The
Works
Of
John Dryden,
Now First Collected
_In Eighteen Volumes_.
Illustrated
With Notes,
Historical, Critical, And Explanatory,
And
A Life Of The Author,
By
Walter Scott, Esq.
VOL. II.
1808.
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME SECOND.
Dedication of Mr Congreve's edition of Dryden's
Dramatic Works to the Duke of Newcastle
The Wild Gallant, a Comedy
Preface
The Rival Ladies, a Tragi-comedy
Dedication to the Earl of Orrery
The Indian Queen, a Tragedy
The Indian Emperor, or the Conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards
Dedication to the Duchess of Monmouth and Buccleuch
Defence of an Essay of Dramatic Poesy
Connection of the Indian Emperor to the Indian Queen
Secret Love, or the Maiden Queen
Preface
THE
WORKS
OF
JOHN DRYDEN.
VOL. II.
ADVERTISEMENT.
_Mr Congreve's edition of Dryden's dramatic works, in six volumes
12mo, printed for Tonson in 1735, has been chiefly resorted to for the
text of the Plays in the present edition, although the assistance
of the older copies, in quarto and folio, has been called in, where
difficulties occurred, or improvements were obvious. The preliminary
Dissertations, Dedications, and Prefaces, have been corrected from the
excellent edition of Mr Malone. Congreve appears deeply to have felt
the bequest, left him by his great predecessor, when, "just abandoning
the ungrateful stage" he made it his intreaty, that his successor
would be kind to his remains. Considerable pains have been bestowed
by the present editor in correcting the text. The notes are limited
to the explanation of such passages, as the fashion in language, in
manners, or in literature, has, in the space of a century, rendered
doubtful or obscure._
DEDICATION TO MR CONGREVE'S EDITION OF
DRYDEN'S DRAMATIC WORKS.
TO
HIS GRACE
THE
DUKE OF NEWCASTLE[1],
LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY'S HOUSEHOLD
_&c_.
[Footnote 1: Thomas Pelham, Duke of Newcastle. No satire ever can
convey such bitter reproof as the high-strained eulogy of this
dedication. This great and wealthy man unblushingly received
Congreve's tribute of praise and gratitude, for his munificence in
directing a splendid monument to be raised over Dryden's remains. But
the incense of the dedicator was wasted on a block, more insensible
than his Grace's workmen could have dug from the quarry. Neither pride
nor shame could induce the Duke to accomplish what vanity had led him
voluntarily to propose; and the dedication, instead of producing a
tomb in honour of Dryden, will remain itself an eternal monument of
the patron's disgrace.]
My Lord,
It is the fortune of this edition of the dramatic works of the late
Mr Dryden, to come into the world at a time, when your Grace has just
given order for erecting, at your own expense, a noble monument to his
memory.
This is an act of generosity, which has something in it so very
uncommon, that the most unconcerned and indifferent persons must be
moved with it. How much more must all such be affected by it, who had
any due regard for the personal merits of the deceased, or are capable
of any taste and distinction for the remains and elegant labours of
one of the greatest men, that our nation has produced!
That, which distinguisheth actions of pure and elevated generosity,
from those of a mixed and inferior nature, is nothing else but the
absolutely disinterested views of the agent.
My Lord, this being granted, in how fair a light does your munificence
stand? A munificence to the memory, to the ashes, of a man whom you
never saw--whom you never can see; and who, consequently, never could,
by any personal obligation, induce you to do this deed of bounty; nor
can he ever make you any acknowledgment for it, when it shall be done.
It is evident, your Grace can have acted thus from no other motive
but your pure regard to merit; from your entire love for learning; and
from that accurate taste and discernment, which, by your studies, you
have so early attained to in the politer arts.
And these are the qualities, my Lord, by which you are more
distinguished, than by all those other uncommon advantages, with which
you are attended. Your great disposition, your great ability to be
beneficent to mankind, could by no means answer that end, if you were
not possessed of a judgment to direct you in the right application and
just distribution of your good offices.
You are now in a station, by which you necessarily preside over the
liberal arts, and all the practisers and professors of them. Poetry is
more particularly within your province; and with very good reason
may we hope to see it revive and flourish under your influence and
protection.
What hopes of reward may not the living deserver entertain, when
even the dead are sought out for, and their very urns and ashes made
partakers of your liberality?
As I have the honour to be known to you, my Lord, and to have been
distinguished by you by many expressions and instances of your
goodwill towards me, I take a singular pleasure to congratulate you
upon an action so entirely worthy of you. And as I had the happiness
to be very conversant, and as intimately acquainted with Mr Dryden as
the great disproportion in our years could allow me to be, I hope it
will not be thought too assuming in me, if, in love to his memory, and
in gratitude for the many friendly offices, and favourable instructions,
which, in my early youth, I received from him, I take upon me to make
this public acknowledgment to your Grace, for so public a testimony,
as you are pleased to give to the world, of that high esteem, in which
you hold the performances of that eminent man.
I can, in some degree, justify myself for so doing, by a citation of a
kind of right to it, bequeathed to me by him. And it is, indeed, upon
that pretension, that I presume even to make a dedication of these his
works to you.
In some very elegant, though very partial, verses, which he did me the
honour to write to me, he recommended it to me to _be kind to his
remains_[2].
[Footnote 2: These are the affecting lines referred to.
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage;
Unprofitably kept at heaven's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence.
But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and, O! defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend:
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you;
And take, for tribute, what these lines express:
You merit more, nor could my love do less.
_Epistle to_ MR CONGREVE]
I was then, and have been ever since, most sensibly touched with that
expression; and the more so, because I could not find in myself the
means of satisfying the passion which I felt in me, to do something
answerable to an injunction laid upon me in so pathetic and so
amicable a manner.
You, my Lord, have furnished me with ample means of acquitting myself,
both of my duty and obligation to my departed friend. What kinder
office lies in me to do to these, his most valuable and imperishable
remains, than to commit them to the protection, and lodge them under
the roof, of a patron, whose hospitality has extended itself even to
his dust?
If I would permit myself to run on in the way which so fairly opens
itself before me, I should tire your Grace with reiterated praises and
acknowledgments; and I might possibly (notwithstanding my pretended
right so to do) give some handle to such, who are inclinable to
censure, to tax me of affectation and officiousness, in thanking you,
more than comes to my share, for doing a thing, which is, in truth, of
a public consideration, as it is doing an honour to your country. For
so unquestionably it is, to do honour to him, who was an honour to it.
I have but one thing to say, either to obviate or to answer such
an objection, if it shall be made to me, which is, that I loved Mr
Dryden.
I have not touched upon any other public honour or bounty, done by you
to your country. I have industriously declined entering upon a theme
of so extensive a nature; and of all your numerous and continual
largesses to the public, I have only singled out this, as what most
particularly affected me. I confess freely to your Grace, I very much
admire all those other donations, but I much more love this; and I
cannot help it, if I am naturally more delighted with any thing that
is amiable, than with any thing that is wonderful.
Whoever shall censure me, I dare be confident, you, my Lord, will
excuse me for any thing that I shall say with due regard to a
gentleman, for whose person I had as just an affection as I have
an admiration of his writings. And indeed Mr Dryden had personal
qualities to challenge both love and esteem from all who were truly
acquainted with him.
He was of a nature exceedingly humane and compassionate; easily
forgiving injuries, and capable of a prompt and sincere reconciliation
with them who had offended him.
Such a temperament is the only solid foundation of all moral virtues
and sociable endowments. His friendship, where he professed it,
went much beyond his professions; and I have been told of strong and
generous instances of it by the persons themselves who received them,
though his hereditary income was little more than a bare competency.
As his reading had been very extensive, so was he very happy in a
memory, tenacious of every thing that he had read. He was not more
possessed of knowledge than he was communicative of it. But then his
communication of it was by no means pedantic, or imposed upon the
conversation; but just such, and went so far, as, by the natural turns
of the discourse in which he was engaged, it was necessarily promoted
or required. He was extreme ready and gentle in his correction of
the errors of any writer, who thought fit to consult him; and full as
ready and patient to admit of the reprehension of others, in respect
of his own oversight or mistakes. He was of very easy, I may say, of
very pleasing access; but something slow, and, as it were, diffident
in his advances to others. He had something in his nature, that
abhorred intrusion into any society whatsoever. Indeed, it is to be
regretted, that he was rather blameable in the other extreme; for,
by that means, he was personally less known, and, consequently,
his character might become liable both to misapprehensions and
misrepresentations.
To the best of my knowledge and observation, he was, of all the men
that ever I knew, one of the most modest, and the most easily to
be discountenanced in his approaches either to his superiors or his
equals.
I have given your Grace this slight sketch of his personal character,
as well to vindicate his memory, as to justify myself for the love
which I bore to his person; and I have the rather done it, because I
hope it may be acceptable to you to know, that he was worthy of the
distinction you have shewn him, as a man, as well as an author.
As to his writings, I shall not take upon me to speak of them: For to
say little of them would not be to do them right; and to say all that
I ought to say, would be to be very voluminous. But I may venture to
say, in general terms, that no man hath written in our language
so much, and so various matter, and in so various manners so well.
Another thing I may say very peculiar to him, which is, that his parts
did not decline with his years, but that he was an improving writer
to his last, even to near seventy years of age, improving even in
fire and imagination, as well as in judgment; witness his Ode on St
Cecilia's Day, and his Fables, his latest performances.
He was equally excellent in verse and in prose. His prose had all the
clearness imaginable, together with all the nobleness of expression;
all the graces and ornaments proper and peculiar to it, without
deviating into the language or diction of poetry. I make this
observation, only to distinguish his style from that of many poetical
writers, who, meaning to write harmoniously in prose, do, in truth,
often write mere blank verse.
I have heard him frequently own with pleasure, that if he had any
talent for English prose, it was owing to his having often read the
writings of the great Archbishop Tillotson.
His versification and his numbers he could learn of no body; for he
first possessed those talents in perfection in our tongue. And they,
who have best succeeded in them since his time, have been indebted
to his example; and the more they have been able to imitate him, the
better have they succeeded.
As his style in prose is always specifically different from his
style in poetry, so, on the other hand, in his poems, his diction is,
wherever his subject requires it, so sublimely and so truly poetical,
that its essence, like that of pure gold, cannot be destroyed. Take
his verses and divest them of their rhymes, disjoint them in their
numbers, transpose their expressions, make what arrangement and
disposition you please of his words, yet shall there eternally be
poetry, and something which will be found incapable of being resolved
into absolute prose; an incontestible characteristic of a truly
poetical genius.
I will say but one word more in general of his writings, which is,
that what he has done in any one species, or distinct kind, would have
been sufficient to have acquired him a great name. If he had written
nothing but his prefaces, or nothing but his songs or his prologues,
each of them would have entitled him to the preference and distinction
of excelling in his kind.
But I have forgot myself; for nothing can be more unnecessary than an
attempt to say any thing to your Grace in commendation of the writings
of this great poet; since it is only to your knowledge, taste, and
approbation of them, that the monument, which you are now about to
raise to him, is owing. I will, therefore, my Lord, detain you no
longer by this epistle; and only entreat you to believe, that it is
addressed to your Grace from no other motive than a sincere regard to
the memory of Mr Dryden, and a very sensible pleasure which I take
in applauding an action, by which you are so justly and so singularly
entitled to a dedication of his labours, though many years after his
death, and even though most of them were produced by him many years
before you were born. I am, with the greatest respect,
MY LORD,
Your Grace's most obedient,
And most humble servant,
WILLIAM CONGREVE.
THE
WILD GALLANT,
A COMEDY.
THE WILD GALLANT.
The Editor may be pardoned in bestowing remarks upon Dryden's plays,
only in proportion to their intrinsic merit, and to the attention
which each has excited, either at its first appearance, or when the
public attention has been since directed towards them. In either point
of view, little need be said on the "Wild Gallant." It was Dryden's
first theatrical production, and its reception by no means augured
his future pre-eminence in literature; nor was it more than tolerated,
when afterwards revived under the sanction of his increasing fame.
It was brought upon the stage in February 1662-3, according to the
conjecture of Mr Malone, who observes, that the following lines in the
prologue.
It should have been but one continued song;
Or, at the least, a dance of three hours long;
must refer to D'Avenant's opera, called the "Siege of Rhodes,"
acted in 1662; and that the expression, "in plays, he finds, you love
_mistakes_," alludes to the blunders of Teague, an Irish footman,
in Sir Robert Howard's play of the "Committee." The "Wild Gallant" was
revived and published in 1669, with a new prologue and epilogue, and
some other alterations, not of a nature, judging from the prologue, to
improve the morality of the piece. That the play had but indifferent
success in the action, the poet himself has informed us, with the
qualifying addition, that it more than once was the divertisement
of Charles II., by his own command. This honourable distinction it
probably acquired by the influence of the Countess of Castlemaine,
then the royal favourite, to whom Dryden addresses some verses on
her encouraging this play.--See Vol. XI p. 18.--The plot is borrowed
avowedly from the Spanish, and partakes of the unnatural incongruity,
common to the dramatic pieces of that nation, as also of the bustle
and intrigue, with which they are usually embroiled. Few modern
audiences would endure the absurd grossness of the deceit practised on
Lord Nonsuch in the fourth act; nor is the plot of Lady Constance, to
gain her lover, by marrying him in the disguise of a heathen divinity,
more grotesque than unnatural.--Yet, in the under characters, some
liveliness of dialogue is maintained; and the reader may be amused
with particular scenes, though, as a whole, the early fate of the play
was justly merited.
These passages, in which the plot stands still, while the spectators
are entertained with flippant dialogue and repartee, are ridiculed in
the scene betwixt Prince Prettyman and Tom Thimble in the Rehearsal;
the facetious Mr Bibber being the original of the latter personage.
The character of Trice, at least his whimsical humour of drinking,
playing at dice by himself, and quarrelling as if engaged with a
successful gamester, is imitated from the character of Carlo, in
Jonson's "Every Man out of his Humour," who drinks with a supposed
companion, quarrels about the pledge, and tosses about the cups and
flasks in the imaginary brawl. We have heard similar frolics related
of a bon-vivant of the last generation, inventor of a game called
_solitaire_, who used to complain of the hardship of drinking by
himself, because the _toast came too often about_.
The whole piece seems to have been intended as a sacrifice to popular
taste; and, perhaps, our poet only met a deserved fate, when he
stooped to sooth the depraved appetite, which his talents enabled him
to have corrected and purified. Something like this feeling may be
interred from the last lines of the second epilogue:
Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motley garniture of fool and farce;
Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which dues, like vests,[A] our gravity become;
Our poet yields you should this play refuse,
As tradesmen by the change of fashions lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.
[Footnote A: This seems to allude to the Polish dress, which, upon
his restoration, Charles wished to introduce into Britain. It was not
altered for the French, till his intimacy with that court was cemented
by pecuniary dependence.]
In the prologue, the author indulges himself in a display of the terms
of astrology, of which vain science he was a believer and a student.
PREFACE.
It would be a great impudence in me to say much of a comedy, which has
had but indifferent success in the action. I made the town my judges,
and the greater part condemned it: after which, I do not think it
my concernment to defend it with the ordinary zeal of a poet for his
decried poem. Though Corneille is more resolute in his preface before
his _Pertharite_[A], which was condemned more universally than
this; for he avows boldly, that, in spite of censure, his play was
well and regularly written; which is more than I dare say for mine.
Yet it was received at court; and was more than once the divertisement
of his Majesty, by his own command; but I have more modesty than to
ascribe that to my merit, which was his particular act of grace. It
was the first attempt I made in dramatic poetry; and, I find since, a
very bold one, to begin with comedy, which is the most difficult
part of it. The plot was not originally my own; but so altered by me,
(whether for the better or worse I know not) that whoever the author
was, he could not have challenged a scene of it. I doubt not but you
will see in it the uncorrectness of a young writer; which is yet but a
small excuse for him, who is so little amended since. The best apology
I can make for it, and the truest, is only this, that you have, since
that time, received with applause, as bad, and as uncorrect plays from
other men.
[Footnote A: "Le succés de cette tragédie à été si malheureux, que
pour m'epargner le chagrin de m'en souvenir, je n'en dirai presque
rien.--J'ajoute ici malgré sa disgrace, que les sentimens en sont
assez vifs et nobles, les vers assez bien tournes, et que la façon
dont le sujet s'explique dans la première scène ne manque pas
d'artifice."
_Examen de Pertharite_.]
PROLOGUE,
WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.
Is it not strange to hear a poet say,
He comes to ask you, how you like the play?
You have not seen it yet: alas! 'tis true;
But now your love and hatred judge, not you:
And cruel factions (bribed by interest) come,
Not to weigh merit, but to give their doom.
Our poet, therefore, jealous of th' event,
And (though much boldness takes) not confident,
Has sent me, whither you, fair ladies, too,
Sometimes upon as small occasions, go;
And, from this scheme, drawn for the hour and day,
Bid me enquire the fortune of his play.
_The curtain drawn discovers two Astrologers; the prologue is
presented to them_.
_1 Astrol. reads_, A figure of the heavenly bodies in their
several Apartments, Feb. the 5th, half-an-hour after three afternoon,
from whence you are to judge the success of a new play, called the
Wild Gallant.
_2 Astrol_. Who must judge of it, we, or these gentlemen? We'll
not meddle with it, so tell your poet. Here are, in this house, the
ablest mathematicians in Europe for his purpose.
They will resolve the question, ere they part.
_1 Att_. Yet let us judge it by the rules of art;
First Jupiter, the ascendant's lord disgraced,
In the twelfth house, and near grim Saturn placed,
Denote short life unto the play:--
_2 Ast_. --Jove yet,
In his apartment Sagittary, set
Under his own root, cannot take much wrong.
_1 Ast_. Why then the life's not very short, nor long;
_2 Ast_. The luck not very good, nor very ill;
_Prole_. That is to say, 'tis as 'tis taken still.
_1 Ast_. But, brother, Ptolemy the learned says,
'Tis the fifth house from whence we judge of plays.
Venus, the lady of that house, I find
Is Peregrine; your play is ill-designed;
It should have been but one continued song,
Or, at the least, a dance of three hours long.
_Ast_. But yet the greatest mischief does remain,
The twelfth apartment bears the lords of Spain;
Whence I conclude, it is your author's lot,
To be endangered by a Spanish plot.
_Prolo_. Our poet yet protection hopes from you,
But bribes you not with any thing that's new;
Nature is old, which poets imitate,
And, for wit, those, that boast their own estate,
Forget Fletcher and Ben before them went,
Their elder brothers, and that vastly spent;
So much, 'twill hardly be repair'd again,
Not, though supplied with all the wealth of Spain,
This play is English, and the growth your own;
As such, it yields to English plays alone.
He could have wish'd it better for your sakes,
But that, in plays, he finds you love mistakes:
Besides, he thought it was in vain to mend,
What you are bound in honour to defend;
That English wit, howe'er despised by some,
Like English valour, still may overcome.
PROLOGUE,
WHEN REVIVED.
As some raw squire, by tender mother bred,
'Till one-and-twenty keeps his maidenhead;
(Pleased with some sport, which he alone does find;
And thinks a secret to all humankind;)
'Till mightily in love, yet half afraid,
He first attempts the gentle dairy maid:
Succeeding there, and, led by the renown
Of Whetston's park, he comes at length to town;
Where entered, by some school-fellow or friend,
He grows to break glass windows in the end:
His valour too, which with the watch began,
Proceeds to duel, and he kills his man.
By such degrees, while knowledge he did want,
Our unfledged author writ a Wild Gallant.
He thought him monstrous lewd, (I lay my life)
Because suspected with his landlord's wife;
But, since his knowledge of the town began,
He thinks him now a very civil man;
And, much ashamed of what he was before,
Has fairly play'd him at three wenches more.
'Tis some amends his frailties to confess;
Pray pardon him his want of wickedness:
He's towardly, and will come on apace;
His frank confession shows he has some grace.
You baulked him when he was a young beginner,
And almost spoiled a very hopeful sinner;
But if once more you slight his weak endeavour,
For aught I know, he may turn tail forever;
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Lord NONSUCH, _an old rich humorous lord_.
Justice TRICE, _his neighbour_.
Mr LOVEBY, _the Wild Gallant_.
Sir TIMOROUS, _a bashful knight_.
FAILER, } _hangers-on of_ Sir TIMOROUS.
BURR, }
BIBBER, _a tailor_.
SETSTONE, _a jeweller_.
Lady CONSTANCE, Lord NONSUCH'S _daughter_,
Madam ISABELLA, _her cousin_.
Mrs BIBBER, _the tailors wife_.
_Serjeants, Boy to LOVEBY, Servants, a Bawd and
Whores, Watch and Constable_.
SCENE.--London.
THE
WILD GALLANT.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_FAILER entering to BURR, who is putting on his
buff-coat_.
_Fail_. What! not ready yet, man?
_Burr_. You do not consider my voyage from Holland last night.
_Fail_. Pish, a mere ferry; get up, get up: My cousin's maids will
come and blanket thee anon; art thou not ashamed to lie a-bed so long?
_Burr_. I may be more ashamed to rise; and so you'll say, dear
heart, if you look upon my clothes: the best is, my buff-coat will
cover all.
_Fail_. Egad, there goes more cunning than one would think to the
putting thy clothes together. Thy doublet and breeches are Guelphs and
Ghibellins to one another; and the stitches of thy doublet are so far
asunder, that it seems to hang together by the teeth. No man could
ever guess to what part of the body these fragments did belong, unless
he had been acquainted with 'em as long as thou hast been. If they
once lose their hold, they can never get together again, except by
chance the rags hit the tallies of one another. He, that gets into thy
doublet, must not think to do it by storm; no, he must win it inch by
inch, as the Turk did Rhodes.
_Burr_. You are very merry with my wardrobe; but, till I am
provided of a better, I am resolved to receive all visits in this
truckle-bed.
_Fail_. Then will I first scotch the wheels of it, that it may
not run: Thou hast cattle enough in it to carry it down stairs, and
break thy neck; 'tis got a yard nearer the door already.
_Enter Boy_.
_Boy_. Sir, Mr Bibber your tailor's below, and desires to speak
with you.
_Fail_. He's an honest fellow, and a fashionable; he shall set
thee forth, I warrant thee.
_Burr_. Ay; but where's the money for this, dear heart?
_Fail_. Well, but what think you of being put into a suit of
clothes without money? [_Aside_.
_Burr_. You speak of miracles.
_Fail_. Do you not know Will Bibber's humour?
_Burr_. Pr'ythee, what have I to do with his humour?
_Fail_. Break but a jest, and he'll beg to trust thee for a
suit; nay, he will contribute to his own destruction, and give thee
occasions to make one. He has been my artificer these three years;
and, all the while, I have lived upon his favourable apprehension.
Boy, conduct him up. [_Exit Boy._
_Burr_. But what am I the better for this? I ne'er made jest in
all my life.
_Fail._ A bare clinch will serve the turn; a car-wichet, a
quarter-quibble, or a pun.
_Burr_. Wit from a Low Country soldier! One, that has conversed
with none but dull Dutchmen these ten years! What an unreasonable
rogue art thou? why, I tell thee, 'tis as difficult to me, as to pay
him ready money.
_Fail_. Come, you shall be ruled for your own good; I'll
throw the clothes over you to help meditation. And, upon the first
opportunity, start you up, and surprise him with a jest.
_Burr_. Well, I think this impossible to be done: but, however,
I'll attempt. [_Lies down_, FAILER _covers him_.
_Fail_. Husht! he's coming up.
_Enter BIBBER_.
_Bib_. 'Morrow, Mr Failer: What, I warrant you think I come a
dunning now?
_Fail_. No, I vow to gad, Will; I have a better opinion of thy
wit, than to think thou would'st come to so little purpose.
_Bib_. Pretty well that: No, no, my business is to drink my
morning's-draught in sack with you.
_Fail_. Will not ale serve thy turn, Will?
_Bib_. I had too much of that last night; I was a little
disguised, as they say.
_Fail_. Why disguised? Hadst thou put on a clean band, or washed
thy face lately? Those are thy disguises, Bibber.
_Bib_. Well, in short, I was drunk; damnably drunk with ale;
great hogan-mogan bloody ale: I was porterly drunk, and that I hate of
all things in nature.
_Burr, rising_.] And of all things in nature I love it best.
_Bib_. Art thou there, i'faith? and why, old boy?
_Burr_. Because, when I am porterly drunk, I can carry myself.
_Bib_. Ha, ha, boy.
_Fail_. This porter brings sad news to you, Will; you must
trust him for a suit of clothes, as bad as 'tis: Come, he's an honest
fellow, and loves the king.
_Bib_. Why, it shall be my suit to him, that I may trust him.
_Burr_. I grant your suit, sir.
_Fail_. Burr, make haste and dress you; Sir Timorous dines here
to-day: you know him?
_Burr_. Aye, aye, a good honest young fellow; but no conjurer; he
and I are very kind.
_Fail_. Egad, we two have a constant revenue out of him: He would
now be admitted suitor to my Lady Constance Nonsuch, my Lord Nonsuch's
daughter; our neighbour here in Fleetstreet.
_Burr_. Is the match in any forwardness?
_Fail_. He never saw her before yesterday, and will not be
brought to speak to her this month yet.
_Burr_. That's strange.
_Fail_. Such a bashful knight did I never see; but we must move
for him.
_Bib_. They say, here's a great dinner to be made to-day here, at
your cousin Trice's, on purpose for the interview.
_Burr_. What, he keeps up his old humour still?
_Fail_. Yes, certain; he admires eating and drinking well, as
much as ever, and measures every man's wit by the goodness of his
palate.
_Burr_. Who dines here besides?
_Fail_. Jack Loveby.
_Bib_. O, my guest.
_Burr_. He has ever had the repute of a brave clear-spirited
fellow.
_Fail_. He's one of your Dear Hearts, a debauchee.
_Burr_. I love him the better for't: The best heraldry of a
gentleman is a clap, derived to him from three generations. What
fortune has he?
_Fail_. Good fortune at all games; but no estate: He had one; but
he has made a devil on't long ago. He's a bold fellow, I vow to gad:
A person, that keeps company with his betters; and commonly has gold
in's pockets. Come, Bibber, I see thou longest to be at thy morning's
watering: I'll try what credit I have with the butler.
_Bib_. Come away, my noble Festus and new customer.
_Fail_. Now will he drink, till his face be no bigger than a
three-pence. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Enter LOVEBY and BOY; followed by FRANCES, BIBBER'S wife_.
_Lov_. Nay, the devil take thee, sweet landlady, hold thy tongue:
Was't not enough thou hast scolded me from my lodging, which, as long
as I rent it, is my castle; but to follow me here to Mr Trice's,
where I am invited; and to discredit me before strangers, for a lousy,
paltry sum of money?
