presently understanding by the question that he was

a man of parts and business, told him I did presume it was at

most but nicely turned of three.

_Beau._ Very court-like, civil, quaint, and new, I think.

_Four._ The freedom of commerce increasing, after some little

inconsiderable questions _pour passer le temps_, and so, he

was pleased to offer me the courtesy of a glass of wine: I

told him I very seldom drank, but, if he so pleased, I would

do myself the honour to present him with a dish of meat at an

eating-house hard by, where I had an interest.

_Cour._ Very well: I think this squire of thine, Beaugard, is

as accomplished a person as any of the employment I ever saw.

_Beau._ Let the rogue go on.

_Four._ In short, we agreed and went together. As soon as we

entered the room, "I am your most humble servant, sir," says

he. "I am the meanest of your vassals, sir," said I. "I am

very happy in lighting into the acquaintance of so worthy a

gentleman as you appear to be, sir," said he again. "Worthy Sir

Jolly,"--then came I upon him again on t'other side (for you

must know by that time I had groped out his title), "I kiss

your hands from the bottom of my heart, which I shall be always

ready to lay at your feet."

_Cour._ Well, Fourbin, and what replied the knight then?

_Four._ Nothing, he had nothing to say; his sense was

transported with admiration of my parts: so we sat down, and

after some pause, he desired to know by what title he was to

distinguish the person that had so highly honoured him.

_Beau._ That is as much as to say, sir, whose rascal you were.

_Four._ Sir, you may make as bold with your poor slave as

you please.--I told him those that knew me well were pleased

to call me the Chevalier Fourbin; that I was a cadet of the

ancient family of the Fourbinois; and that I had had the honour

of serving the great monarch of France in his wars in Flanders,

where I contracted great familiarity and intimacy with a

gallant officer of the English troops in that service, one

Captain Beaugard.

_Beau._ Oh, sir, you did me too much honour. What a true-bred

rogue's this!

_Cour._ Well, but the money, Fourbin, the money?

_Four._ "Beaugard, hum! Beaugard," says he--"ay, it must be

so,--a black man, is he not?" "Ay," says I, "blackish--a dark

brown." "Full-faced?" "Yes." "A sly, subtle, observing eye?"

"The same." "A strong-built, well-made man?" "Right." "A

devilish fellow for a wench, a devilish fellow for a wench,

I warrant him; a thundering rogue upon occasion--Beaugard! a

thundering fellow for a wench: I must be acquainted with him."

_Cour._ But to the money, the money, man; that's the thing I

would be acquainted withal.

_Beau._ This civil gentleman of the chevalier's acquaintance

comes yesterday morning to my lodging, and seeing my picture in

miniature upon the toilet, told me, with the greatest ecstasy

in the world, that was the thing he came to me about: he told

me there was a lady of his acquaintance had some favourable

thoughts of me, and "I'gad," says he, "she's a hummer; such a

_bona roba_,[28] ah!"--So without more ado begs me to lend it

him till dinner (for we concluded to eat together); so away he

scuttled with as great joy as if he had found the philosopher's

stone.

_Cour._ Very well.

_Beau._ At Locket's[29] we met again; where after a thousand

grimaces, to show how much he was pleased, instead of my

picture, presents me with the contents aforesaid; and told me

the lady desired me to accept of them for the picture, which

she was much transported withal, as well as with the original.

_Cour._ Ha!

_Beau._ Now, whereabouts this taking quality lies in me, the

devil take me, Ned, if I know; but the fates, Ned, the fates!

_Cour._ A curse on the fates! Of all strumpets, fortune's the

basest. 'Twas fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red, the

grievance of the nation; fortune made the peace just when we

were on the brink of a war; then fortune disbanded us, and lost

us two months' pay: fortune gave us debentures instead of ready

money, and by very good fortune I sold mine, and lost heartily

by it, in hopes the grinding ill-natured dog that bought it

will never get a shilling for't.

_Beau._ Leave off thy railing, for shame! it looks like a cur

that barks for want of bones. Come, times may mend, and an

honest soldier be in fashion again.

_Cour._ These greasy, fat, unwieldy, wheezing rogues that live

at home, and brood over their bags, when a fit of fear's upon

them, then if one of us pass but by, all the family is ready at

the door to cry, "Heavens bless you, sir! the Laird go along

with you!"

_Beau._ "Ah, good men; what pity 'tis such proper gentlemen

should ever be out of employment!"

_Cour._ But when the business is over, then every parish bawd

that goes but to a conventicle twice a week, and pays but

scot and lot to the parish, shall roar out, "Faugh, ye lousy

red-coat rake-hells! hout, ye caterpillars, ye locusts of the

nation! you are the dogs that would enslave us all, plunder our

shops, and ravish our daughters, ye scoundrels!"

_Beau._ I must confess ravishing ought to be regulated; it

would destroy commerce, and many a good sober matron about this

town might lose the selling of her daughter's maidenhead, which

were a great grievance to the people, and a particular branch

of property lost. Fourbin!

_Four._ Your worship's pleasure?

_Beau._ Run, like a rogue as you are, and try to find Sir

Jolly, and desire him to meet me at the Blue-Posts in the

Haymarket about twelve; we'll dine together. [_Exit_ FOURBIN.]

I must inquire farther into yesterday's adventure; in the

mean time, Ned, here's half the prize, to be doing withal:

old friends must preserve correspondence; we have shared good

fortune together, and bad shall never part us.

_Cour._ Well, thou wilt certainly die in a ditch for this: hast

thou no more grace than to be a true friend? nay, to part with

thy money to thy friend? I grant you, a gentleman may swear and

lie for his friend, pimp for his friend, hang for his friend,

and so forth; but to part with ready money is the devil.

_Beau._ Stand aside; either I am mistaken, or yonder's Sir

Jolly coming: now, Courtine, will I show thee the flower of

knighthood. Ah, Sir Jolly!

_Enter_ Sir JOLLY JUMBLE.

_Sir Jol._ My hero! my darling! my Ganymede! how dost thou?

Strong! wanton! lusty! rampant! ha, ah, ah! She's thine, boy!

odd, she's thine; plump, soft, smooth, wanton! ha, ah, ah! Ah,

rogue! ah, rogue! here's shoulders! here's shape! there's a

foot and leg, here's a leg, here's a leg--Qua-a-a-a-a!