_Fran_. I tell you truly, Mr Loveby, my husband and I cannot live
by love, as they say; we must have wherewithal, as they say; and pay
for what we take; or some shall smoke fort.
_Lov_. Smoke! why a piece of hung beef in Holland is not more
smoked, than thou hast smoked me already. Thou knowest I am now
fasting; let me have but fair play; when I have lined my sides with a
good dinner, I'll engage upon reputation to come home again, and thou
shall scold at me all the afternoon.
_Fran_. I'll take the law on you.
_Lov_. The law allows none to scold in their own causes: What
dost thou think the lawyers take our money for?
_Fran_. I hope you intend to deal by my husband like a gentleman,
as they say?
_Lov_. Then I should beat him most unmercifully, and not pay him
neither.
_Fran_. Come, you think to fobb me off with your jests, as you
do my husband; but it won't be: yonder he comes, and company with him.
Husband, husband! why, William, I say!
_Enter BIBBER, BURR, and FAILER, at the other end_.
_Lov_. Speak softly, and I will satisfy thee.
_Fran_. You shall not satisfy me, sir; pay me for what you owe
me, for chamber-rent and diet, and many a good thing besides, that
shall be nameless.
_Lov_. What a stygian woman's this, to talk thus? Hold thy tongue
'till they be gone, or I'll cuckold thy husband.
_Fran_. You cuckold him--would you durst cuckold him! I will not
hold my tongue, sir.
_Bib_. Yonder's my guest; what say you, gentlemen? Shall I call
him to go down with us?
_Lov_. I must make a loose from her, there's no other way. Save
ye, Mr Failer; is your cousin Trice stirring yet? Answer me quickly,
sir, is your cousin Trice yet stirring?
_Fail_. I'll go and see, sir. Sure the man has a mind to beat me;
but I vow to gad I have no mind to be beaten by him. Come away, Burr.
Will, you follow us.
_Bib_. I'll be with you immediately.
[_Exeunt BURR and FAILER_.
_Lov_. Who was that with Failer, Will?
_Bib_. A man at arms, that's come from Holland.
_Lov_. A man out at arms thou mean'st, Will.
_Bib_. Good, i'faith.
_Fran_. Aye, aye; you run questing up and down after your
gambols, and your jests, William; and never mind the main chance,
as they say: Pray get in your debts, and think upon your wife and
children.
_Lov_. Think upon the sack at Carey-house, with the Abricot
flavour, Will. Hang a wife; what is she, but a lawful kind of
manslayer? Every little hug in bed is a degree of murdering thee: and
for thy children, fear 'em not: thy part of 'em shall be taylors,
and they shall trust; and those, thy customers get for thee, shall
be gentlemen, and they shall be trusted by their brethren; and so thy
children shall live by one another.
_Bib_. Did you mark that, Frances? There was wit now; he call'd
me cuckold to my face, and yet for my heart I cannot be angry with
him. I perceive you love Frances, sir; and I love her the better for
your sake; speak truly, do you not like such a pretty brown kind of
woman?
_Lov_. I do i'faith, Will; your fair women have no substance in
'em, they shrink in the wetting.
_Fran_. Well, you may be undone if you will, husband: I hear
there are two or three actions already out against him: You may be the
last, if you think good.
_Bib_. Tis true she tells me; I love your wit well, sir; but I
must cut my coat according to my cloth.
_Fran_. Sir, we'll come by our own as we can; if you put us oft'
from week to week thus.
_Lov_. Nay, but good landlady--
_Fran_. Will good landlady set on the pot, as they say; or make
the jack go? then I'll hear you.
_Bib_. Now she's too much on t'other hand; hold your prating,
Frances; or I'll put you out of your Pater Nosters, with a sorrow to
you.
_Fran_. I did but lay the law open to him, as they say, whereby
to get our money in: But if you knew how he had used me, husband!
_Bib_. Has he used you, Frances? put so much more into his bill
for lodging.
_Lov_. Honest Will, and so he died[A]; I thank thee, little
Bibber, being sober, and, when I am drunk, I will kiss thee for't.
[Footnote A: This expression seems proverbial.]
_Bib_. Thank me, and pay me my money, sir; though I could not
forbear my jest, I do not intend to lose by you; if you pay me not the
sooner, I must provide you another lodging; say I give you warning.
_Lov_. Against next quarter, landlord?
_Bib_. Of an hour, sir.
_Lov_. That's short warning, Will.
_Bib_. By this hand you shall up into the garret, where the
little bed is; I'll let my best room to a better pay-master: you know
the garret, sir?
_Franc_. Aye, he knows it, by a good token, husband.
_Lov_. I sweat to think of that garret, Will; thou art not so
unconscionable to put me there? Why, 'tis a kind of little ease[B], to
cramp thy rebellious prentices in; I have seen an usurer's iron chest
would hold two on't: A penny looking-glass cannot stand upright in
the window, that and the brush tills it: the hat-case must be disposed
under the bed, and the comb-case will hang down, from the ceiling to
the floor. If I chance to dine in my chamber, I must stay till I am
empty before I can get out: and if I chance to spill the chamber-pot,
it will overflow it from top to bottom.
[Footnote B: A kind of dungeon, so called from its construction.]
_Bib_. Well, for the description of the garret, I'll bate you
something of the bill.
_Lov_. All, all, good Will; or, to stay thy fury till my rents
come up, I will describe thy little face.
_Bib_. No, rather describe your own little money; I am sure
that's so little it is not visible.
_Lov_. You are in the right, I have not a cross at present, as I
am a sinner; an you will not believe me, I'll turn my pockets inside
outward--Ha! What's the meaning of this? my pockets heavy! has my
small officer put in counters to abuse me?--How now! yellow boys, by
this good light? sirrah, varlet, how came I by this gold? Ha!
_Boy_. What gold do you mean, sir? the devil a piece you had this
morning. In these last three weeks, I have almost forgot what my teeth
were made for; last night good Mrs Bibber here took pity on me, and
crumm'd me a mess of gruel with the children, and I popt and popt my
spoon three or four times to my mouth, before I could find the way
to't.
_Lov_. 'Tis strange, how I should come by so much money!
[_Aside_.] Has there been nobody about my chamber this morning,
landlady?
_Boy_. O yes, sir; I forgot to tell you that: This morning a
strange fellow, as ever eyes beheld, would needs come up to you, when
you were asleep; but when he came down again, he said, he had not
waked you.
_Lov_. Sure this fellow, whoe'er he was, was sent by Fortune to
mistake me into so much money.--Well, this is not the first time my
necessities have been strangely supplied: some Cadua or other has a
kindness for me, that's certain: [_Aside_.]--Well, Mons. Bibber,
from henceforward I'll keep my wit for more refined spirits; you shall
be paid with dirt;--there's money for you.
_Bib_. Nay, good sir.
_Lov_. What's your sum? tell it out: will the money burn your
fingers? Sirrah, boy, fetch my suit with the gold-lace at sleeves,
from tribulation.
[_Gives him gold. Exit Boy_.] Mr Taylor, I shall turn the better
bill-man[A], and knock that little coxcomb of yours, if you do not
answer me what I owe you.
[Footnote A: Alluding to the ancient weapon called the bill; a
never-failing source of puns in old plays.]
_Bib_. Pray, sir, trouble not yourself; 'tis nothing; i'feck now
'tis not.
_Lov_. How nothing, sir?
_Fran_. An't, please your worship, it was seventeen pounds and
a noble yesterday at noon, your worship knows: And then your worship
came home ill last night, and complained of your worship's head; and
I sent for three dishes of tea for your good worship, and that was six
pence more, and please your worship's honour.
_Lov_. Well; there's eighteen pieces, tell 'em.
_Bib_. I say, Frances, do not take 'em.
_Lov_, What, is all your pleading of necessity come to this?
_Bib_. Now I see he will pay, he shall not pay. Frances, go home,
and fetch him the whole bag of forty pounds; I'll lend it him, and the
lease of the house too; he shall want for nothing.
_Lov_. Take the money, or I'll leave your house.
_Bib_. Nay, rather than displease his worship, take it. [_She
takes it_.
_Lov_. So, so; go home quietly and suckle my godson, Frances.
[_Exit FRANCES_.
_Bib_. If you are for the cellar, sir, you know the way. [_Exit
BIBBER_.
_Lov_. No, my first visit shall be to my mistress, the Lady
Constance Nonsuch. She's discreet, and how the devil she comes to love
me, I know not; yet I am pretty confident she loves me. Well, no woman
can be wiser, than you-know-what will give her leave to be.
_Enter Lady CONSTANCE, and Madam ISABELLA_.
_Isa_. Look, look; is not that your servant Loveby?
_Lov_. Tis she; there's no being seen, 'till I am better habited.
[_Exit_ LOVEBY.
_Const_. Let him go, and take no notice of him: Poor rogue! he
little thinks I know his poverty.
_Isa_. And less, that you supply it by an unknown hand.
_Const_. Aye, and falsified my father's key to do it.
_Isa_. How can you answer this to your discretion?
_Const_. Who could see him want, she loves?
_Enter SETSTONE_.
_Isa_. O here's Mr Setstone come, your jeweller, madam.
_Const_. Welcome, Setstone; hast thou performed thy visit
happily, and without discovery?
_Set_. As you would wish it, madam: I went up to his chamber
without interruption; and there found him drowning his cares, and
pacifying his hunger, with sleep; which advantage I took, and;
undiscovered by him, left the gold divided in his pockets.
_Const_. Well, this money will furnish him, I hope, that we may
have his company again.
_Set_. Two hundred and fifty good pounds, madam. Has your father
missed it yet?
_Const_. No; if he had, we should have all heard on't before now:
But, pray God Monsieur Loveby has no other haunts to divert him, now
he's ransomed! What a kind of woman is his landlady?
_Set_. Well enough to serve a tailor; or to kiss when he comes
home drunk, or wants money; but far unlikely to create jealousy in
your ladyship.
_Enter Servant_.
_Serv_. Madam, Justice Trice desires your ladyship's excuse,
that he has not yet performed the civilities of his hour to you; he is
dispatching a little business, about which he is earnestly employed.
_Const_. He's master of his own occasions. [_Exit Servant_.
_Isa_. We shall see him anon, with his face as red as if it had
been boiled in pump-water: But, when comes this mirror of knighthood,
that is to be presented you for your servant?
_Const_. Oh, 'tis well thought on; 'faith thou know'st my
affections are otherwise disposed; he's rich, and thou want'st a
fortune; atchieve him, if thou can'st; 'tis but trying, and thou hast
as much wit as any wench in England.
_Isa_. On condition you'll take it for a courtesy to be rid of an
ass, I care not if I marry him: the old fool, your father, would be so
importunate to match you with a young fool, that, partly for quietness
sake, I am content to take him.
_Const_. To take him! then you make sure on't.
_Isa_. As sure, as if the sack posset were already eaten.
_Const_. But, what means wilt thou use to get him?
_Isa_. I'll bribe Failer; he's the man.
_Const_. Why, this knight is his inheritance; he lives upon him:
Do'st thou think he'll ever admit thee to govern him? No, he fears thy
wit too much: Besides, he has already received an hundred pounds, to
make the match between Sir Timorous and me.
_Isa_. 'Tis all one for that; I warrant you, he sells me the
fee-simple of him.
_Set_. Your father, madam--
_Enter_ NONSUCH.
_Isa_. The tempest is risen; I see it in his face; he puffs
and blows yonder, as if two of the winds were fighting upwards and
downwards in his belly.
_Set_. Will he not find your false keys, madam?
_Isa_. I hope he will have more humanity than to search us.
_Const_. You are come after us betimes, sir.
_Non_. Oh child! I am undone; I am robbed, I am robbed; I have
utterly lost all stomach to my dinner.
_Const_. Robbed! good my lord, how, or of what?
_Non_. Two hundred and fifty pounds, in fair gold, out of my
study: An hundred of it I was to have paid a courtier this afternoon
for a bribe.
_Set_. I protest, my lord, I had as much ado to get that parcel
of gold for your lordship--
_Non_. You must get me as much more against to-morrow; for then
my friend at court is to pay his mercer.
_Isa_. Nay, if that be all, there's no such haste: the courtiers
are not so forward to pay their debts.
_Const_. Has not the monkey been in the study? He may have
carried it away, and dropt it under the garden-window: the grass is
long enough to hide it.
_Non_. I'll go see immediately.
_Enter_ FAILER, BURR, TIMOROUS.
_Fail_. This is the gentleman, my lord.
_Non_. He's welcome.
_Fail_. And this the particular of his estate.
_Non_. That's welcome too.
_Fail_. But, besides the land here mentioned, he has wealth in
specie.
_Non_. A very fine young gentleman.
_Tim_. Now, my lord, I hope there's no great need of wooing: I
suppose my estate will speak for me; yet, if you please to put in a
word--
_Non_. That will I instantly.
_Tim_. I hope I shall have your good word, too, madam, to your
cousin for me. [_To_ ISABELLA.
_Isa_. Any thing within my power, Sir Timorous.
_Non_. Daughter, here's a person of quality, and one, that loves
and honours you exceedingly--
_Tim_. Nay, good my lord! you discover all at first dash.
_Non_. Let me alone, sir; have not I the dominion over my own
daughter? Constance, here's a knight in love with you, child.
_Const_. In love with me, my lord! it is not possible.
_Non_. Here he stands, that will make it good, child.
_Tim_. Who, I, my lord? I hope her ladyship has a better opinion
of me than so.
_Non_. What! are not you in love with my daughter? I'll be sworn
you told me so but even now: I'll eat words for no man.
_Tim_. If your ladyship will believe all reports, that are raised
on men of quality--
_Non_. He told it me with his own mouth, child: I'll eat words
for no man; that's more than ever I told him yet.
_Fail_. You told him so but just now; fie, Sir Timorous.
_Non_. He shall have no daughter of mine, an he were a thousand
knights; he told me, he hoped I would speak for him: I'll eat no man's
words; that's more than ever I told him yet.
_Isa_. You need not keep such a pudder about eating his words;
you see he has eaten 'em already for you.
_Non_. I'll make him stand to his words, and he shall not marry
my daughter neither: By this good day, I will. [_Exit_ NONSUCH.
_Const_. 'Tis an ill day to him; he has lost two hundred and
fifty pounds in't. [_To_ ISABELLA.
_Burr_. He swears at the rate of two thousand pounds a year, if
the Rump act were still in being.
_Fail_. He's in passion, man; and, besides, he has been a great
fanatic formerly, and now has got a habit of swearing, that he may be
thought a cavalier.
_Burr_. What noise is that? I think I hear your cousin Trice's
voice.
_Fail_. I'll go see. [_Exit_ FAIL.
_Isa_. Come, Sir Timorous, be not discouraged: 'Tis but an old
man's frowardness; he's always thus against rain.
_Enter_ FAILER.
_Fail_. O madam, follow me quickly; and if you do not see sport,
melancholy be upon my head.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_The_ SCENE _changes, and_ TRICE _is discovered playing at
tables by himself, with spectacles on, a bottle, and parmezan by him;
they return and see him, undiscovered by him_.
_Trice_. Cinque and quatre: My cinque I play here, sir; my quatre
here, sir: Now for you, sir: But first I'll drink to you, sir; upon my
faith I'll do you reason, sir: Mine was thus full, sir! Pray mind your
play, sir:--Size ace I have thrown: I'll play 'em at length, sir.
--Will you, sir? Then you have made a blot sir; I'll try if I can
enter: I have hit you, sir.
--I think you can cog a dye, sir.
--I cog a dye, sir? I play as fair as you, or any man.
--You lie, sir.
--How! lie, sir? I'll teach you what 'tis to give a gentleman the lie,
sir.
[_Throws down the tables_.
[_They all laugh and discover themselves_.
_Isa_. Is this your serious business?
_Trice_. O you rogue, are you there? You are welcome, huswife;
and so are you, Constance, _Fa tol de re tol de re la_. [_Claps
their backs_.
_Isa_. Pr'ythee be not so rude, Trice.
_Trice_. Huswife Constance, I'll have you into my larder, and
shew you my provision: I have cockles, dainty fat cockles, that came
in the night; if they had seen the day, I would not have given a fart
for 'em. I would the king had 'em.
_Const_. He has as good, I warrant you.
_Trice_. Nay, that's a lie. I could sit and cry for him
sometimes; he does not know what 'tis to eat a good meal in a whole
year. His cooks are asses: I have a delicate dish of ruffs to dinner,
sirrah.
_Const_. To dinner!
_Trice_. To dinner! why by supper they had been past their prime.
I'll tell thee the story of 'em: I have a friend--
_Enter Servant_.
_Serv_. Sir, dinner's upon the table.
_Trice_. Well, well; I have a friend, as I told you--
_Serv_. Dinner stays, sir: 'tis dinner that stays: Sure he will
hear now.
_Trice_. I have a friend, as I told you--
_Isa_. I believe he's your friend, you are so loth to part with
him.
_Trice_. Away, away;--I'll tell you the story between the
courses. Go you to the cook immediately, sirrah; and bring me word
what we have to supper, before we go to dinner: I love to have the
satisfaction of the day before me. [_Exeunt_.
ACT II. SCENE I.
_Enter, as from Dinner_, TRICE, TIMOROUS, FAILER, BURR,
CONSTANCE, ISABELLA.
_Trice_. Speak thy conscience; was it not well dressed, sirrah?
_Tim_. What think you of the Park, after our plenteous
entertainment, madam?
_Isa_. I defy the Park, and all its works.
_Const_. Come, Mr Trice, we'll walk in your garden.
[_Exeunt all but_ FAILER _and_ BURR.
_Fail_. O, one thing I had almost forgot to tell you; one of us
two must ever be near Sir Timorous.
_Burr_. Why?
_Fail_. To guard our interest in him from the enemy, madam
Isabella; who, I doubt, has designs upon him. I do not fear her wit,
but her sex; she carries a prevailing argument about her.
_Enter_ BIBBER _with a Bottle_.
_Bib_. By this hand, I have alight upon the best wine in your
cousin's cellar; drink but one glass to me, to shew I am welcome, and
I am gone.
_Fail_. Here then, honest Will; 'tis a cup of forbearance to
thee.
_Bib_. Thank you, sir, I'll pledge you--now here's to you again.
_Fail_. Come away; what is't, Will?
_Bib_. 'Tis what you christened it, a cup of forbearance, sir.
_Fail_. Why, I drank that to thee, Will, that thou shouldst
forbear thy money.
_Bib_. And I drink this to you, sir; henceforward I'll forbear
working for you.
_Fail_. Then say I:
_Take a little Bibber,
And threw him in the river;
And if he will trust never,
Then there let him lie ever._
_Bib_. Then say I:
_Take a little Failer,
And throw him to the jailor;
And there let him lie,
Till he has paid his tailor._
_Burr_. You are very smart upon one another, gentlemen.
_Fail_. This is nothing between us; I use to tell him of his
title, _Fiery facias_; and his setting dog, that runs into
ale-houses before him, and comes questing out again, if any of the
woots, his customers, be within.
_Bib_. I'faith 'tis true; and I use to tell him of his two
capon's tails about his hat, that are laid spread-eaglewise to make a
feather; I would go into the snow at any time, and in a quarter of
an hour I would come in with a better feather upon my head; and so
farewel, sir; I have had the better on you hitherto, and for this time
I am resolved to keep it.
[_Exit_ BIBBER.
_Fail_. The rogue's too hard for me; but the best on't is, I have
my revenge upon his purse.
_Enter_ ISABELLA.
_Isa_. Came not Sir Timorous this way, gentlemen? He left us in
the garden, and said he would look out my Lord Nonsuch, to make his
peace with him.
_Fail_. Madam, I like not your enquiring after Sir Timorous: I
suspect you have some design upon him: You would fain undermine your
cousin, and marry him yourself.
_Isa_. Suppose I should design it, what are you the worse for my
good fortune? Shall I make a proposition to you? I know you two carry
a great stroke with him: Make the match between us, and propound to
yourselves what advantages you can reasonably hope: You shall chouse
him of horses, cloaths, and money, and I'll wink at it.
_Burr_. And if he will not be choused, shall we beat him out
on't?
_Isa_. For that, as you can agree.
_Fail_. Give us a handsel of the bargain; let us enjoy you, and
'tis a match.
_Isa_. Grammercy i'faith, boys; I love a good offer, howe'er the
world goes; but you would not be so base to wrong him that way?
_Fail_. I vow to gad but I would, madam: In a horse, or a woman,
I may lawfully cheat my own father: Besides, I know the knight's
complexion; he would be sure to follow other women; and all that.
_Isa_. Nay, if he fought with the sword, he should give me leave
to fight with the scabbard.
_Burr_. What say you, madam? Is't a bargain?
_Isa_. 'Tis but a promise; and I have learnt a court trick
for performing any thing [_Aside_]. Well, gentlemen, when I am
married I'll think upon you; you'll grant there's a necessity I should
cuckold him, if it were but to prove myself a wit.
_Fail_. Nay, there's no doubt you'll cuckold him, and all that;
for look you, he's a person fit for nothing else; but I fear we shall
not have the graffing of the horns; we must have livery and seisin
beforehand of you, or I protest to gad we believe you not.
_Isa_. I have past my word; is't not sufficient? What! do you
think I would tell a lie to save such a paltry thing as a night's
lodging?--Hark you, sir. [To BURR.
_Fail_. Now will she attempt Burr; egad, she has found him out
for the weaker vessel.
_Isa_. I have no kindness for that Failer; we'll strike him out,
and manage Sir Timorous ourselves.
_Burr_. Indeed we won't.
_Isa_. Failer's a rook; and, besides, he's such a debauched
fellow--
_Burr_. I am ten times worse.
_Isa_. Leave it, and him that taught it you: You have virtuous
inclinations, and I would not have you ruin yourself. He, that serves
many mistresses, surfeits on his diet, and grows dead to the whole
sex: 'Tis the folly in the world next long ears and braying.
_Burr_. Now I'm sure you have a mind to me; when a woman once
falls a preaching, the next thing is ever use and application.
_Isa_. Forbear your rudeness!--
_Burr_. Then I am sure you mean to jilt me: You decline Failer,
because he has wit; and you think me such an ass, that you may pack me
off so soon as you are married; no, no, I'll not venture certainties
for uncertainties.
_Isa_. I can hold no longer;--Mr Failer, what do you think this
fellow was saying of you?
_Fail_. Of me, madam?
_Isa_. That you were one of the arrantest cowards in Christendom,
though you went for one of the Dear Hearts; that your name had been
upon more posts than playbills; and that he had been acquainted with
you these seven years, drunk and sober, and yet could never fasten a
quarrel upon you.
_Burr_. Do you believe this, dear heart?
_Isa_. If you deny it, I'll take his sword, and force you to
confess it.
_Fail_. I vow to gad; this will not do, madam: You shall not set
us at variance so easily; neither shall you have Sir Timorous.
_Isa_. No! then mark my words: I'll marry him in spite of you;
and, which is worse, you shall both work my ends, and I'll discard you
for your pains.
_Fail_. You shall not touch a bit of him: I'll preserve his
humbles from you, egad; they shall be his keeper's fees[A].
[Footnote A: The keeper of a royal forest had for his fees the skin,
head, umbles (_i.e._ inwards), chine, and shoulders. HOLINSHED'S
_Chronicle_, vol. i. p. 104.]
_Burr_. She shall cut an atom sooner than divide us.
[_Exeunt_ BURR _and_ FAILER.
_Enter_ CONSTANCE.
_Const_. I have given 'em the slip in the garden, to come and
overhear thee: No fat overgrown virgin of forty ever offered herself
so dog-cheap, or was more despised; methinks now this should mortify
thee exceedingly.
_Isa_. Not a whit the more for that: Cousin mine, our sex is not
so easily put out of conceit with our own beauties.
_Const_. Thou hast lost the opinion of thy honesty, and got
nothing in recompence: Now that's such an oversight in a lady--
_Isa_. You are deceived; they think me too virtuous for their
purpose; but I have yet another way to try, and you shall help me.
_Enter_ LOVEBY, _new habited_.
_Const_. Mr Loveby, welcome, welcome: Where have you been this
fortnight?
_Lov_. Faith, madam, out of town, to see a little thing that's
fallen to me upon the death of a grandmother.
_Const_. You thank death for the windfall, servant: But why are
you not in mourning for her?
_Lov_. Troth, madam, it came upon me so suddenly, I had not time:
'Twas a fortune utterly unexpected by me.
_Isa_. Why, was your grandmother so young, you could not look for
her decease?
_Lov_. Not for that neither; but I had many other kindred, whom
she might have left it to; only she heard I lived here in fashion, and
spent my money in the eye of the world.
_Const_. You forge these things prettily; but I have heard you
are as poor as a decimated cavalier, and had not one foot of land in
all the world.
_Lov_. Rivals' tales, rivals' tales, madam.
_Const_. Where lies your land, sir?
_Lov_. I'll tell you, madam, it has upon it a very fair manor
house; from one side you have in prospect an hanging garden.
_Isa_. Who was hanged there? not your grandmother, I hope?
_Lov_. In the midst of it you have a fountain: You have seen
that at Hampton-court? it will serve to give you a slight image of
it. Beyond the garden you look to a river through a perspective of
fruit-trees; and beyond the river you see a mead so flowery!--Well, I
shall never be at quiet, till we two make hay there.
_Const_. But where lies this paradise?
_Lov_. Pox on't; I am thinking to sell it, it has such a
villanous unpleasant name, it would have sounded so harsh in a lady's
ear. But for the fountain, madam--
_Const_. The fountain's a poor excuse, it will not hold water;
come, the name, the name.
_Lov_. Faith, it is come so lately into my hands, that I have
forgot the name on't.
_Isa_. That's much, now, that you should forget the name, and yet
could make such an exact description of the place.
_Lov_. If you would needs know, the name's Bawdy.--Sure this
will give a stop to their curiosity. [_Aside_.
_Isa_. At least you will tell us in what county it lies, that my
cousin may send to enquire about it: come, this shall not serve your
turn; tell us any town that's near it.
_Lov_. 'Twill be somewhat too far to send; it lies in the very
north of Scotland.
_Isa_. In good time, a paradise in the Highlands; is't not so,
sir?
_Const_. It seems you went post, servant: in troth you are a rank
rider, to go to the north of Scotland, stay and take possession, and
return again, in ten days time.
_Isa_. I never knew your grandmother was a Scotch woman: Is
she not a Tartar too? Pray whistle for her, and let's see her dance;
come--whist, grannee!
_Const_. Fie, fie, servant; what, no invention in you? all this
while a-studying for a name of your manor? come, come, where lies it?
tell me.
_Lov_. No, faith, I am wiser than so; I'll discover my seat to no
man; so I shall have some damned lawyer keep a prying into my title,
to defeat me of it.
_Const_. How then shall I be satisfied, there is such a thing in
nature?
_Lov_. Tell me what jewel you would wear, and you shall have it:
Enquire into my money, there's the trial.
_Const_. Since you are so flush, sir, you shall give me a locket
of diamonds, of three hundred pounds.
_Isa_. That was too severe; you know he has but two hundred and
fifty pounds to bestow. [_To her.
Lov_. Well, you shall have it, madam: But I cannot higgle; I know
you'll say it did not cost above two hundred pieces.
_Isa_. I'll be hanged if he does not present you with a parcel of
melted flints set in gold, or Norfolk pebbles.
_Lov_. Little gentlewoman, you are so keen--Madam, this night
I have appointed business, to-morrow I'll wait upon you with it.
[_Exit_ LOVEBY.
_Isa_. By that time he has bought his locket, and paid his
landlady, all his money will be gone. But do you mean to prosecute
your plot to see him this evening?
_Const_. Yes, and that very privately; if my father know it, I am
undone.
_Enter_ SETSTONE.
_Isa_. I heard him say, this night he had appointed business.
_Set_. Why, that was it, madam; according to your order, I put on
a disguise, and found him in the Temple-walks: Having drawn him aside,
I told him, if he expected happiness, he must meet me in a blind
alley, I nam'd to him, on the back side of Mr Trice's house, just at
the close of evening; there he should be satisfied from whom he had
his supplies of money.
_Const_. And how did he receive the summons?
_Set_. Like a bold Hector of Troy; without the least doubt or
scruple: But, the jest on't was, he would needs believe that I was the
devil.
_Const_. Sure he was afraid to come then?
_Set_. Quite contrary; he told me I need not be so shy, to
acknowledge myself to him; he knew I was the devil; but he had learnt
so much civility, as not to press his friend to a farther discovery
than he was pleased. I should see I had to do with a gentleman; and
any courtesy I should confer on him, he would not be unthankful; for
he hated ingratitude of all things.
_Const_. 'Twas well carried not to disabuse him: I laugh to
think what sport I shall have anon, when I convince him of his lies,
and let him know I was the devil, to whom he was beholden for his
money: Go, Setstone; and in the same disguise be ready for him.
[_Exit_ SETSTONE.
_Isa_. How dare you trust this fellow?
_Const_. I must trust some body: Gain has made him mine, and now
fear will keep him faithful.
_To them_, BURR, FAILER, TIMOROUS, TRICE, _and_ NONSUCH.
_Fail_. Pray, my lord, take no pique at it: 'Tis not given to all
men to be confident: Egad, you shall see Sir Timorous will redeem all
upon the next occasion.
_Non_. A raw miching boy.
_Isa_. And what are you but an old boy of five and fifty? I never
knew any thing so humoursome--I warrant you, Sir Timorous; I'll speak
for you.
_Non_. Would'st thou have me be friends with him? for thy sake
he shall only add five hundred a-year to her jointure, and I'll be
satisfied: Come you hither, sir.
[_Here_ TRICE _and_ NONSUCH _and_ TIMOROUS _talk
privately_; BURR _with_ FAILER _apart_, CONSTANCE
_with_ ISABELLA.
_Const_. You'll not find your account in this trick to get Failer
beaten; 'tis too palpable and open.
_Isa_. I warrant you 'twill pass upon Burr for a time: So my
revenge and your interest will go on together.
_Fail_. Burr, there's mischief a-brewing, I know it by their
whispering, I vow to gad: Look to yourself, their design is on you;
for my part, I am a person that am above 'em.
_Tim_. to _Trice_. But then you must speak for me, Mr Trice:
and you too, my lord.
_Non_. If you deny't again, I'll beat you; look to't, boy.
_Trice_. Come on; I'll make the bargain.
_Isa_. You were ever good in a flesh-market.
_Trice_. Come, you little harlotry; what satisfaction can you
give me for running away before the ruffs came in?
_Const_. Why, I left you to 'em, that ever invite your own belly
to the greatest part of all your feasts.
_Trice_. I have brought you a knight here, huswife, with a
plentiful fortune to furnish out a table; and what would you more?
Would you be an angel in heaven?
_Isa_. Your mind's ever upon your belly.
_Trice_. No: 'tis sometimes upon yours: But, what say'st thou to
sir Timorous, little Constance?
_Const_. Would you have me married to that king Midas's face?
_Trice_. Midas me no Midas; he's a wit; he understands eating and
drinking well: _Poeta coquus_, the heathen philosopher could tell
you that.
_Const_. Come on, sir: what's your will with me? [_Laughs_.
_Tim_. Why, madam, I could only wish we were a little better
acquainted, that we might not laugh at one another so.
_Const_. If the fool puts forward, I am undone.
_Tim_. Fool!--do you know me, madam?
_Const_. You may see I know you, because I call you by your name.
_Fail_. You must endure these rebukes with patience, Sir
Timorous.
_Const_. What, are you planet struck? Look you, my lord, the
gentleman's tongue-tied.
_Non_. This is past enduring.
_Fail_. 'Tis nothing, my lord;--courage, Sir Timorous.
_Non_. I say 'tis past enduring; that's more than ever I told you
yet: Do you come to make a fool of my daughter?
_Isa_. Why lord--
_Non_. Why lady--[_Exit_ NONSUCH.
_Trice_. Let's follow the old man, and pacify him.
_Isa_. Now, cousin,--[_Exeunt_ ISA. TRICE, BURR.
_Const_. Well, Mr Failer, I did not think you, of all the rest,
would have endeavoured a thing so much against my inclination, as
this marriage: if you had been acquainted with my heart, I am sure you
would not.
_Fail_. What can the meaning of this be? you would not have me
believe you love me; and yet how otherwise to understand you I vow to
gad I cannot comprehend.
_Const_. I did not say I loved you; but if I should take a fancy
to your person and humour, I hope it is no crime to tell it you. Women
are tied to hard unequal laws: The passion is the same in us, and
yet we are debarred the freedom to express it. You make poor Grecian
beggars of us ladies; our desires must have no language, but only be
fastened to our breasts.
_Fail_. Come, come; egad I know the whole sex of you: Your love's
at best but a kind: of blind-man's-buff, catching at him that's next
in your way.
_Const_. Well, sir, I can take nothing ill from you; when 'tis
too late you'll see how unjust you have been to me. I have said too
much already.--[_Is going_.
_Fail_. Nay stay, sweet madam! I vow to gad my fortune's better
than I could imagine.
_Const_. No, pray let me go, sir; perhaps I was in jest.
_Fail_. Really, madam, I look upon you as a person of such worth,
and all that, that I vow to gad I honour you of all persons in the
world; and though I am a person that am inconsiderable in the world,
and all that, madam, for a person of your worth and excellency I
would--
_Const_. What would you, sir?
_Fail_. Sacrifice my life and fortunes, I vow to gad, madam.
_Enter_ ISABELLA, BURR, _and_ TIMOROUS, _at a distance
from them_.
_Isa_. There's Failer close in talk with my cousin; he's
soliciting your suit, I warrant you, Sir Timorous: Do but observe with
what passion he courts for you.
_Burr_. I do not like that kneading of her hand though.
_Isa_. Come, you are such a jealous coxcomb: I warrant you
suspect there's some amour between 'em; there can be nothing in't, it
is so open: Pray observe.
_Burr_. But how come you so officious, madam? you, that ere now
had a design upon Sir Timorous for yourself?
_Isa_. I thought you had a better opinion of my wit, than to
think I was in earnest. My cousin may do what she pleases, but he
shall never pin himself upon me, assure him.
_Const_. to _Fail_. Sir Timorous little knows how dangerous
a person he has employed in making love.--[Aloud.
_Burr_. How's this! Pray, my lady Constance, what's the meaning
of that you say to Failer?
_Fail_. What luck was this, that he should overhear you! Pax
on't!
_Const_. Mr Burr, I owe you not that satisfaction; what you have
heard you may interpret as you please.
_Tim_. The rascal has betrayed me.
_Isa_. In earnest, sir, I do not like it.
_Fail_. Dear Mr Burr, be pacified; you are a person I have an
honour for; and this change of affairs shall not be the worse for you,
egad, sir.
_Const_. Bear up resolutely, Mr Failer; and maintain my favours,
as becomes my servant.
_Burr_. He maintain 'em! go, you Judas; I'll teach you what 'tis
to play fast and loose with a man of war. [Kicks him.
_Tim_. Lay it on, Burr.
_Isa_. Spare him not, Burr.
_Const_. Fear him not, servant.
_Fail_. Oh, oh! would nobody were on my side! here I am praised,
I vow to gad, into all the colours of the rainbow.
_Const_. But remember 'tis for me.
_Burr_. As you like this, proceed, sir; but, come not near me
to-night, while I'm in wrath.
[_Exeunt_ BURR _and_ TIMOROUS.
_Const_. Come, sir; how fare you after your sore trial? You bore
it with a most heroic patience.
_Isa._ Brave man at arms, but weak to Balthazar[A]!
[Footnote A: Alluding to the old play of Hieronymo.]
_Fail_. I hope to gad, madam, you'll consider the merit of my
sufferings. I would not have been beaten thus, but to obey that person
in the world--
_Const_. Heaven reward you for't; I never shall.
_Fail_. How, madam!
_Isa_. Art thou such an ass, as not to perceive thou art abused?
This beating I contrived for you: you know upon what account; and have
yet another or two at your service. Yield up the knight in time, 'tis
your best course.
_Fail_. Then does not your ladyship love me, madam?
_Const_. Yes, yes, I love to see you beaten.
_Isa_. Well, methinks now you have had a hard bargain on't: You
have lost your cully, Sir Timorous, and your friend, Burr, and all to
get a poor beating. But I'll see it mended against next time for you.
[_Exeunt_ CONSTANCE _and_ ISABELLA, _laughing_.
_Fail_. I am so much amazed, I vow to gad, I do not understand my
own condition. [_Exit_.
SCENE II.
_Enter_ LOVEBY _solus, in the dark, his sword drawn, groping
out his way_.
_Lov_. This is the time and place he pointed me, and 'tis
certainly the devil I am to meet; for no mortal creature could have
that kindness for me, to supply my necessities as he has done,
nor could have done it in so strange a manner. He told me he was
a scholar, and had been a parson in the fanatic's times: a shrewd
suspicion it was the devil; or at least a limb of him. If the devil
can send churchmen on his errands, lord have mercy on the laity! Well,
let every man speak as he finds, and give the devil his due; I think
him a very honest and well-natured fellow; and if I hear any man speak
ill of him, except it be a parson, that gets his living by it, I wear
a sword at his service. Yet, for all this, I do not much care to see
him. He does not mean to hook me in for my soul, does he? If he does,
I shall desire to be excused. But what a rogue am I, to suspect a
person, that has dealt so much like a gentleman by me! He comes to
bring me money, and would do it handsomely, that it might not be
perceived. Let it be as 'twill, I'll seem to trust him; and, then, if
he have any thing of a gentleman in him, he wills corn to deceive
me, as much as I would to cozen him, if I were the devil, and he Jack
Loveby.
_Enter_ FAILER _at the other end of the stage_.
_Fail_. What will become of me to-night! I am just in the
condition of an out-lying deer, that's beaten from his walk for
offering to rut. Enter I dare not, for Burr.
_Lov_. I hear a voice, but nothing do I see. Speak, what thou
art?
_Fail_. There he is, watching for me. I must venture to run by
him; and, when I am in, I hope my cousin Trice will defend me. The
devil would not lie abroad in such a night.
_Lov_. I thought it was the devil, before he named himself.
[FAILER _goes to run off, and falls into_ LOVEBY'S _arms_.
_Lov_. Honest Satan, well encountered! I am sorry, with all my
heart, it is so dark. 'Faith, I should be very glad to see thee at my
lodging; pr'ythee, let's not be such strangers to one another for the
time to come. And what hast thou got under thy cloak there, little
Satan? I warrant thou hast brought me some more money.
_Fail_. Help, help; thieves! thieves!
[LOVEBY _lets him go_.
_Lov_. This is Failer's voice: How the devil was I mistaken! I
must get off, ere company comes in.
[_Exit_ Loveby.
_Fail_. Thieves! thieves!
_Enter_ Trice, Burr, _and_ Timorous, _undressed_.
_All_. Where! where!
_Fail_. One was here just now; and it should be Loveby by his
voice, but I have no witness.
_Trice_. It cannot be; he wants no money.
_Burr_. Come, sirrah; I'll take pity on you to-night: You shall
lie in the truckle-bed.
_Trice_. Pox o' this noise! it has disturbed me from such a dream
of eating!--[Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
_Enter_ Constance _and_ Isabella.
_Const_. Twas ill luck to have the meeting broke last night, just
as Setstone was coming towards him.
_Isa_. But, in part of recompence, you'll have the pleasure of
putting him on farther straits. O, these little mischiefs are meat and
drink to me.
_Const_. He shall tell me from whence he has his money: I am
resolved now to try him to the utmost.
_Isa_. I would devise something for him to do, which he could not
possibly perform.
_Const_. As I live, yonder he comes, with the jewel in his hand
he promised me. Pr'ythee, leave me alone with him.
_Isa_. Speed the plough! If I can make no sport, I'll hinder
none. I'll to my knight, Sir Timorous; shortly you shall hear news
from Dametas[A].
[Footnote A: A foolish character in Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, who
seems to have become proverbial.]
[_Exit_ ISABELLA.
_Enter_ LOVEBY.
_Lov_. Look you, madam, here's the jewel; do me the favour to
accept it, and suppose a very good compliment delivered with it.
_Const_. Believe me, a very fair jewel. But why will you be at
this needless charge? What acknowledgment do you expect? You know I
will not marry you.
_Lov_. How the devil do I know that? I do not conceive myself,
under correction, so inconsiderable a person.
_Const_. You'll alter your partial opinion, when I tell you, 'tis
not a flash of wit fires me, nor is it a gay out-side can seduce me to
matrimony.
_Lov_. I am neither fool, nor deformed, so much as to be
despicable. What do I want?
_Const_. A good estate, that makes every thing handsome: Nothing
can look well without it.
_Lov_. Does this jewel express poverty?
_Const_. I conjure you by your love to me, tell me one truth not
minced by your invention, how came you by this jewel?
_Lov_. 'Tis well I have a voucher. Pray ask your own jeweller,
Setstone, if I did not buy it of him.
_Const_. How glad you are now, you can tell a truth so near a
lie. But where had you the money, that purchased it? Come--without
circumstances and preambles--
_Lov_. Umph--Perhaps, that may be a secret.
_Const_. Say, it be one; yet he, that loved indeed, could not
keep it from his mistress.
_Lov_. Why should you be thus importunate?
_Const_. Because I cannot think you love me, if you will not
trust that to my knowledge, which you conceal from all the world
beside.
_Lov_. You urge me deeply--
_Const_. Come, sweet servant, you shall tell me; I am resolved to
take no denial. Why do you sigh?
_Lov_. If I be blasted, it must out.
_Const_. Either tell me, or resolve to take your leave for ever.
_Lov_. Then know, I have my means,--I know not how.
_Const_. This is a fine secret.
_Lov_. Why, then, if you will needs know, 'tis from the devil; I
have money from him, what, and when I please.
_Const_. Have you sealed a covenant, and given away your soul for
money?
_Lov_. No such thing intended on my part.
_Const_. How then?
_Lov_. I know not yet what conditions he'll propose. I should
have spoke with him last night, but that a cross chance hindered it.
_Const_. Well, my opinion is, some great lady, that is in love
with you, supplies you still; and you tell me an incredible tale of
the devil, merely to shadow your infidelity.
_Lov_. Devise some means to try me.
_Const_. I take you at your word. You shall swear freely to
bestow on me whatever you shall gain this unknown way; and, for a
proof, because you tell me you can have money, what, and when you
please, bring me a hundred pounds ere night.--If I do marry him for
a wit, I'll see what he can do; he shall have none from me.
[_Aside_.
_Lov_. You overjoy me, madam; you shall have it, an 'twere twice
as much.
_Const_. How's this?
_Lov_. The devil a cross that I have, or know where to get; but
I must promise well, to save my credit.--Now, devil, if thou dost
forsake me!
[_Aside_.
_Const_. I mistrust you; and, therefore, if you fail, I'll
have your hand to show against you; here's ink and paper. [LOVEBY
_writes_.
_Enter_ BURR, _and_ TIMOROUS.
_Burr_. What makes Loveby yonder? He's writing somewhat.
_Tim_. I'll go see. [_Looks over him_.
_Lov_. Have you no more manners than to overlook a man when he's
a writing?--Oh! is't you, Sir Timorous? You may stand still; now I
think on't, you cannot read written hand.
_Burr_. You are very familiar with Sir Timorous.
_Lov_. So am I with his companions, sir.
_Burr_. Then there's hopes you and I may be better acquainted. I
am one of his companions.
_Lov_. By what title? as you are an ass, sir?
_Const_. No more, Loveby.
_Lov_. I need not, madam. Alas! this fellow is only the solicitor
of a quarrel, 'till he has brought it to an head; and will leave the
fighting part to the courteous pledger. Do not I know these fellows?
You shall as soon persuade a mastiff to fasten on a lion, as one of
those to engage with a courage above their own: They know well enough
whom they can beat, and who can beat them.
_Enter _FAILER _at a distance_.
_Fail_. Yonder they are: Now, would I compound for a reasonable
sum, that I were friends with Burr. If I am not, I shall lose Sir
Timorous.
_Const_. O, servant, have I spied you? let me run into your arms.
_Fail_. I renounce my lady Constance: I vow to gad, I renounce
her.
_Tim_. To your task, Burr.
_Enter NONSUCH and ISABELLA_.
_Const_. Hold, gentlemen! no sign of quarrel.
_Non_. O, friends! I think I shall go mad with grief: I have lost
more money.
_Lov_. Would I had it: that's all the harm I wish myself. Your
servant, madam; I go about the business.
_Exit LOVEBY_.
_Non_. What! does he take no pity on me?
_Const_. Pr'ythee, moan him, Isabella.
_Isa_. Alas, alas, poor uncle! could they find in their hearts to
rob him!
_Non_. Five hundred pounds, out of poor six thousand pounds
a-year! I, and mine, are undone for ever.
_Fail_. Your own house, you think, is clear, my lord?
_Const_. I dare answer for all there, as much as for myself.
_Burr_. Oh, that he would but think that Loveby had it!
_Fail_. If you'll be friends with me, I'll try what I can
persuade him to.
_Burr_. Here's my hand, I will, dear heart.
_Fail_. Your own house being clear, my lord, I am apt to suspect
this Loveby for such a person. Did you mark how abruptly he went out?
_Non_. He did indeed, Mr Failer. But why should I suspect him?
his carriage is fair, and his means great; he could never live after
this rate, if it were not.
_Fail_. This still renders him the more suspicious: He has no
land, to my knowledge.
_Burr_. Well said, mischief. [_Aside_.
_Const_. My father's credulous, and this rogue has found the
blind side of him; would Loveby heard him! [_To_ ISABELLA.
_Fail_. He has no means, and he loses at play; so that, for my
part, I protest to gad, I am resolved he picks locks for his living.
_Burr_. Nay, to my knowledge, he picks locks.
_Tim_. And to mine.
_Fail_. No longer ago than last night he met me in the dark, and
offered to dive into my pockets.
_Non_. That's a main argument for suspicion.
_Fail_. I remember once, when the keys of the Exchequer were lost
in the Rump-time, he was sent for upon an extremity, and, egad, he
opens me all the locks with the blade-bone of a breast of mutton.
_Non_. Who, this Loveby?
_Fail_. This very Loveby. Another time, when we had sate up very
late at ombre in the country, and were hungry towards morning, he
plucks me out (I vow to gad I tell you no lie) four ten-penny nails
from the dairy lock with his teeth, fetches me out a mess of milk, and
knocks me 'em in again with his head, upon reputation.
_Isa_. Thou boy!
_Non_. What shall I do in this case? My comfort is, my gold's all
marked.
_Const_. Will you suspect a gentleman of Loveby's worth, upon the
bare report of such a rascal as this Failer?
_Non_. Hold thy tongue, I charge thee; upon my blessing hold thy
tongue. I'll have him apprehended before he sleeps; come along with
me, Mr Failer.
_Fail_. Burr, look well to Sir Timorous; I'll be with you
instantly.
_Const_. I'll watch you by your favour. [_Aside.
[Exeunt_ NONSUCH _and_ FAILER, CONSTANCE _following them_.
_Isa_. A word, Sir Timorous.
_Burr_. [Gets _behind_.] She shall have a course at the
knight, and come up to him, but when she is just ready to pinch, he
shall give such a loose from her, shall break her heart.
_Isa_. Burr there still, and watching us? There's certainly some
plot in this, but I'll turn it to my own advantage. [_Aside_.
_Tim. Did you mark Burr's retirement, madam?
_Isa_ Ay; his guilt, it seems, makes him shun your company.
_Tim_. In what can he be guilty?
_Isa_. You must needs know it; he courts your mistress.
_Tim_. Is he, too, in love with my lady Constance?
_Isa_. No, no: but, which is worse, he courts me.
_Tim_. Why, what have I to do with you? You know I care not this
for you.
_Isa_. Perhaps so; but he thought you did: and good reason for
it.
_Tim_. What reason, madam?
_Isa_. The most convincing in the world: He knew my cousin
Constance never loved you: He has heard her say, you were as
invincibly ignorant as a town-fop judging a new play: as shame-faced
as a great overgrown school-boy: in fine, good for nothing but to be
wormed out of your estate, and sacrificed to the god of laughter.
_Tim_. Was your cousin so barbarous to say this?
_Isa_. In his hearing.
_Tim_. And would he let me proceed in my suit to her?
_Isa_. For that I must excuse him; he never thought you could
love one of my cousin's humour; but took your court to her, only as
a blind to your affection for me; and, being possessed with that
opinion, he thought himself as worthy as you to marry me.
_Tim_. He is not half so worthy; and so I'll tell him, in a fair
way.
_Burr_. [_To a Boy entering_.] Sirrah, boy, deliver this
note to madam Isabella; but be not known I am so near.
_Boy_. I warrant you, sir.
_Burr_. Now, Fortune, all I desire of thee is, that Sir Timorous
may see it; if he once be brought to believe there is a kindness
between her and me, it will ruin all her projects.
_Isa_. [_To the Boy_.] From whom?
_Boy_. From Mr Burr, madam.
_Isa_. [Reads.] _These for Madam Isabella. Dear rogue, Sir
Timorous knows nothing of our kindness, nor shall for me; seem still
to have designs upon him; it will hide thy affection the better to thy
servant,_ BURR.
_Isa_. Alas, poor woodcock, dost thou go a-birding? Thou hast
e'en set a springe to catch thy own neck. Look you here, Sir Timorous;
here's something to confirm what I have told you. [_Gives him the
letter_.
_Tim_. D, e, a, r, _dear_; r, o, g, u, e, _rogue_.
Pray, madam, read it; this written hand is such a damned pedantic
thing, I could never away with it.
_Isa_. He would fain have robbed you of me: Lord, Lord! to see
the malice of a man.
_Tim_. She has persuaded me so damnably, that I begin to think
she's my mistress indeed.
_Isa_. Your mistress? why, I hope you are not to doubt that, at
this time of day. I was your mistress from the first day you ever saw
me.
_Tim_. Nay, like enough you were so; but I vow to gad now, I was
wholly ignorant of my own affection.
_Isa_. And this rogue pretends he has an interest in me, merely
to defeat you: Look you, look you, where he stands in ambush, like a
Jesuit behind a Quaker, to see how his design will take.
_Tim_. I see the rogue: Now could I find in my heart to marry you
in spite to him; what think you on't, in a fair way?
_Isa_. I have brought him about as I could wish; and now I'll
make my own conditions. [_Aside_.] Sir Timorous, I wish you well;
but he I marry must promise me to live at London: I cannot abide to be
in the country, like a wild beast in the wilderness, with no Christian
soul about me.
_Tim_. Why, I'll bear you company.
_Isa_. I cannot endure your early hunting-matches there; to have
my sleep disturbed by break of day, with heigh, Jowler, Jowler! there
Venus, ah Beauty! and then a serenade of deep-mouthed curs, to answer
the salutation of the huntsman, as if hell were broke loose about me:
and all this to meet a pack of gentlemen savages, to ride all day,
like mad-men, for the immortal fame of being first in at the hare's
death: to come upon the spur, after a trial at four in the afternoon,
to destruction of cold meat and cheese, with your lewd company in
boots; fall a-drinking till supper time, be carried to bed, tossed out
of your cellar, and be good for nothing all the night after.
_Tim_. Well, madam, what is it you would be at? you shall find me
reasonable to all your propositions.
_Isa_. I have but one condition more to add; for I will be as
reasonable as you; and that is a very poor request--to have all the
money in my disposing.
_Tim_. How, all the money?
_Isa_. Ay, for I am sure I can huswife it better for your honour;
not but that I shall be willing to encourage you with pocket-money, or
so, sometimes.
_Tim_. This is somewhat hard.
_Isa_. Nay, if a woman cannot do that, I shall think you have
an ill opinion of my virtue: Not trust your own flesh and blood, Sir
Timorous?
_Tim_. Well, is there any thing more behind?
_Isa_. Nothing more, only the choice of my own company, my own
hours, and my own actions: These trifles granted me, in all things of
moment, I am your most obedient wife and servant, Isabella.
_Tim_. Is't a match, then?
_Isa_. For once I am content it shall; but 'tis to redeem you
from those rascals, Burr and Failer--that way, Sir Timorous, for fear
of spies; I'll meet you at the garden door.--[_Exit_ TIMOROUS.] I
have led all women the way, if they dare but follow me.
_And now march off, if I can scape but spying,
With my drums beating, and my colours flying_.
[_Exit_.
_Burr_. So, their wooing's at an end; thanks to my wit.
_Enter_ FAILER.
_Fail_. O Burr! whither is it Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella are
gone together?
_Burr_. Adore my wit, boy; they are parted, never to meet again.
_Fail_. I saw them meet just now at the garden-door: So ho, ho,
ho, who's within there! Help here quickly, quickly.
_Enter_ NONSUCH _and two Servants_.
_Non_. What's the matter?
_Fail_. Your niece Isabella has stolen away Sir Timorous.
_Non_. Which way took they?
_Fail_. Follow me, I'll show you.
_Non_. Break your necks after him, you idle varlets.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Enter_ LOVEBY. LOVEBY'S _collar unbuttoned, band carelessly
on, hat on the table, as new risen from sleep_.
_Lov_. Boy! how long have I slept, boy?
_Enter Boy_.