[_Squeaks like a cat, and tickles_

BEAUGARD's _legs_.

_Cour._ What an old goat's this!

_Sir Jol._ Child, child, child, who's that? a friend of thine,

a friend o' thine? A pretty fellow, odd, a very pretty fellow,

and a strong dog I'll warrant him. How dost do, dear heart?

pr'ythee let me kiss thee. I'll swear and vow I will kiss thee;

ha, ha, he, he, he, he, a toad, a toad, a toa-a-a-d!

_Cour._ Sir, I am your humble servant.

_Beau._ But the lady, Sir Jolly, the lady; how does the lady?

what says the lady, Sir Jolly?

_Sir Jol._ What says the lady! why, she says--she says--odd,

she has a delicate lip, such a lip, so red, so hard, so plump,

so blub; I fancy I am eating cherries every time I think

on't--and for her neck and breasts, and her--odd's life! I'll

say no more, not a word more; but I know, I know--

_Beau._ I am sorry for that with all my heart; do you know, say

you, sir? and would you put off your mumbled orts,[30] your

offal, upon me?

_Sir Jol._ Hush, hush, hush! have a care; as I live and

breathe, not I; alack and well-a-day, I am a poor old fellow,

decayed and done: all's gone with me, gentlemen, but my

good-nature; odd, I love to know how matters go though now and

then, to see a pretty wench and a young fellow touze and rouze

and frouze and mouze; odd, I love a young fellow dearly, faith

dearly!

_Cour._ This is the most extraordinary rogue I ever met withal.

_Beau._ But, Sir Jolly, in the first place, you must know I

have sworn never to marry.

_Sir Jol._ I would not have thee, man: I am a bachelor myself

and have been a whore-master all my life;--besides, she's

married already, man; her husband's an old, greasy, untoward,

ill-natured, slovenly, tobacco-taking cuckold; but plaguy

jealous.

_Beau._ Already a cuckold, Sir Jolly?

_Sir Jol._ No, that shall be, my boy; thou shalt make him one,

and I'll pimp for thee, dear heart; and shan't I hold the door?

shan't I peep, ha? shan't I, you devil, you little dog, shan't

I?

_Beau._ What is it I'd not grant to oblige my patron!

_Sir Jol._ And then dost hear? I have a lodging for thee in my

own house: dost hear, old soul? in my own house; she lives the

very next door, man; there's but a wall to part her chamber and

thine; and then for a peep-hole--odd's fish, I have a peep-hole

for thee; 'sbud, I'll show thee, I'll show thee--

_Beau._ But when, Sir Jolly? I am in haste, impatient.

_Sir Jol._ Why, this very night, man; poor rogue's in haste,

poor rogue; but hear you--

_Cour._ The matter?

_Sir Jol._ Shan't we dine together?

_Beau._ With all my heart.

_Sir Jol._ The Mall begins to empty. Get you before, and

bespeak dinner at the Blue-Posts; while I stay behind and

gather up a dish of whores for a dessert.

_Cour._ Be sure that they be lewd, drunken, stripping whores,

Sir Jolly, that won't be affectedly squeamish and troublesome.

_Sir Jol._ I warrant you.

_Cour._ I love a well-disciplined whore, that shows all the

tricks of her profession with a wink, like an old soldier that

understands all his exercise by beat of drum.

_Sir Jol._ Ah, thief, sayest thou so? I must be better

acquainted with that fellow; he has a notable nose; a hard

brawny carle, true and trusty, and mettle, I'll warrant him.

_Beau._ Well, Sir Jolly, you'll not fail us?

_Sir Jol._ Fail ye! am I a knight? hark ye, boys: I'll muster

this evening such a regiment of rampant, roaring, roisterous

whores, that shall make more noise than if all the cats in the

Haymarket were in conjunction; whores, ye rogues, that shall

swear with you, drink with you, talk bawdy with you, fight with

you, scratch with you, lie with you, and go to the devil with

you. Shan't we be very merry, ha?

_Cour._ As merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us.

_Sir Jol._ Odd, that's well said again, very well said; as

merry as wine, women, and wickedness can make us. I love a

fellow that's very wicked dearly: methinks there's a spirit

in him, there's a sort of tantara-rara; tantara-rara, ah, ah!

well, and won't ye, when the women come, won't ye, and shall

I not see a little sport amongst you? well, get ye gone; ah,

rogues, ah, rogues, da, da, I'll be with you, da, da!

[_Exeunt_ BEAUGARD _and_ COURTINE.

_Enter several_ Whores, _and Three_ Bullies.

_1st Bully._ In the name of Satan, what whores are these in

their copper trim, yonder?

_1st Whore._ Well, I'll swear, madam, 'tis the finest

evening;--I love the Mall mightily.

_2nd Bully._ Let's huzza the bulkers.

_2nd Whore._ Really, and so do I; because there's always good

company, and one meets with such civilities from every body.

_3rd Bully._ Damned whores! hout, ye filthies!

_3rd Whore._ Ay, and then I love extremely to show myself

here, when I am very fine, to vex those poor devils that call

themselves virtues, and are very scandalous and crapish, I'll

swear. O crimine! who's yonder? Sir Jolly Jumble, I vow.

_1st Bully._ Faugh! let's leave the nasty sows to fools and

diseases. [_Exeunt_ Bullies.

_1st Whore._ Oh papa, papa! where have you been these two days,

papa?

_2nd Whore._ You are a precious father indeed, to take no

more care of your children! we might be dead for all you, you

naughty daddy, you.

_Sir Jol._ Dead, my poor fubses! odd, I had rather all the

relations I have were dead; a-dad, I had. Get you gone, you

little devils! Bubbies! oh, law, there's bubbies!--odd, I'll

bite 'em; odd, I will!

_1st Whore._ Nay, fie, papa! I'll swear you'll make me angry,

except you carry us and treat us to-night; you have promised me

a treat this week; won't you, papa?

_2nd Whore._ Ay, won't you, dad?

_Sir Jol._ Odds so, odds so, well remembered! get you gone,

don't stay talking: get you gone! Yonder's a great lord,

the Lord Beaugard, and his cousin the baron, the count, the

marquis, the Lord knows what, Monsieur Courtine, newly come to

town, odds so.