_Boy_. Two hours and a half, sir.
_Lov_. What's a-clock, sirrah?
_Boy_. Near four, sir.
_Lov_. Why, there's it: I have promised my lady Constance an
hundred pounds ere night; I had four hours to perform it in, when I
engaged to do it; and I have slept out more than two of them. All
my hope to get this money lies within the compass of that hat there.
Before I lay down, I made bold a little to prick my finger, and write
a note, in the blood of it, to this same friend of mine in t'other
world, that uses to supply me: the devil has now had above two hours
to perform it in; all which time I have slept, to give him the better
opportunity: time enough for a gentleman of his agility to fetch it
from the East Indies, out of one of his temples where they worship
him; or, if he were lazy, and not minded to go so far, 'twere but
stepping over sea, and borrowing so much money out of his own bank at
Amsterdam: hang it, what's an hundred pounds between him and me?
Now does my heart go pit-a-pat, for fear I should not find the money
there: I would fain lift it up to see, and yet I am so afraid of
missing: Yet a plague, why should I fear he'll fail me; the name of a
friend's a sacred thing; sure he'll consider that. Methinks, this hat
looks as if it should have something under it: If one could see the
yellow boys peeping underneath the brims now: Ha! [_Looks under
round about_.] In my conscience I think I do. Stand out o'the way,
sirrah, and be ready to gather up the pieces, that will flush out of
the hat as I take it up.
_Boy_. What, is my master mad, trow?
[LOVEBY _snatches up the hat, looks in it hastily, and sees nothing
but the paper_.
_Low_. Now, the devil take the devil! A plague! was ever man
served so as I am! [_Throws his hat upon the ground_.] To break
the bands of amity for one hundred pieces! Well, it shall be more out
of thy way than thou imaginest, devil: I'll turn parson, and be at
open defiance with thee: I'll lay the wickedness of all people upon
thee, though thou art never so innocent; I'll convert thy bawds and
whores; I'll Hector thy gamesters, that they shall not dare to swear,
curse, or bubble; nay, I'll set thee out so, that thy very usurers and
aldermen shall fear to have to do with thee.
[_A noise within of_ ISABELLA _and_ FRANCES.
_Enter_ FRANCES, _thrusting back_ ISABELLA _and_
TIMOROUS.
_Franc_. How now, what's the matter?
_Isa_. Nay, sweet mistress, be not so hard-hearted; all I desire
of you is but harbour for a minute: you cannot, in humanity, deny that
small succour to a gentlewoman.
_Franc_. A gentlewoman! I thought so; my house, affords no
harbour for gentlewomen: you are a company of proud harlotries: I'll
teach you to take place of tradesmen's wives, with a wannion to you.
_Lov_. How's this! Madam Isabella!
_Isa_. Mr Loveby! how happy am I to meet with you in my distress!
_Lov_. What's the matter, madam?
_Isa_. I'll tell you, if this gentlewoman will give me leave.
_Franc_. No, gentlewoman, I will not give you leave; they are
such as we maintain your pride, as they say. [ISABELLA _and_
LOVEBY _whisper_.] Our husbands trust you, and you must go before
their wives. I am sure my good-man never goes to any of your lodgings,
but he comes home the worse for it, as they say.
_Lov_. Is that all? pr'ythee, good landlady, for my sake
entertain my friends.
_Franc_. If the gentleman's worship had come alone, it may be I
might have entertained him; but for your minion!
_Enter_ NONSUCH, FAILER, BURR, _and Officers. Cry within, Here,
here_.
_Fail_. My lord, arrest Sir Timorous upon a promise of marriage
to your daughter, and we'll witness it.
_Tim_. Why, what a strange thing of you's this, madam Isabella,
to bring a man into trouble thus!
_Fail_. You are not yet married to her?
_Tim_. Not that I remember.
_Isa_. Well, Failer, I shall find a time to reward your
diligence.
_Lov_. If the knight would have owned his action, I should have
taught some of you more manners, than to come with officers into my
lodging.
_Franc_. I'm glad with all my heart this minx is prevented of her
design: the gentleman had got a great catch of her, as they say. His
old father in the country would have given him but little thanks
for it, to see him bring down a fine-bred woman, with a lute, and a
dressing-box, and a handful of money to her portion.
_Isa_. Good Mistress Whatdeelack! I know your quarrel to the
ladies; do they take up the gallants from the tradesmen's wives? Lord,
what a grievous thing it is, for a she citizen to be forced to have
children by her own husband!
_Franc_. Come, come, you're a slanderful huswife, and I squorn
your harlotry tricks, that I do, so I do.
_Isa_. Steeple-hat your husband never gets a good look when he
comes home, except he brings a gentleman to dinner; who, if he casts
an amorous eye towards you, then, "Trust him, good husband, sweet
husband, trust him for my sake: Verily the gentleman's an honest man,
I read it in his countenance: and if you should not be at home to
receive the money, I know he will pay the debt to me." Is't not so,
mistress?
_Enter_ BIBBER _in slippers, with a skein of silk about his
neck_.
_Franc_. Will you see me wronged thus, under my own roof, as they
say, William?
_Isa_. Nay, 'tis very true, mistress: you let the men, with old
compliments, take up new clothes; I do not mean your wife's clothes,
Mr Merchant-Tailor.
_Bib_. Good, i'faith! a notable smart gentlewoman!
_Isa_. Look to your wife, sir, or, in time, she may undo your
trade; for she'll get all your men-customers to herself.
_Bib_. An' I should be hanged, I can forbear no longer. [_He
plucks out his measure, and runs to_ ISABELLA, _to take measure
of her_.
_Isa_. How now! what means Prince Pericles by this?
_Bib_. [_On his knees_.] I must beg your ladyship e'en to
have the honour to trust you but for your gown, for the sake of that
last jest, flowered sattin, wrought tabby, silver upon any grounds; I
shall run mad if I may not trust your ladyship.
_Franc_. I think you are mad already, as they say, William: You
shall not trust her--
[_Plucks him back_.
_Bib_. Let me alone, Frances: I am a lion when I am angered.
_Isa_. Pray do not pull your lion by the tail so, mistress--In
these clothes, that he now takes measure of me for, will I marry Sir
Timorous; mark that, and tremble, Failer.
_Fail_. Never threaten me, madam; you're a person I despise.
_Isa_. I vow to gad, I'll be even with you, sir.
[_Exit_.
_Non_. [_To the Bailiff's_.]--And when you have arrested
him, be sure you search him for my gold.
_Bailiffs_. [_To_ LOVEBY.] We arrest you, sir, at my Lord
Nonsuch's suit.
_Lov_. Me, you rascals!
_Non_. Search him for my gold; you know the marks on't.
_Lov_. If they can find any marked or unmarked gold about me,
they'll find more than I can. You expect I should resist now; no, no;
I'll hamper you for this.
_Bail_. There's nothing to be found about him.
_Fail_. 'Tis no matter, to prison with him; there all his debts
will come upon him.
_Lov_. What, hurried to durance, like a stinkard!
_Job_. Now, as I live, a pleasant gentleman; I could find in my
heart to bail him; but I'll overcome myself, and steal away. [_Is
going_.
_Bail_. Come, sir, we must provide you of another lodging; but I
believe you'll scarce like it.
_Lov_. If I do not, I ask no favour; pray turn me out of doors.
_Bib_. Turn him out of doors! What a jest was there? Now, an' I
should be hanged, I cannot forbear bailing him: Stay, officers, I bail
him body and soul for that jest.
_Fail_. Let us begone in time, Burr.
[_Exeunt_ BURR, FAILER, _and_ TIMOROUS.
_Franc_. You shall not bail him.
_Bib_. I know I am a rogue to do it; but his wit has prevailed
upon me, and a man must not go against his conscience. There,
officers.
_Lov_. to _Non_. Old man, if it were not for thy daughter--
_Non_. Well, well; take your course, sir.
[_Exeunt_ NONSUCH _and Bailiffs_.
_Lov_. Come, Will, I'll thank thee at the tavern. Frances,
remember this the next time you come up to make my bed.
_Franc_. Do your worst, I fear you not, sir. This is twice to
day, William; to trust a gentlewoman, and bail a ragamuffin: I am sure
he called you cuckold but yesterday, and said he would make you one.
_Lov_. Look you, Frances, I am a man of honour, and, if I said
it, I'll not break my word with you.
_Bib_. There he was with you again, Frances: An excellent good
jest, i'faith la.
_Franc_. I'll not endure it, that I won't, so I won't: I'll go to
the justice's worship, and fetch a warrant for him.
_Lov_. But, landlady, the word cuckold will bear no action in the
law, except you could prove your husband prejudiced by it. Have any
of his customers forsook him for't? Or any mercer refused to trust him
the less, for my calling him so?
_Franc_. Nay, I know not for the mercers; perhaps the citizens
may take it for no slander among one another, as they say: but for the
gentlemen--
_Lov_. Will, have they forsaken thee upon it?
_Bib_. No, I assure you, sir.
_Lov_. No, I warrant 'em: A cuckold has the signification of an
honest well-meaning citizen; one, that is not given to jealousies or
suspicions; a just person to his wife, &c.; one that, to speak the
worst of him, does but to her, what he would be content should be done
to her by other men.
_Franc_. But that another man should be the father of his
children, as they say; I don't think that a civil thing, husband.
_Lov_. Not civil, landlady! why all things are civil, that are
made so by custom.
_Bib_. Why may not he get as fine children as I, or any man?
_Franc_. But if those children, that are none of yours, should
call you father, William!
_Bib_. If they call me father, and are none of mine, I am the
more beholden to 'em.
_Franc_. Nay, if that be your humour, husband, I am glad I
know it, that I may please you the better another time, as they say.
[_Exit_ FRANCES.
_Bib_. Nay, but Frances, Frances! 'tis such another woman.
[_Exit_ BIBBER.
_Lov_. 'Tis such another man:--My coat and sword, boy, I must go
to Justice Trice's; bring the women; and come after me. [_Exit_
LOVEBY.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
_A Table set with Cards upon it_.
TRICE _walking: Enter Servant_.
_Serv_. Sir, some company is without upon justice-business.
_Trice_. Saucy rascal, to disturb my meditations. [_Exit
Servant_.--Ay, it shall be he: Jack Loveby, what think'st thou of
a game at piquet, we two, hand to fist? you and I will play one single
game for ten pieces: 'Tis deep stake, Jack, but 'tis all one between
us two: You shall deal, Jack:--Who I, Mr Justice! that's a good
one; you must give me use for your hand then; that's six i'the
hundred.--Come, lift, lift;--mine's a ten; Mr Justice:--mine's a king;
oh ho, Jack, you deal. I have the advantage of this, i'faith, if I can
keep it. [_He deals twelve a piece, two by two, and looks on his
own cards_.] I take seven, and look on this--Now for you, Jack
Loveby.
_Enter_ LOVEBY _behind_.
_Lov_. How's this? Am I the man he fights with?
_Trice_. I'll do you right, Jack; as I am an honest man, you
must discard this; there's no other way: If you were my own brother, I
could do no better for you.--Zounds, the rogue has a quint-major, and
three aces younger hand.--[_Looks on the other cards_.] Stay;
what am I for the point? But bare forty, and he fifty-one: Fifteen,
and five for the point, twenty, and three by aces, twenty-three;
well, I am to play first: one, twenty-three; two, twenty-three; three,
twenty-three; four, twenty-three;--Pox on't, now I must play into his
hand: five:--now you take it, Jack;--five, twenty-four, twenty-five,
twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, and the
cards forty.
_Lov_. Hitherto it goes well on my side.--
_Trice_. Now I deal: How many do you take, Jack? All. Then I am
gone: What a rise is here! Fourteen by aces, and a sixieme-major; I
am gone, without looking into my cards.--[_Takes up an ace and
bites it_.] Ay, I thought so: If ever man play'd with such cursed
fortune, I'll be hanged, and all for want of this damned ace--there's
your ten pieces, with a pox to you, for a rooking beggarly rascal as
you are.
LOVEBY _enters_.
_Lov_. What occasion have I given you for these words, sir? Rook
and rascal! I am no more rascal than yourself, sir.
_Trice_. How's this! how's this!
_Lov_. And though for this time I put up, because I am a winner--
[_Snatches the gold_.
_Trice_. What a devil do'st thou put up? Not my gold, I hope,
Jack?
_Lov_. By your favour, but I do; and 'twas won fairly: a sixieme,
and fourteen by aces, by your own confession,--What a pox, we don't
make childrens' play, I hope?
_Trice_. Well, remember this, Jack; from this hour I forswear
playing with you when I am alone; what, will you bate me nothing on't?
_Lov_. Not a farthing, Justice; I'll be judged by you; if I had
lost, you would have taken every piece on't: What I win, I win--and
there's an end.
_Enter Servant_.
_Serv_. Sir, these people stay without, and will not be answered.
_Trice_. Well, what's their business?
_Serv_. Nay, no great matter; only a fellow for getting a wench
with child.
_Trice_. No great matter, say'st thou? 'Faith, but it is. Is he a
poor fellow, or a gentleman?
_Serv_. A very poor fellow, sir.
_Trice_. Hang him, rogue; make his mittimus immediately; must
such as he presume to get children?
_Lov_. Well considered: A poor lousy rascal, to intrench upon
the game of gentlemen! He might have passed his time at nine-pins, or
shovel-board; that had been fit sport for such as he: Justice, have no
mercy on him.
_Trice_. No, by the sword of justice will I not.
_Lov_. Swear'st thou, ungracious boy[A]? That's too much, on the
other hand, for a gentleman. I swear not, I drink not, I curse not,
I cheat not; they are unnecessary vices: I save so much out of those
sins, and take it out in that one necessary vice of wenching.
[Footnote A: Henry IV. Part 1. Act ii. Scene 4.]
_Enter_ LOVEBY'S _Boy_.
_Boy_. Sir, the parties are without, according to your order.
_Lov_. 'Tis well; bring 'em in, boy.
_Enter Lady Du_ LAKE, _and two or three Whores_.
Justice, I recommend this ancient gentlewoman, with these virtuous
ladies, to thy patronage; for her part, she is a person of exemplary
life and behaviour; of singular conduct to break through, and patience
to bear the assaults of fortune: A general benefactress of mankind,
and, in fine, a promoter of that great work of nature, love.
_Trice_. Or, as the vulgar translation hath it, a very sufficient
and singular good bawd: Is't not so, boy?
_Lov_. Ay, boy: Now for such a pettifogging fellow as thy clerk
to persecute this lady; pr'ythee think on't: Tis a grievance of the
free-born subject.
_L. Du Lake_. To see the ingratitude of this generation! That I,
that have spent my youth; set at nought my fortune; and, what is more
dear to me, my honour, in the service of gentlemen; should now, in my
old age, be left to want and beggary, as if I were the vilest and most
unworthy creature upon God's earth! [_Crying_.
_Lov_. Nay, good mother, do not take it so bitterly.
_L. Du Lake_. I confess, the unkindness of it troubles me.
_Lov_. Thou shalt not want, so long as I live.--Look, here's five
pieces of cordial gold, to comfort thy heart with: I won it, e'en now,
off Mr Justice; and I dare say he thinks it well bestowed.
_Trice_. My money's gone to very pious uses.
_L. Du Lake_. [_Laying her hand on_ LOVEBY'S _head_.]
Son Loveby, I knew thy father well; and thy grandfather before him.
Fathers they were both to me; and I could weep for joy to see how thou
tak'st after them. [_Weeping again_.] I wish it lay in my power
too to gratify this worthy Justice in my vocation.
_Trice_. 'Faith, I doubt I am past that noble sin.
_Lov_. Pr'ythee, good magistrate, drink to her, and wipe sorrow
from her eyes.
_Trice_. Right reverend, my service to you in canary. [_She
drinks after him, and stays at half a glass_.
_L. Du Lake_. 'Tis a great way to the bottom; but heaven is
all-sufficient to give me strength for it. [_Drinks it up_.] Why,
God's blessing on your heart, son Trice! I hope 'tis no offence to
call you son? hem!--hem!--Son Loveby, I think my son Trice and I are
much of the same years: let me see, son, if nature be utterly extinct
in you: Are you ticklish, son Trice? [_Tickles him_.
_Trice_. Are you ticklish, Mother Du Lake?
[_Tickles her sides. She falls off her chair; he falls off his to
her; they roll one over the other_.
_Lov_. I would have all London now show me such another sight of
kindness in old age. [_They help each other up_.] Come, a dance,
a dance; call for your clerk, Justice; he shall make one, in sign of
amity. Strike up, fidlers!
[_They dance a round dance, and sing the tune_.
_Enter_ ISABELLA _and_ CONSTANCE.
_Isa_. Are you at that sport, i'faith? Have among you, blind
harpers. [_She falls into the dance_.
[_At the dance's ending_, LOVEBY _sees_ CONSTANCE.
_Trice_. Is she come? A pox of all honest women at such a time!
_Lov_. If she knows who these are, by this light, I am undone.
_Const_. Oh, servant! I come to mind you of your promise. Come,
produce my hundred pounds; the time's out I set you.
_Lov_. Not till dark night, upon my reputation! I have not yet
spoke with the gentleman in the black pantaloons; you know he seldom
walks abroad by day-light. Dear madam, let me wait on you to your
coach; and, if I bring it not within this hour, discard me utterly.
_Const_. You must give me leave to salute the company. What are
they?
_Lov_. Persons of quality of my acquaintance; but I'll make your
excuse to 'em.
_Const_. Nay, if they are persons of quality, I shall be rude to
part from 'em so abruptly.
_Lov_. Why so?--the devil owed me a shame; and now he has paid
me. I must present 'em, whate'er come on't. [_Aside_.]--This,
madam, is my Lady Du Lake--the Lady Springwell--the Lady Hoyden.
[_She and_ ISABELLA _salute them_.
_Isa_. What a whiff was there came from my Lady Hoyden; and what
a garlic breath my Lady Springwell had!
_Trice_. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
_Lov_. Do not betray me, Justice; if you do--[_Aside_.
_Isa_. Oh, are you thereabouts, sir? then I smell a rat, i'faith;
but I'll say nothing. [_Aside_.
_Const_. Ladies, I am an humble servant to you all; and account
it my happiness to have met with so good company at my cousin Trice's.
_Trice_. Ha, ha, ha!
_L. Du Lake_. Are these two ladies of your acquaintance, son
Loveby?
_Lov_. Son, quoth a'! a pox of our relation! [_Aside_.
_L. Du Lake_. I shall be glad to be better known to your
ladyships.
_Const_. You too much honour your servants, madam.
_Isa_. How Loveby fidges up and down! In what pain he is! well,
if these be not they, they call whores, I'll be hanged, though I never
saw one before. [_Aside_.
_Lov_. Will your ladyship please to go, madam?
_Const_. I must beg the favour of these ladies first, that I may
know their lodgings, and wait on them.
_L. Du. Lake_. It will be our duty to pay our respects first to
your ladyship.
_Const_. I beg your ladyship's pardon, madam--
_L. Du Lake_. Your ladyship shall excuse us, madam--
_Isa_. Trice. Ha, ha, ha!
_Low_. Ah, devil grin you! [_Aside_.
_Trice_. I must go out, and laugh my belly-full.
[_Exit_ TRICE.
_Const_. But in earnest, madam, I must have no denial; I beseech
your ladyship instruct me, where I may tender my devoirs.
_L. Du Lake_. Since your ladyship commands me, madam, I dare
disobey no longer. My lodgings are in St Lucknor's Lane, at the Cat
and Fiddle.
_Const_. Whereabouts is that lane, servant?
_Lov_. Faith, madam, I know not that part o'the town.--Lord, how
I sweat for fear! [_Aside_.
_Const_. And yours, madam, where, I beseech your ladyship?
_2 Whore_. In Dog and Bitch yard, an't please your ladyship.
_3 Whore_. And mine in Sodom, so like your ladyship.
_Const_. How, Loveby! I did not think you would have used me
thus?
_Lov_. I beseech your ladyship, but hear my justification as I
lead you.
_Const_. By no means, sir; that were such a rudeness to leave
persons of quality, to wait upon me: Unhand me, sir.
_Isa_. Ha, ha, ha!--[_Exeunt_ CONST. ISA.
_Lov_. I am ruined! for ever ruined. Plague, had you no places in
the town to name, but Sodom, and Lucknor's Lane, for lodgings!
_L. Du Lake_. If any prejudice arise from it, upon my honour,
son, 'twas by mistake, and not intended you: I thought she desired to
have been admitted of the quality.
_Lov_. I was curst, when I had first to do with you.
[_Kicks them_.
_L. Du Lake_. Well, I thank heaven, that has indued me with such
patience.
[_Exeunt all but_ LOVEBY _and his Boy_.
_Lov_. I have made a fair hand on't to-day;--both lost my
mistress, and hear no news from my friend below: The world frowns upon
me, and the devil and my mistress have forsaken me: My godfathers and
godmothers have promised well for me: Instead of renouncing them, they
have renounced me.
_Boy_. Sir, I saw my Lady Constance smile as she went out: I am
confident she's angry but from the teeth outwards: you might easily
make fair weather with her, if you could get the money you promised
her, but there's the devil--
_Lov_. Where is he, boy? shew me him quickly.
_Boy_. Marry, God bless us! I mean, sir, there's the difficulty.
_Lov_. Damned rogue, to put me in hope so--
_Enter_ BIBBER _at the other end_.
_Lov_. Uds so, look where Bibber is: Now I think on't, he offered
me a bag of forty pounds, and the lease of his house yesterday: But
that's his pocky humour; when I have money, and do not ask him, he
will offer it; but when I ask him, he will not lend a farthing.--Turn
this way, sirrah, and make as though we did not see him.
_Bib_. Our gentleman, I think, a-talking with his boy there.
_Lov_. You understand me?--
_Boy_. I warrant you, sir.
_Lov_. No news yet; what an unlucky rascal 'tis! if the rogue
should hereafter be reduced to the raiment of his own shreds, I should
not pity him.
_Bib_. How's this!
_Lov_. Now is this rascal hunting after jests, to make himself
the greatest to all that know him.
_Bib_. This must be me.
_Boy_. I can hear neither tale nor tidings of him: I have
searched him in all his haunts; amongst his creditors; and in all
companies where they are like to break the least jest. I have visited
the coffee-houses for him; but among all the news there, I heard none
of him.
_Bib_. Good, i' faith.
_Lov_. Where's the warrant? I'll put in my own name, since I
cannot find him.
_Boy_. Sir, I gave it a scrivener at next door, because I could
not write, to fill up the blank place with Mr Bibber's name.
_Lov_. What an unlucky vermin 'tis! now, for an hundred pound,
could I have gratified him with a waiter's place at the custom-house,
that had been worth to him an hundred pound a-year upon the nail.
_Bib_. Could you so, could you so, sir? give me your hand, and I
thank you heartily, Mr Loveby.
_Lov_. Art thou honest Will? faith, 'tis not worth thy thanks,
till it be done: I wish I had the money for thee.
_Bib_. How much is't, sir?
_Lov_. An hundred pounds would do it.
_Bib_. Let me see: forty, I have already by me; take that in
part, sir;--and that, and the lease of my house, would over-do it.
_Lov_. By all means thy lease, Will: ne'er scruple at that; hang
a piece of parchment, and two bits of soft wax! thou shalt do't, thou
shalt, boy.
_Bib_. Why, then I will, sir:--But stay, stay: now I think on't,
Frances has one hundred and twenty pieces of old grandam-and-aunt gold
left her, that she would never let me touch: if we could get that, Mr
Loveby! but she'll never part with it.
_Lov_. Tis but saying the place is for her; a waiting woman's
place in the custom-house: Boy, go, and tell her on't immediately.
[_Exit Boy_
_Bib_. Hold a little; she has been very desirous to get a place
in court, that she might take place as the queen's servant.
_Lov_. She shall have a dresser's place, if thou'lt keep counsel.
The worst on't is, I have never a warrant ready.
_Bib_. 'Tis all one for that, sir; she can neither write nor
read; 'tis but my telling her 'tis a warrant, and all's well. I can't
but laugh to think how she'll be choused.
_Lov_. And you too: [_Aside_.] Mum, she's here, Will.
_Enter_ FRANCES.
_Franc_. A waiting-woman's place in the custom-house! there's
news for me! thank you, kind Mr Loveby; you have been instrumental, I
hear, of my preferment.
_Lov_. No, 'tis a dresser's place at court, landlady.
_Franc_. O gemini! that's better news.
_Bib_. Aye, but you must make haste and fetch an hundred pieces:
I can assure you five hundred are bidden for it: And the courtiers are
such slippery youths, they are ever for the fairest chapman.
_Franc_. I'll fetch it presently;--oh how my heart quops now, as
they say: I'll fetch it presently: Sweet Mr Loveby, if the business
can be done, it shall be a good thing in your worship's way, I promise
you: O the father! that it could be done: O sweet father! [Loveby
_plucks out a paper_.
_Lov_. Here, Mr Bibber, pray put in Madam Bibber's name into the
warrant.
_Bib_. Madam Bibber! there's joy!--I must call you wife no more,
'tis Madam Bibber now.
_Franc_. Pray read it, Mr Bibber.
_Bib_. An order for the admission of the illustrious lady, Madam
Bibber, into her majesty's service.
_Franc_. Pray give me the paper, I'll have nobody touch it but
myself; I am sure my money pays for it, as they say. These are the
finest words; Madam Bibber! pray, chicken, shew me where Madam is
written, that I may kiss it all over. I shall make bold now to bear
up to those flirting gentlewomen, that sweep it up and down with their
long tails. I thought myself as good as they, when I was as I was; but
now I am as I am.
_Lov_. Good landlady, dispatch, and bring the money--
_Franc_. Truly, in the place of a dresser, I dare be bold to say,
as they say, I shall give their majesties worships good content: I'll
go fetch it.
[_Exit_ FRANCES.
_Bib_. We must keep the poor soul in ignorance as long as we
can, sir; for when she has once smoked it, I have no other way but to
retreat into the body of my janizaries, my journey-men; and never come
out into her presence more. Where will you be at nine o'clock, sir,
that we may rejoice over our good fortune?
_Lov_. Call me at my Lord Nonsuch's house, and I'll go with you.
_Bib_. We'll have the fiddles, and triumph, i'faith.
[_Exit_ BIBBER.
_Lov_. Lord, how eager this vermin was to cheat himself! Well,
I'll after; I long to finger these Jacobus's: Perhaps they may make my
peace again with my mistress.
[_Exit _LOVEBY.
SCENE II.
_Enter_ FAILER _and_ NONSUCH. [CONSTANCE _and_ ISABELLA
_listening_.]
_Fail_. I vow to gad, my lord, Sir Timorous is the most dejected
person in the world, and full of regret for what is past. 'Twas his
misfortune to be drawn in by such a person as Madam Isabella.