_3rd Whore._ O law, where, daddy, where? O dear, a lord!

_1st Whore._ Well, you are the purest papa; but where be dey

mun, papa?

_Sir Jol._ I won't tell you, you gipsies, so I won't--except

you tickle me: 'sbud they are brave fellows, all tall, and not

a bit small; odd, one of 'em has a devilish deal of money.

_1st Whore._ Oh, dear! but which is he, papa?

_2nd Whore._ Shan't I be in love with him, daddy?

_Sir Jol._ What, nobody tickle me! nobody tickle me!--not yet?

Tickle me a little, Mally--tickle me a little, Jenny--do! he,

he, he, he, he, he! [_They tickle him._] No more, O dear, O

dear! poor rogues! so, so, no more,--nay, if you do, if you do,

odd I'll, I'll, I'll--

_3rd Whore._ What, what will you do, trow?

_Sir Jol._ Come along with me, come along with me; sneak after

me at a distance, that nobody take notice: swingeing fellows,

Mally--swingeing fellows, Jenny; a devilish deal of money: get

you afore me then, you little didappers, ye wasps, ye wagtails,

get you gone, I say; swingeing fellows! [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.--_A Room in_ Sir DAVY DUNCE's _House_.

_Enter_ Lady DUNCE _and_ SYLVIA.

_L. Dunce._ Die a maid, Sylvia, fie, for shame! what a

scandalous resolution's that! Five thousand pounds to your

portion, and leave it all to hospitals, for the innocent

recreation hereafter of leading apes in hell?[31] fie, for

shame!

_Sylv._ Indeed, such another charming animal as your consort,

Sir Davy, might do much with me; 'tis an unspeakable blessing

to lie all night by a horseload of diseases; a beastly,

unsavoury, old, groaning, grunting, wheezing wretch, that

smells of the grave he's going to already. From such a curse,

and haircloth next my skin, good Heaven deliver me!

_L. Dunce._ Thou mistakest the use of a husband, Sylvia:

they are not meant for bedfellows; heretofore, indeed, 'twas

a fulsome fashion, to lie o' nights with a husband; but the

world's improved, and customs altered.

_Sylv._ Pray instruct me then what the use of a husband is.

_L. Dunce._ Instead of a gentleman-usher for ceremony's sake,

to be in waiting on set days and particular occasions; but the

friend, cousin, is the jewel unvaluable.

_Sylv._ But Sir Davy, madam, will be difficult to be so

governed; I am mistaken if his nature is not too jealous to be

blinded.

_L. Dunce._ So much the better; of all, the jealous fool is

easiest to be deceived: for observe, where there's jealousy

there's always fondness; which if a woman, as she ought to do,

will make the right use of, the husband's fears shall not so

awake him on one side, as his dotage shall blind him on the

other.

_Sylv._ Is your piece of mortality such a doting doodle? is he

so very fond of you?

_L. Dunce._ No, but he has the vanity to think that I am very

fond of him; and if he be jealous, 'tis not so much for fear

I do abuse, as that in time I may, and therefore imposes this

confinement on me; though he has other divertisements that take

him off from my enjoyment, which make him so loathsome no woman

but must hate him.

_Sylv._ His private divertisements I am a stranger to.

_L. Dunce._ Then for his person, 'tis incomparably odious; he

has such a breath, one kiss of him were enough to cure the fits

of the mother;[32] 'tis worse than assafoetida.

_Sylv._ Oh, hideous!

_L. Dunce._ Everything that's nasty he affects: clean linen

he says is unwholesome; and to make him more charming, he's

continually eating of garlic and chewing tobacco.

_Sylv._ Faugh! this is love! this is the blessing of matrimony!

_L. Dunce._ Rail not so unreasonably against love, Sylvia. As I

have dealt freely, and acknowledged to thee the passion I have

for Beaugard, so methinks Sylvia need not conceal her good

thoughts of her friend. Do not I know Courtine sticks in your

stomach?

_Sylv._ If he does, I'll assure you he shall never get to my

heart. But can you have the conscience to love another man now

you are married? What do you think will become of you?

_L. Dunce._ I tell thee, Sylvia, I was never married to that

engine we have been talking of; my parents indeed made me

say something to him after a priest once, but my heart went

not along with my tongue; I minded not what it was: for my

thoughts, Sylvia, for these seven years, have been much better

employed--Beaugard! Ah, curse on the day that first sent him

into France!

_Sylv._ Why so, I beseech you?

_L. Dunce._ Had he stayed here, I had not been sacrificed to

the arms of this monument of man, for the bed of death could

not be more cold than his has been: he would have delivered me

from the monster, for even then I loved him, and was apt to

think my kindness not neglected.

_Sylv._ I find indeed your ladyship had good thoughts of him.

_L. Dunce._ Surely 'tis impossible to think too well of him,

for he has wit enough to call his good-nature in question, and

yet good-nature enough to make his wit suspected.

_Sylv._ But how do you hope ever to get sight of him? Sir

Davy's watchfulness is invincible. I dare swear he would smell

out a rival if he were in the house, only by natural instinct;

as some that always sweat when a cat's in the room. Then again,

Beaugard's a soldier, and that's a thing the old gentleman, you

know, loves dearly.

_L. Dunce._ There lies the greatest comfort of my uneasy life;

he is one of those fools, forsooth, that are led by the

nose by knaves to rail against the king and the government,

and is mightily fond of being thought of a party. I have had

hopes this twelve-month to have heard of his being in the

Gatehouse[33] for treason.

_Sylv._ But I find only yourself the prisoner all this while.

_L. Dunce._ At present indeed I am so; but fortune I hope will

smile, wouldst thou but be my friend, Sylvia.

_Sylv._ In any mischievous design, with all my heart.

_L. Dunce._ The conclusion, madam, may turn to your

satisfaction. But you have no thoughts of Courtine?

_Sylv._ Not I, I'll assure you, cousin.

_L. Dunce._ You don't think him well shaped, straight, and

proportionable?

_Sylv._ Considering he eats but once a week, the man is well

enough.

_L. Dunce._ And then he wears his clothes, you know, filthily,

and like a horrid sloven.