_Non_. Tis well his estate pleads for him; he should ne'er set
foot more within my doors else.
_Fail_. I'll be security for him for time to come: Leave it to
me to get the licence: All I desire is, your daughter may be ready
to-morrow morning.
_Non_. Well, let me alone with her.
[_Exeunt_ FAILER _and_ NONSUCH.
_Isa_. You heard the dreadful sound, to-morrow, cousin.
_Const_. I would not throw myself away upon this fool, if I could
help it.
_Isa_. Better marry a tertian ague than a fool, that's certain;
there's one good day and night in that.
_Const_. And yet thou art mad for him thyself.
_Isa_. Nay, the fool is a handsome fool, that's somewhat; but
'tis not that; 'tis a kind of fancy I have taken to a glass coach, and
six Flanders mares; rich liveries, and a good fortune.
_Const_. Pr'ythee do not mind me of 'em; for though I want 'em
not, yet I find all women are caught with gaieties: One grain more
would turn the balance on his side; I am so vexed at the wild courses
of this Loveby.
_Isa_. Vexed? why vexed? the worst you can say of him is, he
loves women: And such make the kindest husbands, I'm told. If you had
a sum of money to put out, you would not look so much whether the man
were an honest man, (for the law would make him that) as if he were a
good sufficient pay-master.
_Enter_ SETSTONE.
_Const_. As I live, thou art a mad girl.
_Set_. She must be used as mad folks are then; had into the dark
and cured.
_Const_. But all this is no comfort to the word, to-morrow.
_Isa_. Well, what say you, if I put you to-night into the arms of
Loveby?
_Const_. My condition's desperate, and past thy physic.
_Isa_. When physic's past, what remains but to send for the
divine? here's little Nicodemus, your father's chaplain: I have spoke
with him already; for a brace of angels he shall make all sure betwixt
you without a license; aye, and prove ten at night a more canonical
hour than ten i'the morning.
_Const_. I see not which way thou can'st perform it; but if thou
do'st, I have many admirations in store for thee. [_Whispers_.
_Isa_. Step in, and get a cushion underneath your apron.
_Const_. O, I must be with child, it seems!
_Isa_. And Loveby shall bring you to bed to-night, if the devil
be not in the dice: away, make haste;--[_Exit_ CONSTANCE.]
Setstone, be not you far off: I shall have need of you too: I hear my
uncle coming--Methinks I long to be revenged of this wicked
elder, for hindering of my marriage to-day: Hark you, Setstone--
[_Whispers;_
_Set_. Tis impossible, madam; 'twill never take.
_Isa_. I warrant you; do not I know him? he has not brains
enough, if they were buttered, to feed a blackbird--Nay, no
replies--out of what I have said, you may instruct my cousin too.
[_Exit_ SETSTONE.
_Enter_ NONSUCH.
_Isa_. Oh, are you there, sir? Faith, it was kindly done of you
to hinder me of a good husband this afternoon: And but for one thing,
I would resolve to leave your house.
_Non_. I'm glad there's any thing will stay thee.
_Isa_. If I stay, 'tis for love of my cousin Constance, not of
you: I should be loth to leave her in this sad condition.
_Non_. What condition?
_Isa_. Nay, I know not; she has not worn her busk this fortnight.
I think she's grown fat o'the sudden.
_Non_. O devil, devil! what a fright I'm in!
_Isa_. She has qualms too every morning: ravens mightily for
green fruit; and swoons at the sight of hot meat.
_Non_. She's with child: I am undone! I am undone!
_Isa_. I understand nothing of such matters: She's but in the
next room; best call her, and examine her about it.
_Non_. Why Constance, Constance!
_Enter_ CONSTANCE, _as with child_.
_Isa_. Now for a broad-side; turn your prow to him, cousin.
[_To her_.
_Non_. Now, gentlewoman! is this possible?
_Const_. I do not reach your meaning, sir.
_Non_. Where have you been of late?
_Const_. I seldom stir without you, sir: These walls most
commonly confine me.
_Non_. These walls can get no children; nor these hangings;
though there be men wrought in 'em.
_Isa_. Yet, by your favour, nuncle, children may be wrought
behind the hangings.
_Non_. O Constance, Constance! How have my grey hairs deserved
this of thee? Who got that belly there?
_Const_. You, I hope, sir.
_Non_. Tell me the truth, for I will know it; come, the story.
_Const_. The story's quickly told, sir; I am with child.
_Non_. And who is the father?
_Const_. I do not know, sir.
_Non_. Not know! went there so many to't?
_Const_. So far from that, that there were none at all, to my
best knowledge, sir.
_Non_. Was't got by miracle? Who was the father?
_Const_. Who got your money, sir, that you have lost?
_Non_. Nay, Heaven knows who got that.
_Const_. And, Heaven knows who got this: for, on my conscience,
he, that had your money, was the father on't.
_Non_. The devil it was as soon.
_Const_. That's all I fear, sir.
_Isa_. 'Tis strange;--and yet 'twere hard, sir, to suspect my
cousin's virtue, since we know the house is haunted.
_Non_. 'Tis true, that nothing can be laid, though under lock and
key, but it miscarries.
_Isa_. 'Tis not to be believed, what these villainous spirits can
do: they go invisible.
_Const_. First, they stole away my prayer-book; and, a little
after that, a small treatise I had against temptation; and when they
were gone, you know, sir--
_Isa_. If there be such doings, pray heaven we are not all with
child. 'Tis certain, that none live within these walls, but they have
power of: I have reared Toby, the coachman, any time this fortnight.
_Non_. Out, impudence! A man with child! why 'tis unnatural.
_Isa_. Ay, so is he that got it.
_Non_. Thou art not in earnest?
_Isa_. I would I were not:--Hark! I hear him groan hither. Come
in, poor Toby.
_Enter_ TOBY, _the coachman, with an urinal_.
_Non_. How now! what have you there, sirrah?
_Tob_. An't please your worship, 'tis my water. I had a spice
o'the new disease here i'the house; and so carried it to master
doctor.
_Non_. Well; and what did he say to you?
_Tob_. He told me very sad news, an' please you: I am somewhat
bashful to speak on't.
_Isa_. Out with it, man.
_Tob_. Why, truly, he told me, the party that owned the water was
with child.
_Isa_. I told you so, uncle.
_Non_. To my best remembrance, I never heard of such a thing
before.
_Tob_. I never stretch out myself to snap my whip, but it goes to
the heart of me.
_Isa_. Alas, poor Toby!
_Non_. Begone, and put off your livery, sirrah!--You shall not
stay a minute in my service.
_Tob_. I beseech your good worship, be good to me; 'twas the
first fault I ever committed in this kind. I have three poor children
by my wife; and if you leave me to the wide world, with a new charge
upon myself--
_Non_. Begone! I will not hear a word.
_Tob_. If I must go, I'll not go alone: Ambrose Tinis, the cook,
is as bad as I am.
_Non_. I think you'll make me mad. Call the rascal hither! I
must account with him on another score, now I think on't.
_Enter_ AMBROSE TINIS.
_Non_. Sirrah, what made you send a pheasant with one wing to the
table yesterday?
_Amb_. I beseech your worship to pardon me; I longed for't.
_Isa_. I feared as much.
_Amb_. And I beseech your worship let me have a boy, to help me
in the kitchen; for I find myself unable to go through with the work.
Besides, the doctor has warned me of stooping to the fire, for fear of
a mischance.
_Non_. Why, are you with child, sirrah?
_Amb_. So he tells me; but, if I were put to my oath, I know not
that ever I deserved for't.
_Non_. Still worse and worse. And here comes Setstone groaning.
_Enter_ SETSTONE.
_Set_. O, sir! I have been so troubled with swooning fits; and
have so longed for cherries!
_Non_. He's poopt too.
_Isa_. Well, this is not the worst yet: I suspect something more
than I will speak of.
_Non_. What dost thou suspect, ha!
_Isa_. Is not your lordship with child, too?
_Non_. Who, I with child! marry, heaven forbid! What dost thou
see by me, to ground it on?
_Isa_. You're very round of late;--that's all, sir.
_Non_. Round! that's only fat, I hope. I have had a very good
stomach of late, I'm sure.
_Isa_. Alas, and well you may;--You eat for two, sir.
_Non_. Setstone, look upon me, and tell me true: Do you observe
any alteration in me?
_Set_. I would not dishearten your ladyship--your lordship, I
would say--but I have observed, of late, your colour goes and comes
extremely. Methinks your lordship looks very sharp, and bleak i'the
face, and mighty puffed i'the body.
_Non_. O, the devil! Wretched men, that we are all! Nothing
grieves me, but that, in my old age, when others are past
child-bearing, I should come to be a disgrace to my family.
_Const_. How do you, sir? Your eyes look wondrous dim. Is not
there a mist before 'em?
_Isa_. Do you not feel a kicking in your belly--When do you look,
uncle?
_Non_. Uh, uh!--Methinks, I am very sick o'the sudden.
_Isa_. What store of old shirts have you against the good time?
Shall I give you a shift, uncle?
_Non_. Here's like to be a fine charge towards! We shall all be
brought to-bed together! Well, if I be with devil, I will have such
gossips: an usurer, and a scrivener, shall be godfathers.
_Isa_. I'll help you, uncle; and Sawney's two grannies shall be
godmothers. The child shall be christened by the directory; and the
gossips' gifts shall be the gude Scotch kivenant.
_Const. Set. Non. Tob. Amb_. Uh! uh! uh!
_Isa_. What rare music's here!
_Non_. Whene'er it comes from me, 'twill kill me; that's certain.
_Set_. Best take a vomit.
_Isa_. An't come upward, the horns will choke him.
_Non_. Mass! and so they will.
_Isa_. Your only way, is to make sure o'the man-midwife.
_Non_. But my child's dishonour troubles me the most. If I could
but see her well married, before I underwent the labour and peril of
child-bearing!--What would you advise, niece?
_Isa_. That which I am very loth to do. Send for honest Jack
Loveby, and let him know the truth on't: He's a fellow without a
fortune, and will be glad to leap at the occasion.
_Non_. But why Loveby, of all the world? 'Tis but staying 'till
to-morrow, and then Sir Timorous will marry her.
_Const_. Uh!--I swell so fast, I cannot hide it 'till to-morrow.
_Isa_. Why, there's it now!
_Non_. I'll send for the old alderman, Getwell, immediately:
He'll father the devil's bastard, I warrant you.
_Isa_. Fie, uncle! my cousin's somewhat too good yet for an
alderman. If it were her third child, she might hearken to you.
_Non_. Well, since it must be so, Setstone, go you to Loveby;
make my excuse to him for the arrest, and let him know, what fortune
may attend him.
_Isa_. Mr Setstone, pray acquaint him with my cousin's affection
to him; and prepare him to father the cushion underneath her
petticoat.
[_Aside to_ SETSTONE. _Exit_.]
_Set_. I'll bring him immediately.
_Isa_. When he comes, uncle, pray cover your great belly with
your hat, that he may not see it.
_Non_. It goes against my heart to marry her to this Loveby; but,
what must be, must be.
_Enter_ LOVEBY.
_Const_. O, Mr Loveby! The welcomest man alive! You met Setstone,
I hope, that you came so opportunely?
_Lov_. No, faith, madam; I came of my own accord.
_Isa_. 'Tis unlucky; he's not prepared.
_Lov_. Look you, madam, I have brought the hundred pounds; the
devil was as punctual as three o' clock at a playhouse. Here; 'tis
right, I warrant it, without telling: I took it upon his word.
[_Gives it_.
_Const_. Your kindness shall be requited, servant: But I sent for
you upon another business. Pray, cousin, tell it him, for I am ashamed
to do't.
_Lov_. Ha! 'tis not that great belly, I hope. Is't come to that?
_Isa_. Hark you, Mr Loveby; a word with you.
_Lov_. A word with you, madam: Whither is your cousin bound?
_Isa_. Bound, sir?
_Lov_. Ay, bound: Look you, she's under sail, with a lusty
fore-wind.
_Non_. I sent for you, sir; but, to be plain with you, 'twas more
out of necessity than love.
_Lov_. I wonder, my lord, at your invincible ill-nature. You
forget the arrest, that I passed by: But this it is to be civil to
unthankful persons; 'tis feeding an ill-natured dog, that snarls while
he takes victuals from your hand.
_Non_. All friends! all friends! No ripping up old stories; you
shall have my daughter.
_Lov_. Faith, I see your lordship would let lodgings ready
furnished; but I am for an empty tenement.
_Non_. I had almost forgot my own great belly. If he should
discover that too! [_Claps his hat before it_.
_Isa. [To Lov_.] You will not hear me, sir. 'Tis all roguery, as
I live.
_Lov_. Flat roguery, I'll swear! If I had been father on't, nay,
if I had but laid my breeches upon the bed, I would have married her:
But I see we are not ordained for one another.
[_Is going_.
_Non_. I beseech you, sir.
_Lov_. Pray cover, my lord.
_Isa_. He does his great belly, methinks.
_Non_. I'll make it up in money to you.
_Lov_. That cannot tempt me. I have a friend, that shall be
nameless, that will not see me want; and so, your servant.
[_Exit_ LOVEBY.
_Isa_. I'll after, and bring him back.
_Non_. You shall not stir after him;--Does he scorn my daughter?
_Isa_. Lord, how fretful you are! This breeding makes you so
peevish, uncle.
_Non_. 'Tis no matter, she shall straight be married to Sir
Timorous.
_Const_. I am ruined, cousin.
[_Aside_.
_Isa_. I warrant you.--My lord, I wish her well married to Sir
Timorous; but Loveby will certainly infect him with the news of her
great belly.
_Non_. I'll dispatch it, ere he can speak with him.
_Isa_. Whene'er he comes, he'll see what a _bona roba_ she
is grown.
_Non_. Therefore, it shall be done i'the evening.
_Isa_. It shall, my lord.
_Const_. Shall it?
[Aside.
_Isa_. Let me alone, cousin.--And to this effect she shall write
to him, that, to conform to your will, and his modesty, she desires
him to come hither alone this evening.
_Non_. Excellent wench!--I'll get my chaplain ready.
[_Exit_ NONSUCH.
_Const_. How can you hope to deceive my father?
_Isa_. If I don't, I have hard luck.
_Const_. You go so strange a way about, your bowl must be well
bias'd to come in.
_Isa_. So plain a ground, there's not the least rub in't. I'll
meet Sir Timorous in the dark; and, in your room, marry him.
_Const_. You'll be sure to provide for one.
_Isa_. You mistake me, cousin:--Oh! here's Setstone again.
_Enter_ SETSTONE.
Mr Jeweller, you must again into your devil's shape, and speak with
Loveby. But pray be careful not to be discovered.
_Set_. I warrant you, madam. I have cozened wiser men than he in
my own shape; and, if I cannot continue it in a worse, let the devil,
I make bold with, e'en make as bold with me.
_Isa_. You must guide him, by back ways, to my uncle's house, and
so to my cousin's chamber, that he may not know where he is when he
comes there. The rest I'll tell you as we go along.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_Enter_ TIMOROUS; _after him_ BURR _and_ FAILER.
_Tim_. Here, here, read this note; there's news for us.
_Fail_. Let me see't. [_Reads_.
_Sir Timorous, Be at the garden-door at nine this evening; there
I'll receive you with my daughter. To gratify your modesty I designed
this way, after I had better considered on it: and pray leave your
caterpillars, Burr and Failer, behind you. Yours,_ Nonsuch.
There is some trick in this, whate'er it be. But this word,
caterpillars--You see, Burr, Sir Timorous is like to be lured from us.
[_Aside_.
_Burr_. Is there no prevention? [_Aside_.
_Fail_. One way there is.--Sir Timorous, pray walk a turn, while
Burr and I confer a little upon this matter.--Look you, Burr, there is
but one remedy in nature, I vow to gad; that is, for you to have a new
Sir Timorous, exceeding this person in bounty to you. Observe, then;
in Sir Timorous' place will I go, and, egad, I'll marry my lady
Constance; and then, from the bowels of friendship, bless thee with a
thousand pounds, besides lodging and diet for thy life, boy.
_Burr_. Umph, very well thought on.--No, sir! you shall trust
to my bounty; I'll go in his place. Murmur or repine, speak the least
word, or give thy lips the least motion, and I'll beat thee till thou
art not in condition to go.
_Fail_. I vow to gad, this is extreme injustice.--Was it not my
invention?
_Burr_. Why, dost thou think thou art worthy to make use of thy
own invention?--Speak another word, d'ye see!--Come, help me quickly
to strip Sir Timorous; his coat may conduce to the deceit.--Sir
Timorous, by your leave. [_Fatts on him_.
_Tim_. O, Lord! what's the matter?--Murder? murder!
_Burr_. D'ye open? I have something in my pocket that will serve
for a gag, now I think on't.
[_Gags, and binds him_.
So, lie there, knight. Come, sir, and help to make me Sir Timorous;
and, when I am married, remember to increase your manners with my
fortune.--Yet we'll always drink together. [_Exeunt_.
ACT V. SCENE I.
_Enter_ CONSTANCE, ISABELLA, _and_ NONSUCH.
_Const_. This is just the knight's hour; and lovers seldom come
after their time.
_Non_. Good night, daughter; I'll to bed, and give you joy
to-morrow morning. [_Exit_.
_Isa_. I'm glad he's gone: What, your train takes?
_Const_. Yes, yes; Loveby will come: Setstone has been with him
in disguise; and promised him golden mountains, if he will not be
wanting to his own fortune.
_Isa_. Is your habit provided too?
_Const_. All is ready.
_Isa_. Away then; for this is the place where we must part like
knights errant, that take several paths to their adventures.
_Const_. 'Tis time, for I hear somebody come along the alley;
without question 'tis Timorous. Farewell; the chaplain stays for me in
the chamber.
_Isa_. And I'll post after you to matrimony; I have laid a fresh
parson at the next stage, that shall carry me tantivy.
[_Exit_ CONSTANCE.
_Enter_ BURR _with_ TIMOROUS'S _coat on_.
_Burr_. My lady Constance!
_Isa_. The same: Sir Timorous?
_Burr_. The same.
_Isa_. Sir Timorous takes me for my cousin.
[_Aside_.
_Burr_. My lady Constance mistakes me for the knight.
[_Aside_.
_Isa_. Here, sir; through the dark walk: 'tis but a little way
about--He's my own beyond redemption--
[_Aside_.
_Burr_. The Indies are mine; and a handsome lady into the
bargain.
[_Excunt_.
_Enter_ FAILER, _dogging them, as they go off_.
_Fail_. He shall be hanged, ere he shall get her. Thus far I have
dogged them, and this way I am sure they must pass, ere they come to
the house. The rogue had got the old dog-trick of a statesman; to fish
things out of wiser heads than his own, and never so much as to take
notice of him that gave the counsel--
_Enter ISABELLA and BURR again_.
Now, if I can but give her the hint without his knowledge!--Madam--my
lady Constance!
_Isa_. What voice is that?
_Fail_. A word in private, or you are undone--Pray step aside.
_Burr._ Where are you, madam?
_Isa_. Immediately, Sir Timorous.
_Fail_. You are mistaken, madam; 'tis not Sir Timorous, but Burr
in his clothes; he has stripped the knight, gagged him, and locked him
up.
_Isa_. Failer?
_Fail_. The same. I could not but prevent your unhappiness,
though I hazard my person in the discovery, I vow to gad, madam.
_Burr_. Who's that talks to you, my lady Constance?
_Isa_. A maid of my acquaintance, that's come to take her leave
of me before I marry; the poor soul does so pity me.
_Burr_. How will that maid lie, thinking of you and me to-night!
_Isa_. Has he the key about him? [_To FAILER_.
_Fail_. I think so, madam.
_Isa_. Could not you possibly pick his pocket, and give me the
key? then let me alone to release Sir Timorous; and you shall be
witness of the wedding.
_Fail_. Egad, you want your cousin Isabella's wit to bring that
to pass, madam.
_Isa_. I warrant you, my own wit will serve to fool Burr--and you
too, or I am much deceived. [_Aside_.
_Fail_. I am a little apprehensive of the rascal's fingers, since
I felt them last; and yet my fear has not power to resist the sweet
temptation of revenge; I vow to gad I'll try, madam.
_Isa_. Never fear; let me alone to keep him busy.
_Burr_. Come, madam, and let me take off these tasteless kisses
the maid gave you; may we not join lips before we are married?
_Isa_. No; fie, Sir Timorous.
[_They struggle a little, and in that time FAILER picks his pocket
of the key_.
_Fail_. I have it--here it is--now, shift for yourself, as I'll
do; I'll wait you in the alley.
[_Exit_.
_Isa_. Sir Timorous, pray go into my chamber, and make no noise
till I return; I'll but fetch the little man of God, and follow you in
a twinkling.
_Burr_. There's no light, I hope?
_Isa_. Not a spark.
_Burr_. For to light me to the mark--
[_Exit_.
_Isa_. What a scowering have I 'scaped to-night! Fortune, 'tis
thou hast been ingenious for me! Allons, Isabella! Courage! now to
deliver my knight from the enchanted castle.
[_Exit_.
_Enter LOVEBY, led by SETSTONE, antickly habited; with a torch in
one hand, and a wand in the other_.
_Lov_. What art thou, that hast led me this long hour through
lanes and alleys, and blind passages?
_Set_. I am thy genius; and conduct thee to wealth, fame, and
honour; what thou comest to do, do boldly; fear not; with this rod I
charm thee; and neither elf nor goblin now can harm thee.
_Lov_. Well, march on; if thou art my genius, thou art bound to
be answerable for me; I'll have thee hanged, if I miscarry.
_Set_. Fear not, my son.
_Lov_. Fear not, quotha! then, pr'ythee, put on a more familiar
shape:--one of us two stinks extremely: Pr'ythee, do not come so near
me; I do not love to have my face bleached like a tiffany with thy
brimstone.
_Set_. Fear not, but follow me.
_Lov_. 'Faith, I have no great mind to't; I am somewhat godly at
present; but stay a month longer, and I'll be proud, and fitter for
thee. In the mean time, pr'ythee, stay thy stomach with some Dutchman;
an Hollander, with butter, will fry rarely in hell.
_Set_. Mortal, 'tis now too late for a retreat; go on, and live;
step back, and thou art mine.
_Lorn_. So I am, however, first or last; but for once I'll trust
thee. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_The scene opens, and discovers CONSTANCE, and a Parson by her; she
habited like Fortune.
Enter again_.
_Set_. Take here the mighty queen of good and ill, Fortune; first
marry, then enjoy thy fill Of lawful pleasures; but depart ere morn;
Slip from her bed, or else thou shalt be torn Piecemeal by fiends;
thy blood caroused in bowls, And thy four quarters blown to the top of
Paul's.
_Lov_. By your favour, I'll never venture. Is marrying the
business? I'll none, I thank you.
[_Here CONSTANCE whispers SETSTONE_.
_Set_. Fortune will turn her back if twice denied.
_Lav_. Why, she may turn her girdle too on t'other side[A]. This
is the devil; I will not venture on her.
[Footnote A: A usual expression of indifference for a man's
displeasure.]
_Set_. Fear not; she swears thou shalt receive no harm.
_Lov_. Ay, if a man durst trust her; but the devil is got into
such an ill name of lying--
_Set_. Whene'er you are not pleased, it shall be lawful to sue
out your divorce.
_Lov_. Ay, but where shall I get a lawyer? there you are
aforehand with me; you have retained most of them already. For the
favours I have received, I am very much her servant; but, in the way
of matrimony, Mr Parson there can tell you 'tis an ordinance, and must
not be entered into without mature deliberation; besides, marriages,
you know, are made in heaven; and that I am sure this was not.
_Set_. She bids you then, at least, restore that gold, which she,
too lavishly, poured out on you, unthankful man.
_Lov_. Faith, I have it not at present; 'tis all gone, as I am a
sinner; but, 'tis gone wickedly; all spent in the devil her father's
service.
_Set_. Where is the grateful sense of all your favours? Come,
fiends, with flesh-hooks, tear the wretch in pieces, And bear his soul
upon your leather wings, Below the fountain of the dark abyss.
_Lov_. What, are you a-conjuring? If you are good at that sport,
I can conjure as well as you--[_Draws his sword_.
_Const_. Hold; for Heaven's sake, hold! I am no spirit; touch but
my hand; ghosts have no flesh and blood. [_Discovering_.
_Lov_. My lady Constance! I began to suspect it might be a trick,
but never could imagine you the author. It seems you are desirous I
should father this _hans en kelder_ here?
_Const_. I know not how, without a blush, to tell you, it was a
cheat I practised for your love.
_Set_. A mere tympany, sir, raised by a cushion; you see 'tis
gone already.
_Const_. Setstone was sent to have acquainted you; but, by the
way, unfortunately missed you.
_Lev_. Twas you, then, that supplied me all this while with
money? pretty familiar, I hope to make thee amends ere I sleep
to-night. Come, parson, pr'ythee make haste and join us. I long to be
out of her debt, poor rogue.
[_The parson takes them to the side of the stage; they turn their
backs to the audience, while he mumbles to them_.
_Set_. I'll be the clerk; Amen--give you joy, Mr Bridegroom, and
Mrs Bride.
_Lov. Const_. Thanks, honest Setstone.
[_BIBBER, FRANCES, and music without--they play_.
_Music_. God give your worship a good even, Mr Loveby.
_Const_. Hark! what noise is that! Is this music of your
providing, Setstone?
_Set_. Alas, madam, I know nothing of it.
_Lov_. We are betrayed to your father; but the best on't is, he
comes too late to hinder us--fear not, madam, I'll bear you through
them all.
[_As they rush out, BIBBER, FRANCES, and Music are entering in;
BIBBER and FRANCES are beaten down.--Exeunt LOVEBY; CONSTANCE,
SETSTONE, and Parson_.
_All cry out_. Oh the devil! the devil! the devil!
_Bib_. Lord bless us, where are you, Frances!
_Fran_. Here, William! this is a judgment, as they say, upon
you, William, for trusting wits, and calling gentlemen to the tavern,
William.
_Bib_. No; 'twas a judgment upon you, for desiring preferment at
court, Frances. Let's call up the watch, and Justice Trice, to have
the house searched.
_Fran_. Ay, ay; there's more devils there, I warrant you.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter LOVEBY, CONSTANCE, and SETSTONE again_.
_Lov_. It was certainly Will Bibber and his wife, with music;
for, now I remember myself, I 'pointed him this hour at your father's
house: but we frighted them worse than they frighted us.
_Const_. Our parson ran away too, when they cried out the devil!
_Lov_. He was the wiser; for if the devil had come indeed, he has
preached so long against him, it would have gone hard with him.