_Sylv._ Filthily enough of all conscience, with a threadbare

red coat, which his tailor duns him for to this day, over which

a great, broad, greasy, buff-belt, enough to turn any one's

stomach but a disbanded soldier; a peruke tied up in a knot,

to excuse its want of combing; and then, because he has been a

man at arms, he must wear two tuffles of a beard, forsooth, to

lodge a dunghill of snuff upon, to keep his nose in good humour.

_L. Dunce._ Nay, now I am sure that thou lovest him.

_Sylv._ So far from it, that I protest eternally against the

whole sex.

_L. Dunce._ That time will best demonstrate; in the mean while

to our business.

_Sylv._ As how, madam?

_L. Dunce._ To-night must I see Beaugard; they are this minute

at dinner in the Haymarket; now to make my evil genius, that

haunts me everywhere, my thing called a husband, himself to

assist his poor wife at a dead lift, I think would not be

unpleasant.

_Sylv._ But 'twill be impossible.

_L. Dunce._ I am apt to be persuaded rather very easy. You know

our good and friendly neighbour, Sir Jolly.

_Sylv._ Out on him, beast! he's always talking filthily to a

body; if he sits but at the table with one, he'll be making

nasty figures in the napkins.

_L. Dunce._ He and my sweet yoke-fellow are the most intimate

friends in the world; so that partly out of neighbourly

kindness, as well as the great delight he takes to be meddling

in matters of this nature, with a great deal of pains and

industry he has procured me Beaugard's picture, and given him

to understand how well a friend of his in petticoats, called

myself, wishes him.

_Sylv._ But what's all this to the making the husband

instrumental? for I must confess, of all creatures, a husband's

the thing that's odious to me.

_L. Dunce._ That must be done this night: I'll instantly to my

chamber, take my bed in a pet, and send for Sir Davy.

_Sylv._ But which way then must the lover come?

_L. Dunce._ Nay, I'll betray Beaugard to him, show him the

picture he sent me, and beg of him, as he tenders his own

honour and my quiet, to take some course to secure me from the

scandalous solicitations of that innocent fellow.

_Sylv._ And so make him the property, the go-between, to bring

the affair to an issue the more decently.

_L. Dunce._ Right, Sylvia; 'tis the best office a husband can

do a wife; I mean an old husband. Bless us, to be yoked in

wedlock with a paralytic, coughing, decrepit dotterel; to be a

dry-nurse all one's life-time to an old child of sixty-five;

to lie by the image of death a whole night, a dull immoveable,

that has no sense of life but through its pains! the pigeon's

as happy that's laid to a sick man's feet, when the world has

given him over:[34] for my part, this shall henceforth be my

prayer:--

Curst be the memory, nay double curst,

Of her that wedded age for interest first!

Though worn with years, with fruitless wishes full,

'Tis all day troublesome, and all night dull.

Who wed with fools, indeed, lead happy lives;

Fools are the fittest, finest things for wives:

Yet old men profit bring, as fools bring ease,

And both make youth and wit much better please. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Knights of the post were hired witnesses and men of straw who made

a trade of becoming bail. They hung about the various inns of court so

as to be available at a moment's notice. In _Hudibras_ we read:

"Retain all sorts of witnesses

That ply i' the Temples under trees,

Or walk the Round with Knights o' th' Posts

About the crossed-legged Knights their hosts."

[27] In Covent Garden.

[28] A courtesan.

[29] A famous ordinary, which stood on the site of Drummond's bank at

Charing Cross, frequently alluded to by writers of the period.

[30] Refuse.

[31] The fate, according to an old proverb, of those who die maids.

[32] Hysterics.

[33] A well-known prison near the west end of Westminster Abbey, where

political prisoners were confined.

[34] An old superstitious practice. Pepys makes mention of pigeons

being placed at the feet of Catherine of Braganza, Charles II.'s queen,

when she was dangerously ill.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.--_The Street before Whitehall._

_Enter_ Sir JOLLY JUMBLE, BEAUGARD, COURTINE,

_and_ FOURBIN.

_Cour._ Sir Jolly is the glory of the age.

_Sir Jol._ Nay, now, sir, you honour me too far.

_Beau._ He's the delight of the young, and wonder of the old.

_Sir Jol._ I swear, gentlemen, you make me blush.

_Cour._ He deserves a statue of gold, at the charge of the

kingdom.

_Sir Jol._ Out upon't, fie for shame! I protest I'll leave

your company if you talk so. But faith they were pure whores,

daintily dutiful strumpets: ha! uddsbud, they'd--have stripped

for t'other bottle.

_Beau._ Truly, Sir Jolly, you are a man of very extraordinary

discipline: I never saw whores under better command in my life.

_Sir Jol._ Pish, that's nothing, man, nothing; I can send for

forty better when I please; doxies that will skip, strip, leap,

trip, and do anything in the world, anything, old soul!

_Cour._ Dear, dear Sir Jolly, where and when?

_Sir Jol._ Odd! as simply as I stand here, her father was a

knight.

_Beau._ Indeed, Sir Jolly! a knight, say you?

_Sir Jol._ Ay, but a little decayed: I'll assure you she's a

very good gentlewoman born.

_Cour._ Ay, and a very good gentlewoman bred too.

_Sir Jol._ Ay, and so she is.

_Beau._ But, Sir Jolly, how goes my business forward? when

shall I have a view of the quarry I am to fly at?

_Sir Jol._ Alas-a-day, not so hasty; soft and fair, I beseech

you. Ah, my little son of thunder, if thou hadst her in thy

arms now between a pair of sheets, and I under the bed to see

fair play, boy; gemini! what would become of me? what would

become of me? there would be doings! O lawd, I under the bed!

_Beau._ Or behind the hangings, Sir Jolly, would not that do as

well?

_Sir Jol._ Ah no, under the bed against the world, and then it

would be very dark, ha!

_Beau._ Dark to choose?

_Sir Jol._ No, but a little light would do well; a small

glimmering lamp, just enough for me to steal a peep by; oh,

lamentable! oh, lamentable! I won't speak a word more! there

would be a trick! O rare! you friend, O rare! Odds-so, not a

word more, odds-so, yonder comes the monster that must be the

cuckold-elect; step, step aside and observe him; if I should be

seen in your company, 'twould spoil all.

[_Exeunt_ Sir JOLLY _and_ COURTINE.

_Beau._ For my part, I'll stand the meeting of him; one way

to promote a good understanding with a wife, is first to get

acquainted with her husband. [_Retires._

_Enter_ Sir DAVY DUNCE.