_Set_. Indeed, I have always observed parsons to be more fearful
of the devil than other people.
_Lov_. Oh, the devil's the spirit, and the parson's the flesh;
and betwixt those two there must be a war; yet, to do them both right,
I think in my conscience they quarrel only like lawyers for their
fees, and meet good friends in private, to laugh at their clients.
_Const_. I saw him run in at my cousin Isabella's chamber door,
which was wide open; I believe she's returned: We'll fetch a light
from the gallery, and give her joy.
_Lov_. Why, is she married, madam?
_Const_. I'll tell you as we go. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.
_BURR and the Parson enter, meeting in the dark_.
_Burr_. My lady Constance, are you come again? That's well; I
have waited sufficiently for you in the dark.
_Par_. Help, help, help, good Christian people! the devil, the
devil's here.
_Burr_. 'Tis I, madam; what do you mean?
_Par_. Avoid, Satan! avoid, avoid.
_Burr_. What have I here, the hairy woman?
_Enter LOVEBY, and CONSTANCE with the light_.
Ha! yonder's my lady Constance! who have I got? a stone priest, by
this good light. How's this, Loveby too!
_Lov_. Burr a-beating my reverend clergy? What makes you here at
this unseasonable hour? I'll know your business. [_Draws_.
_Burr_. Will you, sir? [_They fight_.
_Const. Set. Par_. Help, murder, murder!
_Enter, at one door, TRICE drunk, with the Watch; BIBBER and FRANCES
following; at the other, NONSUCH and Servants, and FAILER_.
_Non_. Murder, murder! beat down their weapons. Will you
murder Sir Timorous, Mr Loveby?--[_They disarm both_.] Sir
Timorous?--ha, Burr! Thieves, thieves!--sit down, good Mr Justice, and
take their examinations. Now I shall know how my money went.
_Trice_. They shall have justice, I warrant them. [_Goes to
sit, and misses the chair_.
_Bib_. The justice is almost dead drunk, my lord.
_Fran_. But an't please your worship, my lord, this is not the
worst sight that we have seen here to-night in your worship's house;
we met three or four hugeous ugly devils, with eyes like saucers, that
threw down my husband, that threw down me, that made my heart so panck
ever since, as they say!--
_Non_. The devil again in my house?
_Lov_. Nay, here he was, that's certain; he brought me hither, I
know not how myself, and married me; Mr Setstone there can justify it:
But the best is, I have a charm about me, that will lay him yet ere
midnight.
_Fail_. And I vow to gad, my lord, I know as little how I came
hither as any man.
_Burr_. Nor I.
_Trice_. Nor I.
_Lot_. No, I dare swear do'st thou not, Mr Justice.
_Trice_. But I wonder how the devil durst come into our ward,
when he knows I have been at the duties of--my family--this evening.
_Enter one of the Watch, with_ TIMOROUS _and_ ISABELLA.
_Watch_. An please your worship, I met this couple in the street
late, and so, seeing them to be a man and woman, I brought them along
with me, upon suspicion of felony together.
_Fran_. This is the proud minx, that sought shelter in my house
this afternoon, Mr Justice.
_Fail_. Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella! I vow to gad, we are
undone, Burr.--
_Isa_. Do not you know me, Mr Justice?
_Lov_. Justice is blind, he knows nobody.
_Isa_. My name is Isabella.
_Fran_. No, thy name is Jezebella; I warrant you, there's none
but rogues and papists would be abroad at this time of night.
_Bib_. Hold, Frances.--
_Trice_. She's drunk, I warrant her, as any beast. I wonder,
woman, you do not consider what a crying sin drunkenness is: Whom do
you learn it from in our parish? I am sure you never see me worse.
_Isa_. Burr and Failer, acknowledge yourselves a couple of
recreant knights: Sir Timorous is mine: I have won him in fair field
from you.
_Const_. Give you joy, cousin, give you joy!
_Lov_. Married!
_Isa_. And in Diana's grove, boy.
_Lov_. Why, 'tis fine, by Heaven; 'tis wondrous fine; as the poet
goes on sweetly.
_Tim_. I am sure they had gagged me, and bound me, and stripped
me almost stark naked, and locked me up as fast as a butterfly, 'till
she came and made me a man again; and therefore I have reason to love
her the longest day I have to live.
_Isa_. Ay, and the longest night too, or you are to blame. And
you have one argument I love you, if the proverb be true, for I took
you almost in your bare shirt.
_Burr_. So much for us, Failer!
_Const_. Well, my lord, it had as good out at first as at last:
I must beg your lordship's blessing for this gentleman and myself.
[_Both kneel_.
_Non_. Why, you are not married to him, I hope! he's married to
the devil.
_Lov_. 'Twas a white devil of your lordship's getting, then; Mr
Setstone and the reverend here can witness it.
_Set. Par_. We must speak truth, my lord.
_Non_. Would I had another child for your sake! you should ne'er
see a penny of my money.
_Lov_. Thank you, my lord; but methinks 'tis much better as it
is.
_Isa_. Come, nuncle, 'tis in vain to hold out, now 'tis past
remedy: 'Tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and
if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them
from the galleries. Why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance?
_Non_. But there's one thing still that troubles me; that's her
great belly, and my own too.
_Const_. Nay, for mine, my lord, 'tis vanished already; 'twas but
a trick to catch the old one.
_Lov_. But I'll do my best; she shall not be long without
another.
_Isa_. But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid
you on't, but by taking out your guts.
_Lov_. 'Tis such a pretty smart rascal, 'tis well I am pleased
with my own choice: but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and
gamesters, out of thee!--
_Const_. No, no; two wits could never have lived well together;
want would have so sharpened you upon one another.
_Isa_. A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same
reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.
_Const_. And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes
must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it
else.
_Lov_. Or what think you of paying courtiers' debts with it?
_Isa_. Well, to shew I am in charity with my enemies, I'll make
a motion: While we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live
together: Burr and Failer--
_Fail_. Shall be utterly discarded; I knew 'twould come to that,
I vow to gad.
_Isa_. Shall be our guests.
[_BURR and FAILER throw up their caps, and cry, Vive Madam
ISABELLA!_
_Lov_. And Bibber shall make our wedding clothes without
trusting.
_Bib_. No, henceforward I'll trust none but landed men, and such
as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now I have got a place
in the custom-house.
_Fran_. Nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman
should go before me; but I'll to the herald's office, and see whether
the queen's majesty's dresser, should not take place of any knight's
wife in Christendom.
_Bib_. Now all will out--no more, good Frances.
_Fran_. I will speak, that I will, so I will: What! shall I be a
dresser to the queen's majesty, and nobody must know on't? I'll
send Mr Church-warden word on't; and, gentlemen, when you come to St
Bride's church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see
me in the pew that's next the pulpit; thank Mr Loveby's worship for
it.
_Lov_. Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they
came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall
have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.
_Fran_. This is bitter news, as they say.
_Lov_. Cheer up thy wife, Will. Where are the fiddles? A dance
should do it.
_Bib_. I'll run and call them.
_Isa_. I have found out that, will comfort her: Henceforward I
christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.
_All_. A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!
_Fran_. Why, I thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a
cordial to my drooping spirits: I confess I was a little eclipsed; but
I'll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. Strike up, fiddles.
_Lov_. That's a good wench.
DANCE.
_Trice_. This music and a little nod has recovered me. I'll in,
and provide for the sack posset.
_Non_. To bed, to bed; 'tis late. Son Loveby, get me a boy
to-night, and I'll settle three thousand a-year upon him the first day
he calls me grandsire.
_Lov_. I'll do my best, To make the bargain sure before I sleep.
Where love and money strike, the blow goes deep.
[_Exeunt omnes_.
EPILOGUE,
WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.
The _Wild Gallant_ has quite played out his game;
He's married now, and that will make him tame;
Or if you think marriage will not reclaim him,
The critics swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him.
Yet, though our poet's threatened most by these,
They are the only people he can please:
For he, to humour them, has shown to-day,
That which they only like, a wretched play:
But though his play be ill, here have been shown
The greatest wits, and beauties of the town;
And his occasion having brought you here,
You are too grateful to become severe.
There is not any person here so mean,
But he may freely judge each act and scene:
But if you bid him chuse his judges, then,
He boldly names true English gentlemen:
For he ne'er thought a handsome garb or dress
So great a crime, to make their judgment less:
And with these gallants he these ladies joins,
To judge that language, their converse refines.
But if their censures should condemn his play,
Far from disputing, he does only pray
He may Leander's destiny obtain:
Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.
EPILOGUE,
WHEN REVIVED.
Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the best, so 'tis most, hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that, which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow savages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
And, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began,
So you, at each new play, must have a man.
Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught.
But fools grow wary now; and, when they see
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each-man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.
Few of them will be found for public use,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory should appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' play:
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry squires in country churches do.
Things well considered, 'tis so hard to make
A comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other impost lay.
Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motely garniture of fool and farce,
Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vests, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you should this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.
THE RIVAL LADIES,
A TRAGI-COMEDY
THE RIVAL LADIES.
This play, like that which preceded it, is a drama of intrigue,
borrowed from the Spanish, and claiming merit only in proportion to
the diversity and ingenuity of the incidents represented. On this
point every reader can decide for himself; and it would be an invidious
task to point out blemishes, where, to own the truth, there are but
few beauties. The ease with which the affections of almost every
female in the drama are engrossed by Gonsalvo, and afterwards
transferred to the lovers, upon whom the winding up of the plot made
it necessary to devolve them, will, it is probable, strike every
reader as unnatural. In truth, when the depraved appetite of the
public requires to be gratified by trick and bustle, instead of nature
and sentiment, authors must sacrifice the probable, as well as the
simple, process of events.
The author seems principally to have valued himself on this piece,
because it contains some scenes executed in rhyme, in what was then
called the heroic manner. Upon this opinion, which Dryden lived to
retract, I have ventured to offer my sentiments in the Life of the
Author. In other respects, though not slow in perceiving and avouching
his own merit, our author seems to consider the "Rival Ladies" as no
very successful dramatic effort.
The "Rival Ladies" is supposed to have been first acted in 1663, and
was certainly published in the year following. Of its success we know
nothing particular. It is probable, the flowing verse, into which some
part of the dialogue is thrown, with the strong point and antithesis,
which distinguishes Dryden's works, and particularly his argumentative
poetry, tended to redeem the credit of the author of the "Wild
Gallant."
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROGER, EARL OF ORRERY[1].
[Footnote 1: This distinguished person was fifth son of Richard Boyle,
known by the title of the great Earl of Cork. His first title was Lord
Broghill, under which he distinguished himself in Ireland.
Cromwell, although his lordship was a noted royalist, and in actual
correspondence with the exiled monarch, had so much confidence in
his honour and talents, that he almost compelled him to act as lord
lieutenant of that kingdom, under the stipulation that he was to come
under no oaths, and only to act against the rebel Irish, then the
common enemy. He was instrumental in the restoration, and created earl
of Orrery by Charles II, in 1660, He deserved Dryden's panegyric in
every respect, except as a poet--the very character, however, in which
he is most complimented, and perhaps was best pleased to be so. He
wrote, 1st, The Art of War--2d, Parthenissa, a romance--3d, Some
Poems--4th; Eight Plays--5th, State Tracts.]
My Lord,
This worthless present was designed you long before it was a play;
when it was only a confused mass of thoughts, tumbling over one
another in the dark; when the fancy was yet in its first work,
moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be
distinguished, and then either chosen or rejected by the judgment; it
was yours, my lord, before I could call it mine. And, I confess, in
that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of
beauty in some of them, which gave me hope, something, worthy my lord
of Orrery, might be drawn from them: But I was then in that eagerness
of imagination, which, by overpleasing fanciful men, flatters them
into the danger of writing; so that, when I had moulded it into that
shape it now bears, I looked with such disgust upon it, that the
censures of our severest critics are charitable to what I thought
(and still think) of it myself: It is so far from me to believe this
perfect, that I am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so; for
the stage being the representation of the world, and the actions in
it, how can it be imagined, that the picture of human life can be more
exact than life itself is? He may be allowed sometimes to err, who
undertakes to move so many characters and humours, as are requisite in
a play, in those narrow channels which are proper to each of them; to
conduct his imaginary persons through so many various intrigues and
chances, as the labouring audience shall think them lost under every
billow; and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their
distresses, that, when the whole plot is laid open, the spectators may
rest satisfied, that every cause was powerful enough to produce the
effect it had; and that the whole chain of them was with such due
order linked together, that the first accident would naturally beget
the second, till they all rendered the conclusion necessary.
These difficulties, my lord, may reasonably excuse the errors of
my undertaking; but for this confidence of my dedication, I have an
argument, which is too advantageous for me not to publish it to the
world. It is the kindness your lordship has continually shown to all
my writings. You have been pleased, my lord, they should sometimes
cross the Irish seas, to kiss your hands; which passage (contrary
to the experience of others) I have found the least dangerous in the
world. Your favour has shone upon me at a remote distance, without the
least knowledge of my person; and (like the influence of the heavenly
bodies) you have done good, without knowing to whom you did it. It is
this virtue in your lordship, which emboldens me to this attempt; for,
did I not consider you as my patron, I have little reason to desire
you for my judge; and should appear with as much awe before you in the
reading, as I had when the full theatre sat upon the action. For, who
could so severely judge of faults as he, who has given testimony he
commits none? Your excellent poems have afforded that knowledge of it
to the world, that your enemies are ready to upbraid you with it, as
a crime for a man of business to write so well. Neither durst I have
justified your lordship in it, if examples of it had not been in the
world before you; if Xenophon had not written a romance, and a certain
Roman, called Augustus Caesar, a tragedy, and epigrams. But their
writing was the entertainment of their pleasure; yours is only a
diversion of your pain. The muses have seldom employed your thoughts,
but when some violent fit of the gout has snatched you from affairs
of state; and, like the priestess of Apollo, you never come to deliver
his oracles, but unwillingly, and in torment. So that we are obliged
to your lordship's misery for our delight: You treat us with the cruel
pleasure of a Turkish triumph, where those, who cut and wound their
bodies, sing songs of victory as they pass, and divert others with
their own sufferings. Other men endure their diseases; your lordship
only can enjoy them. Plotting and writing in this kind are certainly
more troublesome employments than many which signify more, and are of
greater moment in the world: The fancy, memory, and judgment, are then
extended (like so many limbs) upon the rack; all of them reaching
with their utmost stress at nature; a thing so almost infinite and
boundless, as can never fully be comprehended, but where the images of
all things are always present. Yet I wonder not your lordship succeeds
so well in this attempt; the knowledge of men is your daily practice
in the world; to work and bend their stubborn minds, which go not all
after the same grain, but each of them so particular a way, that
the same common humours, in several persons, must be wrought upon by
several means. Thus, my lord, your sickness is but the imitation of
your health; the poet but subordinate to the statesman in you; you
still govern men with the same address, and manage business with the
same prudence; allowing it here (as in the world) the due increase and
growth, till it comes to the just height; and then turning it when it
is fully ripe, and nature calls out, as it were, to be delivered.
With this only advantage of ease to you in your poetry, that you
have fortune here at your command; with which wisdom does often
unsuccessfully struggle in the world. Here is no chance, which you
have not foreseen; all your heroes are more than your subjects, they
are your creatures; and though they seem to move freely in all the
sallies of their passions, yet you make destinies for them, which
they cannot shun. They are moved (if I may dare to say so) like the
rational creatures of the Almighty Poet, who walk at liberty, in their
own opinion, because their fetters are invisible; when, indeed, the
prison of their will is the more sure for being large; and, instead of
an absolute power over their actions, they have only a wretched desire
of doing that, which they cannot chuse but do[1].
[Footnote 1: The earl of Orrery was author of several plays. If the
reader is not disposed to admit, that his habit of composing them,
when tormented by the gout, enhanced their value, it may be allowed to
apologise for their faults.]
I have dwelt, my lord, thus long upon your writing, not because you
deserve not greater and more noble commendations, but because I am not
equally able to express them in other subjects. Like an ill swimmer,
I have willingly staid long in my own depth; and though I am eager of
performing more, yet am loth to venture out beyond my knowledge: for
beyond your poetry, my lord, all is ocean to me. To speak of you as a
soldier, or a statesman, were only to betray my own ignorance; and I
could hope no better success from it, than that miserable rhetorician
had, who solemnly declaimed before Hannibal, of the conduct of armies,
and the art of war. I can only say, in general, that the souls of
other men shine out at little crannies; they understand some one
thing, perhaps, to admiration, while they are darkened on all the
other parts; but your lordship's soul is an entire globe of light,
breaking out on every side; and, if I have only discovered one beam
of it, it is not that the light falls unequally, but because the body,
which receives it, is of unequal parts.
The acknowledgment of which is a fair occasion offered me, to retire
from the consideration of your lordship to that of myself. I here
present you, my lord, with that in print, which you had the goodness
not to dislike upon the stage; and account it happy to have met you
here in England; it being, at best, like small wines, to be drunk out
upon the place, and has not body enough to endure the sea.
I know not whether I have been so careful of the plot and language as
I ought; but, for the latter, I have endeavoured to write English, as
near as I could distinguish it from the tongue of pedants, and that
of affected travellers. Only I am sorry, that (speaking so noble a
language as we do) we have not a more certain measure of it, as they
have in France, where they have an academy erected for that purpose,
and endowed with large privileges by the present king. I wish we might
at length leave to borrow words from other nations, which is now a
wantonness in us, not a necessity; but so long as some affect to speak
them, there will not want others, who will have the boldness to write
them.
But I fear, lest, defending the received words, I shall be accused for
following the new way, I mean, of writing scenes in verse. Though, to
speak properly, it is not so much a new way amongst us, as an old
way new revived; for, many years before Shakspeare's plays, was the
tragedy of Queen Gorboduc, in English verse, written by that famous
Lord Buckhurst, afterwards earl of Dorset, and progenitor to that
excellent person, who (as he inherits his soul and title) I wish may
inherit his good fortune[1]. But, supposing our countrymen had not
received this writing till of late; shall we oppose ourselves to the
most polished and civilised nations of Europe? Shall we, with the same
singularity, oppose the world in this, as most of us do in pronouncing
Latin? Or do we desire that the brand, which Barclay has (I hope
unjustly) laid upon the English, should still continue? _Angli suos
ac sua omnia impense mirantur; caeteras nationes despectui habent_.
All the Spanish and Italian tragedies, I have yet seen, are writ in
rhyme. For the French, I do not name them, because it is the fate of
our countrymen to admit little of theirs among us, but the basest of
their men, the extravagancies of their fashions, and the frippery of
their merchandise. Shakspeare (who, with some errors not to be avoided
in that age, had undoubtedly a larger soul of poesy than ever any of
our nation) was the first who, to shun the pains of continual rhyming,
invented[A] that kind of writing which we call blank verse, but the
French, more properly, _prose mesuré_; into which the English
tongue so naturally slides, that, in writing prose, it is hardly to be
avoided. And therefore, I admire some men should perpetually stumble
in a way so easy, and, inverting the order of their words, constantly
close their lines with verbs, which, though commended sometimes in
writing Latin, yet we were whipt at Westminster if we used it twice
together. I knew some, who, if they were to write in blank verse,
_Sir, I ask your pardon_, would think it sounded more heroically
to write, _Sir, I your pardon ask_. I should judge him to have
little command of English, whom the necessity of a rhyme should force
often upon this rock; though sometimes it cannot easily be avoided;
and indeed this is the only inconvenience with which rhyme can be
charged. This is that which makes them say, rhyme is not natural; it
being only so, when the poet either makes a vicious choice of words,
or places them, for rhyme sake, so unnaturally as no man would in
ordinary speaking; but when it is so judiciously ordered, that the
first word in the verse seems to beget the second, and that the next,
till that becomes the last word in the line, which, in the negligence
of prose, would be so; it must then be granted, rhyme has all the
advantages of prose, besides its own. But the excellence and dignity
of it were never fully known till Mr Waller taught it; he first made
writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense, most
commonly in distichs, which, in the verse of those before him, runs
on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to
overtake it. This sweetness of Mr Waller's lyric poesy was afterwards
followed in the epic by Sir John Denham, in his Cooper's-Hill, a poem
which, your Lordship knows, for the majesty of the style, is, and
ever will be, the exact standard of good writing. But if we owe the
invention of it to Mr Waller, we are acknowledging for the noblest use
of it to Sir William D'Avenant, who at once brought it upon the stage,
and made it perfect, in the Siege of Rhodes.
[Footnote 1: The tragedy of Ferrex and Perrex (which is the proper
title) was written by Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards
earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, a barrister at law. In Sackville's
part of the play, which comprehends the two last acts, there is some
poetry worthy of the author of the sublime Introduction to the Mirror
of Magistrates. While both the authors were out of England, one
William Griffiths published a spurious copy, under the title of
Gorboduc, the name of one of the principal personages, who is not,
however, _queen_, but _king_, of England, But, what was a
wider mistake, considering Dryden's purpose of mentioning the work, it
is not written in rhyme, but in blank verse, excepting the choruses,
which are in stanzas of six lines. The name of the queen is Videna.
Sir Philip Sydney says, "Gorboduc is full of stately speeches and well
sounding phrases, climbing up to the height of Seneca his style, and
as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach,
and thereby obtain the very end of poetry."]
[Footnote A: This is a mistake. Marlow, and several other dramatic
authors, used blank verse before the days of Shakspeare.]
The advantages which rhyme has over blank verse are so many, that
it were lost time to name them. Sir Philip Sidney, in his Defence
of Poesy, gives us one, which, in my opinion, is not the least
considerable; I mean the help it brings to memory, which rhyme so
knits up, by the affinity of sounds, that, by remembering the last
word in one line, we often call to mind both the verses. Then, in the
quickness of repartees (which in discoursive scenes fall very often),
it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly suited to them, that the
sudden smartness of the answer, and the sweetness of the rhyme, set
off the beauty of each other. But that benefit which I consider most
in it, because I have not seldom found it, is, that it bounds and
circumscribes the fancy. For imagination in a poet is a faculty so
wild and lawless, that, like an high-ranging spaniel, it must have
clogs tied to it, lest it out-run the judgment. The great easiness of
blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant; he is tempted to say many
things, which might better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer
words; but when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where
the poet commonly confines his sense to his couplet, and must contrive
that sense into such words, that the rhyme shall naturally follow
them, not they the rhyme; the fancy then gives leisure to the judgment
to come in, which, seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off
all unnecessary expences. This last consideration has already answered
an objection which some have made, that rhyme is only an embroidery of
sense, to make that, which is ordinary in itself, pass for excellent
with less examination. But certainly, that, which most regulates the
fancy, and gives the judgment its busiest employment, is like to bring
forth the richest and clearest thoughts. The poet examines that most,
which he produceth with the greatest leisure, and which, he knows,
must pass the severest test of the audience, because they are aptest
to have it ever in their memory; as the stomach makes the best
concoction, when it strictly embraces the nourishment, and takes
account of every little particle as it passes through. But, as the
best medicines may lose their virtue, by being ill applied, so is it
with verse, if a fit subject be not chosen for it. Neither must the
argument alone, but the characters and persons, be great and
noble; otherwise, (as Scaliger says of Claudian) the poet will
be _ignobitiore materiâ depressus_. The scenes, which, in my
opinion, most commend it, are those of argumentation and discourse, on
the result of which the doing or not doing some considerable action
should depend.
But, my lord, though I have more to say upon this subject, yet I must
remember, it is your lordship to whom I speak; who have much better
commended this way by your writing in it, than I can do by writing for
it. Where my reasons cannot prevail, I am sure your lordship's example
must. Your rhetoric has gained my cause; at least the greatest part of
my design has already succeeded to my wish, which was to interest so
noble a person in the quarrel, and withal to testify to the world how
happy I esteem myself in the honour of being,
MY LORD,
Your Lordship's most humble,
and most obedient servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.
PROLOGUE
'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
Would pass a vote to put all prologues down;
For who can show me, since they first were writ,
They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
Yet the world's mended well; in former days
Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
For the reforming poets of our age,
In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
Expect no more when once the prologue's done;
The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it not;
They blow out candles to give light to th' plot.
And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
Fight till they die, then rise and dance again.
Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day:
But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play;
Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,
Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired:
He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows,
There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;
Therefore, kind judges--
_Second Prologue enters_.
2.--Hold; would you admit
For judges all you see within the pit?
1. Whom would he then except, or on what score?
2. All, who (like him) have writ ill plays before;
For they, like thieves condemned, are hangmen made,
To execute the members of their trade.
All that are writing now he would disown,
But then he must except--even all the town;
All cholerick, losing gamesters, who, in spite,
Will damn to day, because they lost last night;
All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids;
All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;
All, who are out of humour, or severe;
All, that want wit, or hope to find it here.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
DON GONSALVO DE PERALTA, _a young gentleman newly arrived from the
Indies, in love with_ JULIA.
DON RODORIGO DE SYLVA, _in love with the same lady_.
DON MANUEL DE TORRES, _brother to_ JULIA.
JULIA, _elder sister to_ DON MANUEL, _promised to_ RODORIGO.
HONORIA, _younger sister to_ DON MANUEL, _disguised in the
habit of a man, and going by the name of_ HIPPOLITO, _in love
with_ GONSALVO.
ANGELINA, _sister to_ DON RODORIGO, _in man's habit, likewise
in love with_ GONSALVO, _and going by the name of_ AMIDEO.
_Servants, Robbers, Seamen, and Masquers_.
SCENE--_Alicant_.
THE RIVAL LADIES.
ACT I.
SCENE I--_A Wood_.
_Enter_ GONSALVO _and a Servant_.
_Gon_. Nay, 'twas a strange as well as cruel storm,
To take us almost in the port of Sevile,
And drive us up as far as Barcelona;
The whole plate fleet was scattered, some part wrecked;
There one might see the sailors diligent
To cast o'erboard the merchant's envied wealth,
While he, all pale and dying, stood in doubt,
Whether to ease the burden of the ship,
By drowning of his ingots, or himself.
_Serv_. Fortune, sir, is a woman everywhere,
But most upon the sea.
_Gons_. Had that been all,
I should not have complained; but, ere we could
Repair our ship, to drive us back again,
Was such a cruelty--
_Serv_. Yet that short time you staid at Barcelona
You husbanded so well, I think you left
A mistress there.
_Gons_. I made some small essays
Of love; what might have been I cannot tell:
But, to leave that, upon what part of Spain
Are we now cast?
_Serv_. Sir, I take that city to be Alicant.
_Gons_. Some days must of necessity be spent
In looking to our ship; then back again
For Sevile.
_Serv_. There you're sure you shall be welcome.
_Gons_. Aye, if my brother Rodoric be returned
From Flanders; but 'tis now three years since I
Have heard from him, and, since I saw him, twelve.
_Serv_. Your growth, and your long absence in the Indies,
Have altered you so much, he'll scarcely know you.
_Gons_. I'm sure I should not him, and less my sister;
Who, when I with my uncle went this voyage,
Was then one of those little prating girls,
Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories:
Well, go you back.
_Serv_. I go, sir.
_Gons_. And take care
None of the seamen slip ashore.
_Serv_. I shall, sir. [_Exit Servant_.
_Gons_. I'll walk a little while among these trees,
Now the fresh evening air blows from the hills,
And breathes the sweetness of the orange flowers
Upon me, from the gardens hear the city.
_Robbers within_.
_1 Rob_. I say, make sure, and kill him.
_Hip_. For heaven's dear sake have pity on my youth.
[_Within_.
_Gons_. Some violence is offered in the wood
By robbers to a traveller: Whoe'er
Thou art, humanity obliges me
To give thee succour.
_Hip_. Help! ah cruel men! [_Within_.
_Gons_. This way, I think, the voice came; 'tis not far. [_Exit_.
_The_ SCENE _draws, and discovers_ HIPPOLITO _bound to a
tree, and two Robbers by him with drawn swords_.
_2 Rob_. Strip him, and let him go.
_1 Rob_. Dispatch him quite; off with his doublet quickly.
_Hip_. Ah me, unfortunate!
_Enter_ GONSALVO, _seizes the sword of one of them, and runs
him through; then, after a little resistance, disarms the other_.
_2 Rob_. If you have mercy in you, spare my life;
I never was consenting to a deed
So black as murder, though my fellow urged me:
I only meant to rob, and I am punished
Enough, in missing of my wicked aim.
_Gons_. Do they rob angels here? This sweet youth has
A face so like one, which I lately saw,
It makes your crime of kin to sacrilege:
But live; and henceforth
Take nobler courses to maintain your life:
Here's something that will rescue you from want,
'Till you can find employment.
[_Gives him gold, and unbinds_ HIPPOLITO.
_Hip_. What strange adventure's this! How little hoped I,
When thus disguised I stole from Barcelona,
To be relieved by brave Gonsalvo here? [_Aside_.
_2 Rob_. That life, you have preserved, shall still be yours;
And that you may perceive, how much my nature
Is wrought upon by this your generous act,
That goodness, you have shown to me, I'll use
To others for your sake, if you dare trust me
A moment from your sight.
_Gons_. Nay, take your sword;
I will not so much crush a budding virtue,
As to suspect. [_Gives him his sword. Exit Robber_.
--Sweet youth, you shall not leave me,
Till I have seen you safe.
_Hip_. You need not doubt it:
Alas! I find I cannot, if I would:
I am but freed to be a greater slave: [_Aside_.
How much am I obliged, sir, to your valour!
_Gons_. Rather to your own sweetness, pretty youth;
You must have been some way preserved, though I
Had not been near; my aid did but prevent
Some miracle more slowly setting out
To save such excellence.
_Hip_. How much more gladly could I hear those words,
If he, that spoke them, knew he spoke to me! [_Aside_.
_Enter the Robber again with Don_ MANUEL, _and_
JULIA, _bound_.
My brother and my sister prisoners too!
They cannot sure discover me through this
Disguise; however, I'll not venture it.
[_Steps behind the trees_.
_2 Rob_. This gentleman and lady
[_To_ GONS. _privately_.
My fellows bound. [_Exit Robber_.
_Man_. We must prepare to die;
This is the captain of the Picarons.
_Jul_. Methinks he looks like one; I have a strange
Aversion to that man; he's fatal to me.
_Gons_. I ne'er saw excellence in womankind
[_Stares on her_.
Till now, and yet discern it at the first:
Perfection is discovered in a moment;
He, that ne'er saw the sun before, yet knows him.
_Jul_. How the villain stares upon me!
_Gons_. Wonder prepares my soul, and then love enters:
But wonder is so close pursued by love,
That, like a fire, it warms as soon as born.
_Man_. If we must die, what need these circumstances?
_Jul_. Heaven defend me from him!
_Gons_. Why, madam, can you doubt a rudeness from me?
Your very fears and griefs create an awe,
Such majesty they bear; methinks, I see
Your soul retired within her inmost chamber.
Like a fair mourner sit in state, with all
The silent pomp of sorrow round about her.
_Man_. Your language does express a man, bred up
To worthier ways than those you follow now.
_Gons_. What does he mean? [_Aside_.
_Man_. If (as it seems) you love; love is a passion,
Which kindles honour into noble acts:
Restore my sister's liberty; oblige her,
And see what gratitude will work.
_Gons_. All this is stranger yet.
_Man_. Whate'er a brother's power
To-morrow can do for you, claim it boldly.
_Gons_. I know not why you think yourselves my prisoners;
This lady's freedom is a thing too precious
To be disposed by any but herself:
But value this small service as you please,
Which you reward too prodigally, by
Permitting me to pay her more.
_Jul_. Love from an outlaw? from a villain, love?
If I have that power on thee, thou pretend'st,
Go and pursue thy mischiefs, but presume not
To follow me:--Come, brother. [_Ex_. Jul. _and_ Man.
_Gons_. Those foul names of outlaw and of villain
I never did deserve: They raise my wonder. [_Walks_.
Dull that I was, not to find this before!
She took me for the captain of the robbers;
It must be so; I'll tell her her mistake.
[_Goes out hastily, and returns immediately_.
She's gone, she's gone, and who or whence she is
I cannot tell; methinks, she should have left
A track so bright, I might have followed her;
Like setting suns, that vanish in a glory.
O villain that I am! O hated villain!
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _again_.
_Hip_. I cannot suffer you to wrong yourself
So much; for, though I do not know your person,
Your actions are too fair, too noble, sir,
To merit that foul name.
_Gons_. Pr'ythee, do not flatter me; I am a villain;
That admirable lady said I was.
_Hip_. I fear, you love her, sir.
_Gons_. No, no, not love her:
Love is the name of some more gentle passion;
Mine is a fury, grown up in a moment
To an extremity, and lasting in it;
An heap of powder set on fire, and burning
As long as any ordinary fuel.
_Hip_. How could he love so soon? and yet, alas!
What cause have I to ask that question,
Who loved him the first minute that I saw him?
I cannot leave him thus, though I perceive
His heart engaged another way. [_Aside_.
Sir, can you have such pity on my youth, [To Him.
On my forsaken and my helpless youth,
To take me to your service?
_Gons_. Would'st thou serve
A madman? how can he take care of thee,
Whom fortune and his reason have abandoned?
A man, that saw, and loved, and disobliged,
Is banished, and is mad, all in a moment.
_Hip_. Yet you alone have title to my service;
You make me yours by your preserving me:
And that's the title heaven has to mankind.
_Gons_. Pr'ythee, no more.
_Hip_. I know your mistress too.
_Gons_. Ha! dost thou know the person I adore?
Answer me quickly; speak, and I'll receive thee:
Hast thou no tongue?
_Hip_. Why did I say I knew her?
All I can hope for, if I have my wish
To live with him, is but to be unhappy. [Aside.
_Gons_. Thou false and lying boy, to say thou knew'st
her;
Pr'ythee, say something, though thou cozen'st me.
_Hip_. Since you will know, her name is Julia, sir,
And that young gentleman you saw, her brother,
Don Manuel de Torres.
_Gons_. Say I should take thee, boy, and should
employ thee
To that fair lady, would'st thou serve me faithfully?
_Hip_. You ask me an hard question: I can die
For you; perhaps I cannot woo so well.
_Gons_. I knew thou would'st not do't.
_Hip_. I swear I would:
But, sir, I grieve to be the messenger
Of more unhappy news; she must be married
This day to one Don Roderick de Sylva,
Betwixt whom and her brother there has been.
A long (and it was thought a mortal) quarrel,
But now it must for ever end in peace:
For, happening both to love each others sisters,
They have concluded it in a cross marriage;
Which, in the palace of Don Rodorick,
They went to celebrate from their countryhouse,
When, taken by the thieves, you rescued them.
_Gons_. Methinks I am grown patient on a sudden,
And all my rage is gone: like losing gamesters,
Who fret and storm, and swear at little losses;
But, when they see all hope of fortune vanished,
Submit, and gain a temper by their ruin.
_Hip_. Would you could cast this love, which troubles you,
Out of your mind!
_Gons_. I cannot, boy; but since
Her brother, with intent to cozen me,
Made me the promise of his best assistance,
I'll take some course to be revenged of him.
[_Is going out_.
But stay--I charge thee, boy, discover not
To any, who I am.
_Hip_. Alas, I cannot, sir; I know you not.
_Gons_. Why, there's it; I am mad again; Oh love!
_Hip_. Oh love! [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Enter two Servants of Don_ RODORICK'S, _placing
chairs, and talking as they place them_.
_1 Serv_. Make ready quickly there; Don Manuel
And his fair sister, that must be our lady,
Are coming in.
_2 Serv_. They have been long expected;
'Tis evening now, and the canonic hours
For marriage are past.
_1 Serv_. The nearer bedtime,
The better still; my lord will not defer it:
He swears, the clergy are no fit judges
Of our necessities.
_2 Serv_. Where is my lord?
_1 Serv_. Gone out to meet his bride.
_2 Serv_. I wonder that my lady Angelina
Went not with him; she's to be married too.
_1 Serv_. I do not think she fancies much the man:
Only, to make the reconcilement perfect
Betwixt the families, she's passive in it;
The choice being but her brother's, not her own.
_2 Serv_. Troth, were't my case, I cared not who
chose for me.
_1 Serv_. Nor I; 'twould save the process of a tedious
passion,
A long law-suit of love, which quite consumes
An honest lover, ere he gets possession:
I would come plump, and fresh, and all my self,
Served up to my bride's bed like a fat fowl,
Before the frost of love had nipped me through.
I look on wives as on good dull companions,
For elder brothers to sleep out their time with;
All, we can hope for in the marriage-bed,
Is but to take our rest; and what care I,
Who lays my pillow for me?
_Enter a Poet with verses_.
_1 Serv_. Now, what's your business, friend?
_Poet_. An epithalamium, to the noble bridegrooms.
_1 Serv_. Let me see; what's here? as I live,
[_Takes it_.
Nothing but downright bawdry: Sirrah, rascal,
Is this an age for ribaldry in verse;
When every gentleman in town speaks it
With so much better grace, than thou canst write it?
I'll beat thee with a stave of thy own rhymes.
_Poet_. Nay, good sir--[_Runs off, and Exit_.
_2 Serv_. Peace, they are here.
[_Enter_ Don RODORICK, _Don_ MANUEL, JULIA, _and Company_.
_1 Serv_. My lord looks sullenly, and fain would
hide it.
_2 Serv_. Howe'er he weds Don Manuel's sister, yet
I fear he's hardly reconciled to him.
_Jul_. I tremble at it still.
_Rod_. I must confess
Your danger great; but, madam, since 'tis past,
To speak of it were to renew your fears.
My noble brother, welcome to my breast.
Some, call my sister; say, Don Manuel,
Her bridegroom, waits.
_Man_. Tell her, in both the houses
There now remains no enemy but she.
_Rod_. In the mean time let's dance; madam, I
hope You'll grace me with your hand.--
[_Enter_ LEONORA, _woman to_ ANGELINA; _takes the two men aside_.
_Leon_. O sir, my lady Angelina--
_Rod_. Why comes she not?
_Leon_. Is fallen extremely sick.
_Both_. How?
_Leon_. Nay, trouble not yourselves too much;
These fits are usual with her, and not dangerous.
_Rod_. O rarely counterfeited.
[_Aside_.
_Man_. May not I see her?
_Leon_. She does, by me, deny herself that honour.
[_As she speaks, steals a note into his hand_.
I shall return, I hope, with better news;
In the mean time she prays, you'll not disturb
The company.
[_Exit _LEONORA.
_Rod_. This troubles me exceedingly.
_Man_. A note put privately into my hand
By Angelina's woman? She's my creature:
There's something in't; I'll read it to myself.--
[_Aside_.
_Rod_. Brother, what paper's that?
_Man_. Some begging verses,
Delivered me this morning on my wedding.
_Rod_. Pray, let me see them.
_Man_. I have many copies,
Please you to entertain yourself with these.
[_Gives him another paper_. MANUEL _reads_.
SIR,
_My lady feigns this sickness to delude you:
Her brother hates you still; and the plot is,
That he shall marry first your sister,
And then deny you his_.--
_Yours_, LEONORA.
POSTSCRIPT.
_Since I writ this, I have so wrought upon her,
(Who, of herself, is timorous enough)
That she believes her brother will betray her,
Or else be forced to give her up to you;
Therefore, unknown to him, she means to fly:
Come to the garden door at seven this evening,
And there you may surprise her; mean time, I
Will keep her ignorant of all things, that
Her fear may still increase_.
_Enter_ LEONORA _again_.
_Rod_. How now? How does your lady?
_Leon_. So ill, she cannot possibly wait on you.
_Man_. Kind heaven, give me her sickness!
_Rod_. Those are wishes:
What's to be done?
_Man_. We must defer our marriages.
_Rod_. Leonora, now! [_Aside to her_
_Leon_. My lady, sir, has absolutely charged,
Her brother's should go forward.
_Rod_. Absolutely!
_Leon_. Expressly, sir; because, she says, there are
So many honourable persons here,
Whom to defraud of their intended mirth,
And of each others company, were rude:
So, hoping your excuse--[_Exit_ LEONORA.
_Rod_. That privilege of power, which brothers have
In Spain, I never used, therefore submit
My will to hers; but with much sorrow, sir,
My happiness should go before, not wait
On yours: Lead on.
_Man_. Stay, sir; though your fair sister, in respect
To this assembly, seems to be content
Your marriage should proceed, we must not want
So much good manners as to suffer it.
_Rod_. So much good manners, brother?
_Man_.--I have said it.
Should we, to show our sorrow for her sickness,
Provoke our easy souls to careless mirth,
As if our drunken revels were designed
For joy of what she suffers?
_Rod_. 'Twill be over
In a few days.
_Man_. Your stay will be the less.
_Rod_. All things are now in readiness, and must not
Be put off, for a peevish humour thus.
_Man_. They must; or I shall think you mean not fairly.
_Rod_. Explain yourself.
_Man_. That you would marry first,
And afterwards refuse me Angelina.
_Rod_.--Think so.
_Man_. You are--
_Rod_. Speak softly.
_Man_. A foul villain.
_Rod_. Then--
_Man_. Speak softly.
_Rod_. I'll find a time to tell you, you are one.
_Man_. 'Tis well.
Ladies, you wonder at our private whispers,
[_To the company_.
But more will wonder when you know the cause;
The beauteous Angelina is fallen ill;
And, since she cannot with her presence grace
This day's solemnity, the noble Roderick
Thinks fit it be deferred, 'till she recover;
Then, we both hope to have your companies.
_Lad_. Wishing her health, we take our leaves.
[_Exeunt company_.
_Rod_. Your sister yet will marry me.
_Man_. She will not: Come hither, Julia.
_Jul_. What strange afflicting news is this you tell us?
_Man_. 'Twas all this false man's plot, that when he had
Possest you, he might cheat me of his sister.
_Jul_. Is this true, Roderick?--Alas, his silence
Does but too much confess it: How I blush
To own that love, I cannot yet take from thee!
Yet for my sake be friends.
_Man_. 'Tis now too late:
I am by honour hindered.
_Rod_. I by hate.
_Jul_. What shall I do?
_Man_. Leave him, and come away;
Thy virtue bids thee.
_Jul_. But love bids me stay.
_Man_. Her love's so like my own, that I should blame
The brother's passion in the sister's flame.
Rodorick, we shall meet.--He little thinks
I am as sure this night of Angelina,
As he of Julia. [_Aside. Exit_ MANUEL.
_Rod_. Madam, to what an ecstasy of joy
Your goodness raises me! this was an act
Of kindness, which no service e'er can pay.
_Jul_. Yes, Rodorick, 'tis in your power to quit
The debt you owe me.
_Rod_. Do but name the way.
_Jul_. Then briefly thus; 'tis to be just to me,
As I have been to you.
_Rod_. You cannot doubt it.
_Jul_. You know I have adventured, for your sake,
A brother's anger, and the world's opinion:
I value neither; for a settled virtue
Makes itself judge, and, satisfied within,
Smiles at that common enemy, the world.
I am no more afraid of flying censures,
Than heaven of being fired with mounting sparkles.
_Rod_. But wherein must my gratitude consist?
_Jul_. Answer yourself, by thinking what is fit
For me to do.
_Rod_. By marriage, to confirm
Our mutual love.
_Jul_. Ungrateful Rodorick!
Canst thou name marriage, while thou entertain'st
A hatred so unjust against my brother?
_Rod_. But, unkind Julia, you know the causes
Of love and hate are hid deep in our stars,
And none but heaven can give account of both.
_Jul_. Too well I know it: for my love to thee
Is born by inclination, not by judgment;
And makes my virtue shrink within my heart,
As loth to leave it, and as loth to mingle.
_Rod_. What would you have me do?
_Jul_. Since I must tell thee,
Lead me to some near monastery; there
(Till heaven find out some way to make us happy)
I shall be kept in safety from my brother.
_Rod_. But more from me; what hopes can Rodorick
have,
That she, who leaves him freely, and unforced,
Should ever of her own accord return?
_Jul_. Thou hast too great assurance of my faith,
That, in despite of my own self, I love thee.
Be friends with Manuel, I am thine; 'till when
My honour's. Lead me.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE III.--_The representation of a Street discovered
by twilight_.
_Enter Don_ MANUEL, _solus_.
_Man_. This is the time and place, where I expect
My fugitive mistress; if I meet with her,
I may forget the wrongs, her brother did me;
If otherwise, his blood shall expiate them.
I hope her woman keeps her ignorant
How all things passed, according to her promise.
_A door opens,--Enter_ ANGELINA _in boy's clothes_.
LEONORA _behind at the door_.
_Leon_. I had forgot to tell him of this habit
She has put on; but sure he'll know her in it.
[_Aside_.
_Man_. Who goes there?
_Ang_. 'Tis Don Manuel's voice; I must run back:
The door shut on me?--Leonora! where?--Does
she not follow me? I am betrayed.
_Man_. What are you?
_Ang_. A poor boy.
_Man_. Do you belong to Rodorick?
_Ang_. Yes, I do.
_Man_. Here's money for you; tell me where's his
sister?
_Ang_. Just now I met her coming down the stairs,
Which lead into the garden.
_Man_. 'Tis well; leave me
In silence.
_Ang_. With all my heart; was ever such a 'scape?
[_Exit running_.
_Man_. She cannot now be long; sure by the moons shine
I shall discover her:
_Enter_ RODORICK _and_ JULIA.
This must be she; I'll seize her.
_Jul_. Help me, Roderick.
_Rod_. Unhand the lady, villain.
_Man_. Roderick!
I'm glad we meet alone; now is the time
To end our difference.
_Rod_. I cannot stay.
_Man_. You must.
_Rod_. I will not.
_Man_. 'Tis base to injure any man; but yet
Tis far more base, once done, not to defend it.
_Rod_. Is this an hour, for valiant men to fight?
They love the sun should witness what they do;
Cowards have courage, when they see not death;
And fearful hares, that sculk in forms all day,
Yet fight their feeble quarrels by the moonlight.
_Man_. No; light and darkness are but poor distinctions
Of such, whose courage comes by fits and starts.
_Rod_. Thou urgest me above my patience;
This minute of my life was not my own,
But hers, I love beyond it. [_They draw, and fight_.
_Jul_. Help, help! none hear me!
Heaven, I think, is deaf too:
O Roderick! O brother!
_Enter_ GONSALVO, _and_ HIPPOLITO.
_Jul_. Whoe'er you are, if you have honour, part
them! [MANUEL _stumbles, and falls_.
_Gons_. Hold, sir, you are too cruel; he, that kills
At such advantage, fears to fight again.
[_Holds_ RODORICK.
_Man_. Cavalier, I may live to thank you for this
favour. [_Rises_.
_Rod_. I will not quit you so.
_Man_. I'll breathe, and then--
_Jul_. Is there no way to save their lives?
_Hip_. Run out of sight,
If 'tis concerning you they quarrel.
[JULIA _retires to a corner_.
_Hip_. Help, help, as you are cavaliers; the lady.
For whom you thus contend, is seized by some
Night-robbing villains.
_All_. Which way took they?
_Hip_. 'Twas so dark I could not see distinctly.
_Rod_. Let us divide; I this way. [_Exit_.
_Gons_. Down yonder street I'll take.
_Man_. And I down that. [_Exeunt severally_.
_Hip_. Now, madam, may we not lay by our fear?
They are all gone.
_Jul_. Tis true; but we are here,
Exposed to darkness, without guide or aid,
But of ourselves.
_Hip_. And of ourselves afraid.
_Jul_. These dangers, while 'twas light, I could
despise;
Then I was bold, but watched by many eyes:
Ah! could not heaven for lovers find a way,
That prying people still might sleep by day?
_Enter_ ANGELINA.
_Hip_. Methinks I'm certain I discover some.
_Jul_. This was your speaking of them, made them
come.
_Hip_. There is but one, perhaps he may go by.
_Ang_. Where had I courage for this bold disguise,
Which more my nature than my sex belies?
Alas! I am betrayed to darkness here;
Darkness, which virtue hates, and maids most fear:
Silence and solitude dwell every where:
Dogs cease to bark; the waves more faintly roar,
And roll themselves asleep upon the shore:
No noise but what my footsteps make, and they
Sound dreadfully, and louder than by day:
They double too, and every step I take
Sounds thick, methinks, and more than one could
make.
Ha! who are these?
I wished for company, and now I fear.
Who are you, gentle people, that go there?
_Jul_. His voice is soft as is the upper air,
Or dying lovers' words: O pity us.
Ang. O pity me! take freely as your own
My gold, my jewels; spare my life alone.
_Hip_. Alas, he fears as much as we.
_Jul_. What say you,
Sir, will you join with us?
_Ang_. Yes, madam; but
If you would take my sword, you'll use it better.
_Hip_. Ay, but you are a man.
_Ang_. Why, so are you.
_Hip_. Truly my fear had made me quite forget it.
_Enter GONSALVO_.
_Gons_. Hippolito! how barbarous was I
To leave my boy! Hippolito!
_Hip. _Here, here.
Now, madam, fear not, you are safe.
_Jul_. What is become, sir, of those gentlemen?
_Gons_. Madam, they all went several ways; not like
To meet.
_Jul_. What will become of me?
_Gons_. Tis late,
And I a stranger in the town; yet all
Your dangers shall be mine.
_Jul_. You're noble, sir.
_Gons_. I'll pawn the hopes of all my love, to see
You safe.
_Jul_. Whoe'er your mistress be, she has
My curses, if she prove not kind.
_Ang_. And mine.
_Hip_. My sister will repent her, when she knows
For whom she makes that wish; but I'll say nothing,
Till day discovers it. [_Aside_.] A door opens;
I hope it is some inn.
[_A door opens, at which a Servant appears_.
_Ang_. Friend, can you lodge us here?
_Serv_. Yes, friend, we can.
_Jul_. How shall we be disposed?
_Serv_. As nature would;
The gentleman and you: I have a rule,
That, when a man and woman ask for lodging,
They are ever husband and wife.
_Jul_. Rude and unmannered!
_Gons_. Sir, this lady must be lodged apart.
_Serv_. Then the two boys, that are good for nothing
But one another, they shall go together.
_Ang_. Lie with a man! sweet heaven defend me!
_Hip_. Alas, friend, I ever lie alone.
_Serv_. Then to save trouble, sir, because 'tis late,
One of the youths shall be disposed with you.
_Ang_. Who, I! not for the world.
_Hip_. Neither of us; for, though I would not lodge with you
Myself, I never can endure he should.
_Ang_. Why then, to end the difference, if you please.
I and that lady will be bed-fellows.
_Hip_. No, she and I will lodge together rather.
_Serv_. You are sweet youths indeed; not for the world
You would not lodge with men! none but the lady
Would serve your turn.
_Aug_. Alas, I had forgot I am a boy;
I am so lately one. [_Aside_.
_Serv_. Well, well; all shall be lodged apart.
_Gons_. to Hip. I did not think you harboured wanton
thoughts;
So young, so bad?
_Hip_. I can make no defence,
But must be shamed by my own innocence. [_Exeunt_.
ACT II.
SCENE I.--_A Chamber_.
[_Enter_ GONSALVO, HIPPOLITO, _and_ ANGELINA _as_ AMIDEO _at a
distance_.
_Gon_. Hippolito, what is this pretty youth,
That follows us?
_Hip_. I know not much of him:
Handsome you see, and of graceful fashion;
Of noble blood, he says, and I believe him;
But in some deep distress; he'll tell no more,
And I could cry for that, which he has told.
So much I pity him.
_Gon_. My pretty youth,
Would I could do thee any service.
_Ang_. Sir,
The greatest you can do me, is accepting mine.
_Hip_. How's this? methinks already I begin
To hate this boy, whom but even now I moaned,
You serve my master? Do you think I cannot
Perform all duties of a servant better,
And with more care, than you?
_Ang_. Better you may,
But never with more care:
Heaven, which is served with angels, yet admits
Poor man to pay his duty, and receives it.
_Hip_. Mark but, my lord, how ill behaved a youth,
How very ugly, what a dwarf he is.
_Ang_. My lord, I yet am young enough to grow,
And 'tis the commendation of a boy,
That he is little. [_Cries_.
_Gons_. Pr'ythee, do not cry;
Hippolito, 'twas but just now you praised him,
And are you changed so soon?
_Hip_. On better view.
_Gons_. What is your name, sweet heart?
_Hip_. Sweet heart! since I
Have served you, you ne'er called me so.
_Ang_. O, ever,
Ever call me by that kind name; I'll own
No other, because I would still have that.
_Hip_. He told me, sir, his name was Amideo;
Pray, call him by't.
_Gons_. Come, I'll employ you both;
Reach me my belt, and help to put it on.
_Amid_. I run, my lord.
_Hip_. You run? it is my office.
[_They both take it up, and strive for it;_
HIPPOLITO _gets it, and puts it on_.
_Amid_. Look you, my lord, he puts it on so aukwardly;
[_Crying_.
The sword does not sit right.
_Hip_. Why, where's the fault?
_Amid_. I know not that; but I am sure 'tis wrong.
_Gons_.The fault is plain, 'tis put on the wrong shoulder.
_Hip_. That cannot be, I looked on Amideo's,
And hung it on that shoulder his is on.
_Amid_. Then I doubt mine is so.
_Gons_. It is indeed:
You're both good boys, and both will learn in time.