_Sir Dav._ Well, of all blessings, a discreet wife is the

greatest that can light upon a man of years: had I been married

to anything but an angel now, what a beast had I been by this

time! well, I am the happiest old fool! 'tis a horrid age that

we live in, so that an honest man can keep nothing to himself.

If you have a good estate, every covetous rogue is longing

for't (truly I love a good estate dearly myself); if you have

a handsome wife, every smooth-faced coxcomb will be combing

and cocking[35] at her: flesh-flies are not so troublesome

to the shambles as those sort of insects are to the boxes in

the play-house. But virtue is a great blessing, an unvaluable

treasure: to tell me herself that a villain had tempted her,

and give me the very picture, the enchantment that he sent to

bewitch her! it strikes me dumb with admiration. Here's the

villain in effigy. [_Pulls out the picture._] Odd! a very

handsome fellow, a dangerous rogue, I'll warrant him: such

fellows as these now should be fettered like unruly colts, that

they might not leap into other men's pastures. Here's a nose

now, I could find it in my heart to cut it off. Damned dog, to

dare to presume to make a cuckold of a knight!--bless us! what

will this world come to? Well, poor Sir Davy, down, down on thy

knees, and thank thy stars for this deliverance.

_Beau._ 'Sdeath! what's that I see? sure 'tis the very picture

which I sent by Sir Jolly; if so, by this light, I am damnably

jilted.

_Sir Dav._ But now if--

_Beau._ Surely he does not see us yet.

_Four._ See you, sir! why he has but one eye, and we are on his

blind side; I'll dumb-found him. [_Strikes him on the shoulder._

_Sir Dav._ Who the devil's this? Sir, sir, sir, who are you,

sir?

_Beau._ Ay, ay, 'tis the same; now a pox of all amorous

adventures! 'sdeath, I'll go beat the impertinent pimp that

drew me into this fooling.

_Sir Dav._ Sir, methinks you are very curious.

_Beau._ Sir, perhaps I have an extraordinary reason to be so.

_Sir Dav._ And perhaps, sir, I care not for you, nor your

reasons neither.

_Beau._ Sir, if you are at leisure, I would beg the honour to

speak with you.

_Sir Dav._ With me, sir? what's your business with me?

_Beau._ I would not willingly be troublesome, though it may be

I am so at this time.

_Sir Dav._ It may be so too, sir.

_Beau._ But to be known to so worthy a person as you are, would

be so great an honour, so extraordinary a happiness, that I

could not avoid taking this opportunity of tendering you my

service.

_Sir Dav._ [_Aside._] Smooth rogue! who the devil is this

fellow? But, sir, you were pleased to nominate business, sir; I

desire with what speed you can to know your business, sir, that

I may go about my business.

_Beau._ Sir, if I might with good manners, I should be glad

to inform myself whose picture that is which you have in your

hand; methinks it is a very fine painting.

_Sir Dav._ Picture, friend, picture! sir, 'tis a resemblance

of a very impudent fellow; they call him Captain Beaugard,

forsooth, but he is in short a rake-hell, a poor, lousy,

beggarly, disbanded devil; do you know him, friend?

_Beau._ I think I have heard of such a vagabond: the truth on't

is, he is a very impudent fellow.

_Sir Dav._ Ay, a damned rogue.

_Beau._ Oh, a notorious scoundrel.

_Sir Dav._ I expect to hear he's hanged by next sessions.

_Beau._ The truth on't is, he has deserved it long ago. But did

you ever see him, Sir Davy?

_Sir Dav._ Sir!--does he know me? [_Aside._

_Beau._ Because I fancy that miniature is very like him. Pray,

sir, whence had it you?

_Sir Dav._ Had it, friend? had it? whence had it I? [_Aside._]

Bless us! [_Compares the picture with_ BEAUGARD'S _face_.] what

have I done now! this is the very traitor himself; if he should

be desperate now, and put his sword in my guts!--slitting my

nose will be as bad as that, I have but one eye left neither,

and may be--Oh, but this is the King's Court; odd, that's

well remembered; he dares not but be civil here. I'll try to

out-huff him. Whence had it you?

_Beau._ Ay, sir, whence had it you? that's English in my

country, sir.

_Sir Dav._ Go, sir, you are a rascal.

_Beau._ How!

_Sir Dav._ Sir, I say you are a rascal, a very impudent rascal;

nay, I'll prove you to be a rascal, if you go to that--

_Beau._ Sir, I am a gentleman and a soldier.

_Sir Dav._ So much the worse; soldiers have been cuckold-makers

from the beginning: sir, I care not what you are; for aught I

know you may be a--come, sir, did I never see you? Answer me

to that; did I never see you? for aught I know you may be a

Jesuit; there were more in the last army beside you.

_Beau._ Of your acquaintance, and be hanged!

_Sir Dav._ Yes, to my knowledge there were several at

Hounslow-heath, disguised in dirty petticoats, and cried

brandy. I knew a sergeant of foot that was familiar with one

of them all night in a ditch, and fancied him a woman; but the

devil is powerful.

_Beau._ In short, you worthy villain of worship, that picture

is mine, and I must have it, or I shall take an opportunity to

kick your worship most inhumanly.

_Sir Dav._ Kick, sir!

_Beau._ Ay, sir, kick; 'tis a recreation I can show you.

_Sir Dav._ Sir, I am a free-born subject of England, and there

are laws, look you, there are laws; so I say you are a rascal

again, and now how will you help yourself, poor fool?

_Beau._ Hark you, friend, have not you a wife?

_Sir Dav._ I have a lady, sir--oh, and she's mightily taken

with this picture of yours; she was so mightily proud of it,

she could not forbear showing it me, and telling too who it was

sent it her.

_Beau._ And has she been long a jilt? has she practised the

trade for any time?

_Sir Dav._ Trade! humph, what trade? what trade, friend?

_Beau._ Why the trade of whore and no whore, caterwauling in

jest, putting out Christian colours, when she's a Turk under

deck. A curse upon all honest women in the flesh, that are

whores in the spirit!

_Sir Dav._ Poor devil, how he rails! ha, ha, ha! Look you,

sweet soul, as I told you before, there are laws, there are

laws, but those are things not worthy your consideration:

beauty's your business. But, dear vagabond, trouble thyself

no further about my spouse; let my doxy rest in peace, she's

meat for thy master, old boy; I have my belly-full of her every

night.

_Beau._ Sir, I wish all your noble family hanged from the

bottom of my heart.

_Sir Dav._ Moreover, Captain Swash, I must tell you my wife

is a honest woman, of a virtuous disposition, one that I have

loved from her infancy, and she deserves it by her faithful

dealing in this affair, for that she has discovered loyally to

me the treacherous designs laid against her chastity, and my

honour.

_Beau._ By this light, the beast weeps! [_Aside._

_Sir Dav._ Truly I cannot but weep for joy, to think how

happy I am in a sincere, faithful, and loving yoke-fellow.

She charged me too to tell you into the bargain, that she is

sufficiently satisfied of the most secret wishes of your heart.

_Beau._ I'm glad on't.

_Sir Dav._ And that 'tis her desire that you would trouble

yourself no more about the matter.

_Beau._ With all my heart.

_Sir Dav._ But henceforward behave yourself with such

discretion as becomes a gentleman.

_Beau._ Oh, to be sure, most exactly!

_Sir Dav._ And let her alone to make the best use of those

innocent freedoms I allow her, without putting her reputation

in hazard.

_Beau._ As how, I beseech you?

_Sir Dav._ By your impertinent and unseasonable address.

_Beau._ And this news you bring me by a particular commission

from your sweet lady?

_Sir Dav._ Yea, friend, I do; and she hopes you'll be sensible,

dear heart, of her good meaning by it: these were her very

words, I neither add nor diminish, for plain-dealing is my

mistress's friend.

_Beau._ Then all the curses I shall think on this twelvemonth

light on her, and as many more on the next fool that gives

credit to the sex!

_Sir Dav._ Well, certainly I am the happiest toad! How

melancholy the monkey stands now! Poor pug, hast thou lost her?

_Beau._ To be so sordid a jilt, to betray me to such a beast as

that! Can she have any good thoughts of such a swine? Damn her,

had she abused me handsomely it had never vexed me.

_Sir Dav._ Now, sir, with your permission I'll take my leave.

_Beau._ Sir, if you were gone to the devil I should think you

very well disposed of.

_Sir Dav._ If you have any letter, or other commendation to

the lady that was so charmed with your resemblance there, it

shall be very faithfully conveyed by--

_Beau._ Fool!

_Sir Dav._ Your humble servant. Sir, I'm gone; I shall disturb

you no further; your most humble servant, sir. [_Exit._

_Beau._ Now poverty, plague, pox, and prison fall thick upon

the head of thee!--Fourbin!

_Four._ Sir!

_Beau._ Thou hast been an extraordinary rogue in thy time.

_Four._ I hope I have lost nothing in your honour's service,

sir.

_Beau._ Find out some way to revenge me on this old rascal, and

if I do not make thee a gentleman--

_Four._ That you have been pleased to do long ago, I thank you;

for I am sure you have not left me one shilling in my pocket

these two months.

_Beau._ Here, here's for thee to revel withal. [_Gives money._

_Four._ Will your honour please to have his throat cut?

_Beau._ With all my heart.

_Four._ Or would you have him decently hanged at his own door,

and then give out to the world he did it himself?

_Beau._ That would do very well.

_Four._ Or I think (to proceed with more safety) a good stale

jakes[36] were a very pretty expedient.

_Beau._ Excellent, excellent, Fourbin!

_Four._ Leave matters to my discretion, and if I do not--

_Beau._ I know thou wilt; go, go about it, prosper, and be

famous. [_Exit_ FOURBIN.] Now ere I dare venture to meet

Courtine again, will I go by myself, rail for an hour or two,

and then be good company. [_Exit._

_Enter_ COURTINE _and_ SYLVIA.

_Sylv._ Take my word, sir, you had better give this business

over. I tell you, there's nothing in the world turns my stomach

so much as the man, that man that makes love to me. I never saw

one of your sex in my life make love, but he looked so like an

ass all the while, that I blushed for him.

_Cour._ I am afraid your ladyship then is one of those

dangerous creatures they call she-wits, who are always so

mightily taken with admiring themselves that nothing else is

worth their notice.

_Sylv._ Oh, who can be so dull, not to be ravished with that

roisterous mien of yours, that ruffling air in your gait,

that seems to cry where'er you go, "Make room, here comes the

captain!" that face which bids defiance to the weather? Bless

us! if I were a poor farmer's wife in the country now, and you

wanted quarters, how would it fright me! But as I am young, not

very ugly, and one you never saw before, how lovingly it looks

upon me!

_Cour._ Who can forbear to sigh, look pale, and languish, where

beauty and wit unite both their forces to enslave a heart so

tractable as mine is? First, for that modish swim of your body,

the victorious motion of your arms and head, the toss of your

fan, the glancing of the eyes--bless us! if I were a dainty

fine-dressed coxcomb, with a great estate, and a little or no

wit, vanity in abundance and good for nothing, how would they

melt and soften me! but as I am a scandalous honest rascal, not

fool enough to be your sport, nor rich enough to be your prey,

how gloatingly they look upon me!

_Sylv._ Alas, alas! what pity 'tis your honesty should ever do

you hurt, or your wit spoil your preferment!

_Cour._ Just as much, fair lady, as that your beauty should

make you be envied at, or your virtue provoke scandal.

_Sylv._ Well, the more I look, the more I'm in love with you.

_Cour._ The more I look, the more I am out of love with you.

_Sylv._ How my heart swells when I see you!

_Cour._ How my stomach rises when I am near you!

_Sylv._ Nay, then let's bargain.

_Cour._ With all my heart; what?

_Sylv._ Not to fall in love with each other; I assure you,

Monsieur Captain.

_Cour._ But to hate one another constantly and cordially.

_Sylv._ Always when you are drunk, I desire you to talk

scandalously of me.

_Cour._ Ay, and when I am sober too; in return whereof,

whene'er you see a coquette of your acquaintance, and I chance

to be named, be sure you spit at the filthy remembrance, and

rail at me as if you loved me.

_Sylv._ In the next place, whene'er we meet in the Mall, I

desire you to "Humph!" put out your tongue, make ugly mouths,

laugh aloud, and look back at me.

_Cour._ Which, if I chance to do, be sure at next turning to

pick up some tawdry fluttering fop or another.

_Sylv._ That I made acquaintance withal at the music-meeting?

_Cour._ Right, just such another spark to saunter by your side,

with his hat under his arm.

_Sylv._ Hearkening to all the bitter things I can say to be

revenged.

_Cour._ Whilst the dull rogue dare not so much as grin to

oblige you, for fear of being beaten for it, when he is out of

his waiting.

_Sylv._ Counterfeit your letters from me.

_Cour._ And you, to be even with me for the scandal, publish to

all the world I offered to marry you.

_Sylv._ O hideous marriage!

_Cour._ Horrid, horrid marriage!

_Sylv._ Name, name no more of it!

_Cour._ At that sad word let's part.

_Sylv._ Let's wish all men decrepit, dull, and silly.

_Cour._ And every woman old and ugly.

_Sylv._ Adieu!

_Cour._ Farewell!

_Enter_ FRISK, _a young fellow affectedly dressed, several_

_others with him_.

_Sylv._ Ah me, Mr. Frisk!

_Frisk._ Mademoiselle Sylvia! sincerely as I hope to be saved,

the devil take me--damme, madam, who's that?

_Sylv._ Ha, ha, ha, hea! [_Exit with_ FRISK.

_Cour._ True to thy failings always, woman! how naturally is

the sex fond of a rogue! What a monster was that for a woman

to delight in! Now must I love her still, though I know I'm a

blockhead for't, and she'll use me like a blockhead too, if I

don't prevent her. What's to be done? I'll have three whores a

day, to keep love out of my head.

_Re-enter_ BEAUGARD.

Beaugard, well met again; how go matters? handsomely?

_Beau._ Oh, very handsomely! had you but seen how handsomely I

was used just now, you would swear so. I have heard thee rail

in my time; would thou wouldst exercise thy talent a little at

present!

_Cour._ At what?

_Beau._ Why, canst thou ever want a subject? rail at thyself,

rail at me--I deserve to be railed at. See there, what

thinkest thou of that engine, that moving lump of filthiness,

miscalled a man?

_A clumsy fellow marches over the Stage, dressed like_

_an_ Officer.

_Cour._ Curse on him for a rogue, I know him.

_Beau._ So.

_Cour._ The rascal was a retailer of ale but yesterday, and

now he is an officer and be hanged; 'tis a dainty sight in a

morning to see him with his toes turned in, drawing his legs

after him, at the head of a hundred lusty fellows. Some honest

gentleman or other stays now, because that dog had money to

bribe some corrupt colonel withal.

_Enter another, gravely dressed._

_Beau._ There, there's another of my acquaintance; he was my

father's footman not long since, and has pimped for me oftener

than he prayed for himself; that good quality recommended him

to a nobleman's service, which, together with flattering,

fawning, lying, spying and informing, has raised him to an

employment of trust and reputation, though the rogue can't

write his name, nor read his neck-verse,[37] if he had occasion.

_Cour._ 'Tis as unreasonable to expect a man of sense should

be preferred, as 'tis to think a hector can be stout, a priest

religious, a fair woman chaste, or a pardoned rebel loyal.

_Enter two others, seeming earnestly in discourse._

_Beau._ That's seasonably thought on. Look there, observe but

that fellow on the right hand, the rogue with the busiest face

of the two; I'll tell thee his history.

_Cour._ I hope hanging will be the end of his history, so well

I like him at the first sight.

_Beau._ He was born a vagabond, and no parish owned him: his

father was as obscure as his mother public; everybody knew her,

and nobody could guess at him.

_Cour._ He comes of a very good family, Heaven be praised!

_Beau._ The first thing he chose to rise by was rebellion; so a

rebel he grew, and flourished a rebel; fought against his king,

and helped to bring him to the block.

_Cour._ And was he not religious too?

_Beau._ Most devoutly! he could pray till he cried, and preach

till he foamed; which excellent talent made him popular,

and at last preferred him to be a worthy member of that

never-to-be-forgotten Rump Parliament.

_Cour._ Pray, sir, be uncovered at that, and remember it with

reverence.

_Beau._ In short, he was a committee-man, sequestrator and

persecutor-general of a whole county, by which he got enough at

the king's return to secure himself in the general pardon.

_Cour._ Nauseous vermin! that such a swine, with the mark of

rebellion in his forehead, should wallow in his luxury, whilst

honest men are forgotten!

_Beau._ Thus forgiven, thus raised, and made thus happy, the

ungrateful slave disowns the hand that healed him, cherishes

factions to affront his master, and once more would rebel

against the head which so lately saved his from a pole.

_Cour._ What a dreadful beard and swinging sword he wears!

_Beau._ 'Tis to keep his cowardice in countenance; the rascal

will endure kicking most temperately for all that; I know five

or six more of the same stamp, that never come abroad without

terrible long spits by their sides, with which they will let

you bore their own noses if you please. But let the villain be

forgotten.

_Cour._ His co-rogue I have some knowledge of; he's a tattered

worm-eaten case-putter; some call him lawyer; one that takes it

very ill he is not made a judge.

_Beau._ Yes, and is always repining that men of parts are not

regarded.

_Cour._ He has been a great noise-maker in factious clubs these

seven years, and now I suppose is courting that worshipful

rascal, to make him recorder of some factious town.

_Beau._ To teach tallow-chandlers and cheesemongers how far

they may rebel against their king by virtue of Magna Charta.

_Cour._ But, friend Beaugard, methinks thou art very splenetic

of a sudden: how goes the affair of love forward? prosperously,

ha?

_Beau._ Oh, I assure you most triumphantly; just now, you must

know, I am parted with the sweet, civil, enchanted lady's

husband.

_Cour._ Well, and what says the cuckold? is he very kind and

good-natured, as cuckolds use to be?

_Beau._ Why, he says, Courtine, in short, that I am a very

silly fellow--and truly I am very apt to believe him--and that

I have been jilted in this affair most unconscionably. A plague

on all pimps, I say; a man's business never thrives so well as

when he is his own solicitor.

_Enter_ Sir JOLLY JUMBLE _and a_ Boy.

_Sir Jol._ Hist, hist! Captain! Captain! Captain!--Boy.

_Boy._ Sir.

_Sir Jol._ Run and get two chairs[38] presently; be sure you

get two chairs, sirrah, do you hear? Here's luck, here's luck!

now or never, captain; never if not now, captain! here's luck!

_Beau._ Sir Jolly, no more adventures, sweet Sir Jolly; I am

like to have a very fine time on't truly.

_Sir Jol._ The best in the world, dear dog, the very best in

the world; 'sbud, she's here hard by, man; stays on purpose

for thee, finely disguised. The cuckold has lost her too; and

nobody, knows anything of the matter but I, nobody but I; and

I, you must know, I am I, ha! and I, you little toad, ha!

_Beau._ You are a very fine gentleman.

_Sir Jol._ The best-natured fellow in the world, I believe, of

my years! Now does my heart so thump for fear this business

should miscarry: why, I'll warrant thee the lady is here, man;

she's all thy own; 'tis thy own fault if thou art not in _terra

incognita_ within this half-hour: come along, pr'ythee come

along; fie for shame! what, make a lady lose her longing! come

along, I say, you--out upon't!

_Beau._ Sir, your humble, I shan't stir.

_Sir Jol._ What, not go?

_Beau._ No, sir, no lady for me.

_Sir Jol._ Not go! I should laugh at that, faith!

_Beau._ No, I will assure you, not go, sir.

_Sir Jol._ Away, you wag! you jest, you jest, you wag; not go,

quoth-a?

_Beau._ No, sir, not go, I tell you; what the devil would you

have more?

_Sir Jol._ Nothing, nothing, sir, but I am a gentleman.

_Beau._ With all my heart.

_Sir Jol._ And do you think then that I'll be used thus?

_Beau._ Sir!

_Sir Jol._ Take away my reputation, and take away my life: I

shall be disgraced for ever.

_Beau._ I have not wronged you, Sir Jolly.

_Sir Jol._ Not wronged me! but you shall find you have wronged

me, and wronged a sweet lady, and a fine lady--I shall never be

trusted again! never have employment more! I shall die of the

spleen.--Pr'ythee now be good-natured, pr'ythee be persuaded;

odd, I'll give thee this ring, I'll give thee this watch, 'tis

gold; I'll give thee anything in the world; go.

_Beau._ Not one foot, sir.

_Sir Jol._ Now that I durst but murder him!--Well, shall I

fetch her to thee? what shall I do for thee?

_Enter_ Lady DUNCE.

Odds fish! here she comes herself. Now, you ill-natured churl,

now, you devil, look upon her; do but look upon her: what shall

I say to her?

_Beau._ E'en what you please, Sir Jolly.

_Sir Jol._ 'Tis a very strange monster this! Madam, this

is the gentleman, that's he, though, as one may say, he's

something bashful, but I'll tell him who you are. [_Goes to_

BEAUGARD.] If thou art not more cruel than leopards, lions,

tigers, wolves, or Tartars, don't break my heart, don't kill

me; this unkindness of thine goes to the soul of me. [_Goes to_

Lady DUNCE.] Madam, he says he's so amazed at your triumphant

beauty, that he dares not approach the excellence that shines

from you.

_L. Dunce._ What can be the meaning of all this?

_Sir Jol._ Art thou then resolved to be remorseless? canst thou

be insensible? hast thou eyes? hast thou a heart? hast thou

anything thou shouldst have? Odd, I'll tickle thee! get you to

her, you fool; get you to her, to her, to her, to her, ha, ha,

ha!

_L. Dunce._ Have you forgot me, Beaugard?

_Sir Jol._ So now, to her again, I say! to her, to her, and be

hanged! ah, rogue! ah, rogue! now, now, have at her; now have

at her! There it goes; there it goes, hey, boy!

_L. Dunce._ Methinks this face should not so much be altered,

as to be nothing like what I once thought it, the object of

your pleasure, and subject of your praises.

_Sir Jol._ Cunning toad! wheedling jade! you shall see now how

by degrees she'll draw him into the whirlpool of love: now he

leers upon her, now he leers upon her. O law! there's eyes!

there's eyes! I must pinch him by the calf of the leg.

_Beau._ Madam, I must confess I do remember that I had once

acquaintance with a face whose air and beauty much resembled

yours; and, if I may trust my heart, you are called Clarinda.

_L. Dunce._ Clarinda I was called, till my ill-fortune wedded

me; now you may have heard of me by another title: your friend

there, I suppose, has made nothing a secret to you.

_Beau._ And are you then that kind enchanted fair one who was

so passionately in love with my picture that you could not

forbear betraying me to the beast your husband, and wrong

the passion of a gentleman that languished for you, only to

make your monster merry? Hark you, madam! had your fool been

worth it, I had beaten him, and have a month's mind[39] to

be exercising my parts that way upon your go-between, your

male-bawd there.

_Sir Jol._ Ah Lord! ah Lord! all's spoiled again, all's ruined;

I shall be undone for ever! Why, what a devil is the matter

now? what have I done? what sins have I committed? [_Aside._

_L. Dunce._ And are you that passionate adorer of our sex, who

cannot live a week in London without loving? Are you the shark

that sends your picture up and down to longing ladies, longing

for a pattern of your person?

_Beau._ Yes, madam, when I receive so good hostages as these

are--[_Shows the gold_]--that it shall be well used. Could you

find nobody but me to play the fool withal?

_Sir Jol._ Alack-a-day!

_L. Dunce._ Could you pitch upon nobody but that wretched woman

that has loved you too well to abuse you thus?

_Sir Jol._ That ever I was born!

_Beau._ Here, here, madam, I'll return you your dirt; I scorn

your wages, as I do your service.

_L. Dunce._ Fie for shame! what, refund? that is not like a

soldier, to refund: keep, keep it to pay your sempstress withal.

_Sir Jol._ His sempstress! who the devil is his sempstress?

Odd, what would I give to know that now! [_Aside._

_L. Dunce._ There was a ring too, which I sent you this

afternoon; if that fit not your finger, you may dispose of it

some other way, where it may give no occasion of scandal, and

you'll do well.

_Beau._ A ring, madam?

_L. Dunce._ A small trifle; I suppose Sir Davy delivered it to

you, when he returned you your miniature.

_Beau._ I beseech you, madam!--

_L. Dunce._ Farewell, you traitor.

_Beau._ As I hope to be saved, and upon the word of a