Hippolito, go you and bring me word,
Whether that lady, we brought in last night,
Be willing to receive a visit from, me.
_Hip_. Now, Amideo, since you are so forward
To do all service, you shall to the lady.
_Amid_. No, I'll stay with my master, he bid you.
_Hip_. It mads me to the heart to leave him here:
But I will be revenged. [_Aside_.
My lord, I beg
You would not trust this boy with any thing
Till my return; pray, know him better first. [_Exit_.
_Gons_. 'Twas my unhappiness to meet this lady
Last night; because it ruined my design
Of walking by the house of Roderick:
Who knows but through some window I had spied
Fair Julia's shadow passing by the glass;
Or if some others, I would think it hers;
Or if not any, I would see the place
Where Julia lives. O Heaven, how small a blessing
Will serve to make despairing lovers happy!
_Amid_. Unhappy Angelina, thou art lost:
Thy lord loves Julia. [_Aside_.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ JULIA.
_Jul_.--Where is thy master?
I long to give him my acknowledgments
For my own safety, and my brother's both.
Ha! Is it he? [_Looks_.
_Gons_. Can it be Julia?
Could night so far disguise her from my knowledge!
_Jul_. I would not think thee him, I see thou art:
Pr'ythee disown thyself in pity to me:
Why should I be obliged by one I hate?
_Gons_. I could say something in my own defence;
But it were half a crime to plead my cause,
When you would have me guilty.
_Amid_. How I fear
The sweetness of those words will move her pity!
I'm sure they would do mine.
_Gons_. You took me for a robber, but so far
I am from that--
_Jul_. O, pr'ythee, be one still,
That I may know some cause for my aversion.
_Gons_. I freed you from them, and more gladly did it--
_Jul_. Be what thou wilt, 'tis now too late to tell me:
The blackness of that image, I first fancied,
Has so infected me, I still must hate thee.
_Hip_. Though (if she loves him) all my hopes are ruined,
It makes me mad to see her thus unkind. [_Aside_.
Madam, what see you in this gentleman,
Deserves your scorn or hatred? love him, or
Expect just Heaven should strangely punish you.
_Gons_. No more: Whate'er she does is best; and if
You would be mine, you must, like me, submit
Without dispute.
_Hip_. How can I love you, sir, and suffer this?
She has forgot that, which, last night, you did
In her defence.
_Jul_. O call that night again;
Pitch her with all her darkness round: then set me
In some far desert, hemmed with mountain wolves
To howl about me: This I would endure,
And more, to cancel my obligements to him.
_Gons_. You owe me nothing, madam; if you do,
I make it void; and only ask your leave
To love you still; for, to be loved again
I never hope;
_Jul_. If that will clear my debt, enjoy thy wish;
Love me, and long, and desperately love me.
I hope thou wilt, that I may plague thee more:
Mean time, take from me that detested object;
Convey thy much loathed person from my sight.
_Gons_. Madam, you are obeyed.
Hippolito and Amideo, wait
Upon fair Julia; look upon her for me
With dying eyes, but do not speak one word
In my behalf; for, to disquiet her,
Even happiness itself were bought too dear.
[_Goes farther off, towards the end of the stage_.
My passion swells too high;
And, like a vessel struggling in a storm,
Requires more hands than one to steer her upright;
I'll find her brother out.
[_Exit_.
_Jul_. That boy, I see, he trusts above the other:
He has a strange resemblance with a face
That I have seen, but when, or where, I know not.
I'll watch till they are parted; then, perhaps,
I may corrupt that little one to free me.
[_Aside. Exit_.
_Amid_. Sweet Hippolito, let me speak with you.
_Hip_. What would you with me?
_Amid_. Nay, you are so fierce;
By all that's good, I love and honour you,
And, would you do but one poor thing I'll ask you,
In all things else you ever shall command me.
Look you, Hippolito, here's gold and jewels;
These may be yours.
_Hip_. To what end dost thou show
These trifles to me? or how cam'st thou by them?
Not honestly, I fear.
_Amid_. I swear I did:
And you shall have them; but you always press
Before me in my master's service so--
_Hip_. And always will.
_Amid_. But, dear Hippolito,
Why will you not give way, that I may be
First in his favour, and be still employed?
Why do you frown? 'tis not for gain I ask it;
Whatever he shall give me shall be yours,
Except it be some toy you would not care for,
Which I should keep for his dear sake, that gave it.
_Hip_. If thou wouldst offer both the Indies to me,
The eastern quarries, and the western mines,
They should not buy one look, one gentle smile
Of his from me; assure thy soul they should not,
I hate thee so.
_Amid_. Henceforth I'll hate you worse.
But yet there is a woman whom he loves,
A certain Julia, who will steal his heart
From both of us; we'll join at least against
The common enemy.
_Hip_. Why does he fear my lord should love a
woman?
The passion of this boy is so like mine,
That it amazes me. [_Aside_.
_Enter a Servant_.
_Serv_. Young gentleman,
Your master calls for you.
_Hip_. I'll think upon't--
[_Exuent_ HIPPOLITO _and Serv_
_Enter_ JULIA _to_ AMIDEO.
_Jul_. Now is the time, he is alone.
_Amid_. Here comes
The saint, my lord adores; love, pardon me
The fault, I must commit.
_Jul_. Fair youth, I am
A suitor to you.
_Amid_. So am I to you.
_Jul_. You see me here a prisoner.
_Amid_. My request
Is, I may set you free; make haste, sweet madam;
Which way would you go?
_Jul_. To the next
Religious house.
_Amid_. Here through the garden, madam;
How I commend your holy resolution! [_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ DON MANUEL _in the street, and a Servant
with him_.
_Man_. Angelina fled to a monastery, say you?
_Serv_. So 'tis given out: I could not see her woman:
But, for your sister, what you heard is true;
I saw her at the inn:
They told me, she was brought in late last night;
By a young cavalier, they showed me there.
_Man_. This must be he that rescued me:
What would I give to see him!
_Serv_. Fortune is
Obedient to your wishes; he was coming
To find out you; I waited on him to
The turning of the street, and stepped before
To tell you of it.
_Man_. You o'erjoy me.
_Serv_. This, sir, is he.
_Enter_ GONSALVO. DON MANUEL _is running to
embrace him, and stops_.
_Man_.--The captain of the robbers!
_Gons_. As such, indeed, you promised me your
sister.
_Man_. I promised all the interest I should have;
Because I thought, before you came to claim it,
A husband's right would take my title from me.
_Gons_. I come to see if any manly virtue
Can dwell with falsehood: Draw, thou'st injured me.
_Man_. You say already I have done you wrong,
And yet would have me right you by a greater.
_Gons_. Poor abject thing!
_Man_. Who doubts another's courage
Wants it himself; but I, who know my own,
Will not receive a law from you to fight,
Or to forbear: for then I grant your courage
To master mine, when I am forced to do
What of myself I would not.
_Gons_. Your reason?
_Man_. You saved my life.
_Gons_. I'll quit that debt, to be
In a capacity of forcing you
To keep your promise with me; for I come
To learn, your sister is not yet disposed.
_Man_. I've lost all privilege to defend my life;
And, if you take it now, 'tis no new conquest;
Like fish, first taken in a river, then
Bestowed in ponds to catch a second time.
_Gons_. Mark but how partially you plead your
cause,
Pretending breach of honour if you fight,
Yet think it none to violate your word.
_Man_. I cannot give my sister to a robber.
_Gons_. You shall not; I am none, but born of blood
As noble as yourself; my fortunes equal
At least with yours, my reputation yet,
I think, unstained.
_Man_. I wish, sir, it may prove so;
I never had so strong an inclination
To believe any man as you--But yet--
_Gons_. All things shall be so clear, there shall be left
No room for any scruple. I was born
In Seville, of the best house in that city;
My name Gonsalvo de Peralta: Being
A younger brother, 'twas my uncle's care
To take me with him in a voyage to
The Indies, where since dying, he has left me
A fortune not contemptible; returning
From thence with all my wealth in the plate fleet,
A furious storm almost within the port
Of Seville took us, scattered all the navy.
My ship, by the unruly tempest borne
Quite through the Streights, as far as Barcelona,
There first cast anchor; there I stept ashore:
Three days I staid, in which small time I made
A little love, which vanished as it came.
_Man_. But were you not engaged to her you
courted?
_Gons_. Upon my honour, no; what might have been
I cannot tell: But ere I could repair
My beaten ship, or take fresh water in,
One night, when there by chance I lay aboard,
A wind tore up my anchor from the bottom,
And with that violence it brought me thither,
Has thrown me in this port.
_Mon_. But yet our meeting in the wood was
strange.
_Gons_. For that I'll satisfy you as we walk.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
_Hip_. O sir, how glad am I to find you!--
[_Whispers_.
_Man_. That boy I have seen somewhere, or one
like him,
But where, I cannot call to mind.
_Hip_. I found it out, and got before them--
And here they are--
_Enter AMIDEO and JULIA_.
_Man_. My sister! as I could have wished it.
_Amid_. O! we are caught!
_Jul_. I did expect as much:
Fortune has not forgot that I am Julia.
_Man_. Sister, I'm glad you're happily returned;
'Twas kindly done of you thus to prevent
The trouble of my search.
_Jul_. I would not have you
Mistake my love to Roderick so much,
To think I meant to fall into your hands.
My purpose is for the next nunnery;
There I'll pray for you: So farewell.
_Man_. Stay, Julia, you must go with me.
_Jul_. Lead, lead;
You think I am your prisoner now.
_Gons_. If you will needs to a religious house,
Leave that fair face behind; a worse will serve
To spoil with watching, and with fasting there.
_Man_. Pr'ythee, no more of this; the only way
To make her happy is to force it on her.
Julia, prepare yourself strait to be married.
_Jul_. To whom?
_Man_. You see your bridegroom: And you know
My father's will, who, with his dying breath
Commanded, you should pay as strict obedience
To me, as formerly to him: If not,
Your dowry is at my dispose.
_Jul_. O, would
The loss of that dispense with duty in me,
How gladly would I suffer it! and yet,
If I durst question it, methinks 'tis hard!
What right have parents over children, more
Than birds have o'er their young? yet they impose
No rich-plumed mistress on their feathered sons;
But leave their love, more open yet and free
Than all the fields of air, their spacious birthright.
[_GONSALVO seems to beg MANUEL
not to be harsh_.
_Man_. Nay, good Gonsalvo, trouble not yourself,
There is no other way; when 'tis once done,
She'll thank me for't.
_Jul_. I ne'er expected other usage from you;
A kind brother you have been to me,
And to my sister: You have sent, they say,
To Barcelona, that my aunt should force her
To marry the old Don you brought her.
_Hip_. Who could, that once had seen Gonsalvo's.
face?
Alas, she little thinks I am so near! [_Aside_.
_Man_. Mind not what she says.
A word with you--[_To GONSALVO._
_Amid_. Don Manuel eyes me strangely; the best is,
he never saw me yet but at a distance:
My brother's jealousy (who ne'er intended
I should be his) restrained our nearer converse. [_Aside_.
_Jul_. My pretty youth, I am enforced to trust thee
[_To AMIDEO_.
With my most near concerns; friends I have none,
If thou deny'st to help me.
_Amid_. Any thing
To break your marriage with my master.
_Jul_. Go to Roderick, and tell him my condition:
But tell it him as from thyself, not me.
_Amid_. That you are forced to marry?
_Jul_. But do not ask him
To succour me; if of himself he will not,
I scorn a love that must be taught its duty.
_Man_. What youth is that? I mean the little one.
_Gons_. I took him up last night.
_Man_. A sweet-faced boy,
I like him strangely: Would you part with him?
_Amid_. Alas, sir, I am good for nobody,
But for my master.
_Hip_. Sir, I'll do your errand
Another time, for letting Julia go. [_To AMIDEO_.
_Man_. Come, sir.
_Gons_. I beg your pardon for a moment,
I'll but dispatch some business in my ship,
And wait you presently:
_Man_. We'll go before;
I'll make sure Roderick shall never have her;
And 'tis at least some pleasure to destroy
His happiness, who mined first my joy.
[_Exeunt all but GONSALVO; who, before he goes, whispers HIPPOLITO_.
_Gons_. Against her will fair Julia to possess,
Is not to enjoy, but ravish happiness:
Yet women pardon force, because they find
The violence of love is still most kind:
Just like the plots of well built comedies,
Which then please most, when most they do surprise:
But yet constraint love's noblest end destroys,
Whose highest joy is in another's joys:
Where passion rules, how weak does reason prove!
I yield my cause, but cannot yield my love. [_Exit_.
ACT III.
SCENE I.--_A great room in DON MANUEL'S house_.
_HIPPOLITO solus_.
My master bid me speak for him to Julia:
Hard fate, that I am made a confident
Against myself!
Yet, though unwillingly I took the office,
I would perform it well: But how can I
Prove lucky to his love, who to my own
Am so unfortunate? he trusts his passion
Like him, that ventures all his stock at once
On an unlucky hand.
_Enter AMIDEO_.
_Amid_. Where is the lady Julia?
_Hip_. What new treason
Against my master's love have you contrived
With her?
_Amid_. I shall not render you account.
_Enter JULIA_.
_Jul_. I sent for him; yet if he comes, there's danger;
Yet if he does not, I for ever lose him.
What can I wish? and yet I wish him here,
Only to take the care of me from me.
Weary with sitting out a losing hand,
Twill be some ease to see another play it.
Yesterday I refused to marry him,
To-day I run into his arms unasked;
Like a mild prince encroached upon by rebels,
Love yielded much, till honour asked for all.
How now, where's Roderick? [_Sees AMIDEO_.
I mean Gonsalvo. [_Sees HIPPOLITO_.
_Hip_. You would do well to meet him--
_Amid_. Meet him! you shall not do't: I'll throw myself,
Like a young fawning spaniel, in your way
So often, you shall never move a step,
But you shall tread on me.
_Jul_. You need not beg me:
I would as soon meet a syren, as see him.
_Hip_. His sweetness for those frowns no subject finds:
Seas are the field of combat for the winds:
But when they sweep along some flowery coast,
Their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
_Jul_. 'Tis that which makes me more unfortunate;
Because his sweetness must upbraid my hate.
The wounds of fortune touch me not so near;
I can my fate, but not his virtue, bear.
For my disdain with my esteem is raised;
He most is hated when he most is praised:
Such an esteem, as like a storm appears,
Which rises but to shipwreck what it bears.
_Hip_. Infection dwells upon my kindness, sure,
Since it destroys even those whom it would cure.
[_Cries, and exit_.
_Amid_. Still weep, Hippolito; to me thy tears
Are sovereign, as those drops the balm-tree sweats.--
But, madam, are you sure you shall not love him?
I still fear.--
_Jul_. Thy fear will never let thee be a man.
_Amid_. Indeed I think it won't.
_Jul_. We are now
Alone; what news from Roderick?
_Amid_. Madam, he begs you not to fear; he has
A way, which, when you think all desperate,
Will set you free.
_Jul_. If not, I will not live
A moment after it.
_Amid_. Why? there's some comfort.
_Jul_. I strongly wish, for what I faintly hope:
Like the day-dreams of melancholy men,
I think and think on things impossible,
Yet love to wander in that golden maze.
_Enter DON MANUEL, HIPPOLITO, and company_.
_Amid_. Madam, your brother's here.
_Man_. Where is the bridegroom?
_Hip_. Not yet returned, sir, from his ship.
_Man_. Sister, all this good company is met,
To give you joy.
_Jul_. While I am compassed round
With mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief,
Whence, like the bird of night, with half shut eyes,
She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day. [_Aside_.
_Enter Servant_.
_Serv_. Sir, some gentlemen and ladies are without,
Who, to do honour to this wedding, come
To present a masque.
_Man_. Tis well; desire them
They would leave put the words, and fall to dancing.
The poetry of the foot takes most of late.
_Serv_. The poet, sir, will take that very ill;
He's at the door, with the argument o'the masque
In verse.
_Man_. Which of the wits is it that made it?
_Serv_. None of the wits, sir; 'tis one of the poets.
_Man_. What subject has he chose?
_Serv_. The rape of Proserpine.
_Enter GONSALVO_.
_Man_. Welcome, welcome, you have been long
expected.
_Gons_. I staid to see the unlading of some rarities,
Which are within--
Madam, your pardon that I was so long absent.
_Jul_. You need not ask it for your absence, sir.
_Gons_. Still cruel, Julia?
_Jul_. The danger's here, and Roderick not here:
I am not grieved to die; but I am grieved
To think him false. [_Aside_.
_Man_. Bid him begin. [_The music plays_.
A _Cupid_ descends in swift motion, and speaks
these verses.
_Cup_. _Thy conquests, Proserpine, have stretched too far;
Amidst heavens peace thy beauty makes a war:
For when, last night, I to Jove's palace went,
(The brightest part of all the firmament)
Instead of all those gods, whose thick resort
Filled up the presence of the thunderers court;
There Jove and Juno all forsaken sate,
Pensive, like kings in their declining state:
Yet (wanting power) they would preserve the show,
By hearing prayers from some few men below:
Mortals to Jove may their devotions pay;
The gods themselves to Proserpine do pray.
To Sicily the rival powers resort;
'Tis Heaven wherever Ceres keeps her court.
Phoebus and Mercury are both at strife,
The courtliest of our gods who want a wife.
But Venus, whate'er kindness she pretends,
Yet (like all females envious of their friends),
Has, by my aid, contrived a black design,
The god of hell should ravish Proserpine:
Beauties, beware; Venus will never bear
Another Venus shining in her sphere_.
After Cupid's speech, Venus and Ceres descend in the slow machines;
Ceres drawn by dragons, Venus by swans.
After them Phoebus and Mercury descend in swift motion. Then Cupid
turns to Julia, and speaks.
_Cup_. _The rival deities are come to woo
A Proserpine, who must be found below:
Would you, fair nymph, become, this happy hour,
In name a goddess, as you are in power?
Then to this change the king of shades will owe
A fairer Proserpine than heaven can show_.
[_Julia, first whispered by AMIDEO, goes into the dance, performed
by Cupid, Phoebus, Mercury, Ceres, Venus, and JULIA. Towards the end
of the dance, RODORICK, in the habit of Pluto, rises from below in
a black chariot, all flaming, and drawn by black horses; he ravishes
Julia, who personated Proserpine, and as he is carrying her away, his
vizard fails off: HIPPOLITO first discovers him_.
_Hip_. A rape, a rape! 'tis Roderick, 'tis Roderick!
_Rod_. Then I must have recourse to this. [_Draws_.
_Jul_. O heavens!
[_DON MANUEL and GONSALVO draw, and a Servant; the two that acted
Phoebus and Mercury return to assist RODORICK, and are beat back by
MANUEL and a Servant, while GONSALVO attacks RODORICK_.
_Gons_. Unloose thy hold, foul villain.
_Rod_. No, I'll grasp her
Even after death.
_Jul_. Spare him, or I'll die with him.
_Gons_. Must ravishers and villains live, while I
In vain implore her mercy?
[_Thrusts at him, and hurts JULIA in the arm_.
_Jul_. Oh, I am murdered!
_Gons_. Wretched that I am,
What have I done? To what strange punishment
Will you condemn this guilty hand? And yet
My eyes were guilty first--For they could look
On nothing else but you; and my unlucky hand
Too closely followed them!--
_Enter MANUEL again_.
_Man_. The powers above are just, that thou still livest,
For me to kill.
_Rod_. You'll find no easy task on't
Alone; come both together, I defy you!
Curse on this disguise, that has betrayed me
Thus cheaply to my death.--
_Man_. Under a devil's shape, thou could'st not be
Disguised.
_Jul_. Then, must he die?--
Yet, I'll not bid my Roderick farewell;
For they take leave, who mean to be long absent.
_Gons_. Hold, sir! I have had blood enough already;
And must not murder Julia again
In him she loves. Live, sir; and thank this lady.
_Rod_. Take my life, and spare my thanks.
_Man_. Though you
Forgive him, let me take my just revenge.
_Gons_. Leave that distinction to our dull divines:
That ill, I suffer to be done, I do.
_Hip_. My heart bleeds for him: to see his virtue
O'ercome so fatally, against such odds
Of fortune, and of love!--
_Man_. Permit his death, and Julia will be yours.
_Jul_. Permit it not, and Julia will thank you.
_Gons_. Who e'er could think, that one kind word from Julia
Should be preferred to Julia herself?
Could any man think it a greater good
To save a rival, than possess a mistress?
Yet this I do! these are thy riddles, love!--
What fortune gives me, I myself destroy;
And feed my virtue, but to starve my joy.
Honour sits on me like some heavy armour,
And with its stiff defence, encumbers me;
And yet, when I would put it off, it sticks
Like Hercules's shirt; heats me at once;
And poisons me!
_Man_. I find myself grow calm by thy example;
My panting heart heaves less and less, each pulse;
And all the boiling spirits scatter from it.
Since thou desirest he should not die, he shall not,
'Till I on nobler terms can take his life.
_Rod_. The next turn may be yours.--Remember,
I owed this danger to your wilfulness:
Once, you might easily have been mine, and would
not. [_Exit_ RODORICK.
_Man_. Lead out my sister, friend; her hurt's so
small,
'Twill scarce disturb the ceremony.
Ladies, once more your pardons.
[_Leads out the Company. Exeunt_.
_Manent_ JULIA, GONSALVO, AMIDEO, _and_ HIPPOLITO. GONSALVO
_offers his hand,_ JULIA _pulls back hers_.
_Jul_. This hand would rise in blisters, should'st
thou touch it!--
My Roderick's displeased with me, and thou,
Unlucky man, the cause. Dare not so much
As once to follow me. [_Exit_ JULIA.
_Gons_. Not follow her! Alas, she need not bid me!
Oh, how could I presume to take that hand,
To which mine proved so fatal!
Nay, if I might, should I not fear to touch it?--
murderer's touch would make it bleed afresh!
_Amid_. I think, sir, I could kill her for your sake.
_Gons_. Repent that word, or I shall hate thee
Strangely:
Harsh words from her, like blows from angry kings,
Though they are meant affronts, are construed favours.
_Hip_. Her inclinations and aversions
Are both alike unjust; and both, I hope,
Too violent to last: Chear up yourself;
for if I live, (I hope I shall not long) [_Aside_.
She shall be yours.
_Amid_. 'Twere much more noble in him,
To make a conquest of himself, than her.
She ne'er can merit him; and, hadst not thou
A mean low soul, thou wouldst not name her to him.
_Hip_. Poor child, who would'st be wise above thy years!
Why dost thou talk, like a philosopher,
Of conquering love, who art not yet grown up,
To try the force of any manly passion?
The sweetness of thy mother's milk is yet
Within thy veins, not soured and turned by love.
_Gons_. Thou hast not field enough in thy young breast,
To entertain such storms to struggle in.
_Amid_. Young as I am, I know the power of love;
Its less disquiets, and its greater cares,
And all that's in it, but the happiness.
Trust a boy's word, sir, if you please, and take
My innocence for wisdom; Leave this lady;
Cease to persuade yourself you are in love,
And you will soon be freed. Not that I wish
A thing, so noble as your passion, lost
To all the sex: Bestow it on some other;
You'll find many as fair, though none so cruel.--
Would I could be a lady for your sake!
_Hip_. If I could be a woman, with a wish,
You should not be without a rival long.
_Amid_. A cedar, of your stature, would not cause
Much jealousy.
_Hip_. More than a shrub of yours.
_Gons_. How eagerly these boys fall out for nothing!--
Tell me, Hippolito, wert thou a woman,
Who would'st thou be?
_Hip_. I would be Julia, sir,
Because you love her.
_Amid_. I would not be she,
Because she loves not you.
_Hip_. True, Amideo;
And, therefore, I would wish myself a lady,
Who, I am sure, does infinitely love him.
_Amid_. I hope that lady has a name?
_Hip_. She has:
And she is called Honoria, sister to
This Julia, and bred up at Barcelona;
Who loves him with a flame so pure and noble,
That, did she know his love to Julia,
She would beg Julia to make him happy.
_Gons_. This startles me!
_Amid_. Oh, sir, believe him not:
They love not truly, who, on any terms,
Can part with what they love.
_Gons_. I saw a lady
At Barcelona, of what name I know not,
Who, next to Julia, was the fairest creature
My eyes did e'er behold: But, how camest thou
To know her?
_Hip_. Sir, some other time I'll tell you.
_Amid_. It could not be Honoria, whom you saw;
For, sir, she has a face so very ugly,
That, if she were a saint for holiness,
Yet no man would seek virtue there.
_Hip_. This is the lyingest boy, sir;--I am sure
He never saw Honoria; for her face,
'Tis not so bad to frighten any man--
None of the wits have libelled it.
_Amid_. Don Roderick's sister, Angelina, does
So far exceed her, in the ornaments
Of wit and beauty, though now hid from sight,
That, like the sun, (even when eclipsed) she casts
A yellowness upon all other faces.
_Hip_. I'll not say much of her, but only this,
Don Manuel saw not with my eyes, if e'er
He loved that Flanders shape; that lump of earth,
And phlegm together.
_Amid_. You have often seen her,
It seems, by your description of her person:
But I'll maintain on any Spanish ground,
Whate'er she be, yet she is far more worthy
To have my lord her servant, than Honoria.
_Hip_. And I'll maintain Honoria's right against her,
In any part of all the world.
_Gons_. You go
Too far, to quarrel on so slight a ground.
_Hip_. O pardon me, my lord, it is not slight:
I must confess, I am so much concerned,
I shall not bear it long.
_Amid_. Nor I, assure you.
_Gons_. I will believe what both of you have said,
That Honoria, and Angelina,
Both equally are fair.
_Amid_. Why did you name
Honoria first?
_Gons_. And, since you take their parts so eagerly
Henceforth I'll call you by those ladies' names:
You, my Hippolito, shall be Honoria;
And you, my Amideo, Angelina.
_Amid_. Then all my services, I wish, may make
You kind to Angelina, for my sake.
_Hip_. Put all my merits on Honoria's score,
And think no maid could ever love you more.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
MANUEL _solus_.
_Man_. Thus I provide for others' happiness,
And lose my own. 'Tis true, I cannot blame
Thy hatred, Angelina, but thy silence.
Thy brother's hatred made thine just; but yet
'Twas cruel in thee not to tell me so.
Conquest is noble, when an heart stands out;
But mine, which yielded, how could'st thou betray?
That heart, of which thou could'st not be deprived
By any force or power, beside thy own;
Like empires, to that fatal height arrived,
They must be ruined by themselves alone.
My guarded freedom cannot be a prize
To any scornful face a second time;
For thy idea, like a ghost, would rise,
And fright my thoughts from such another crime.
_Enter a Servant, with a letter_.
_Man_. From whom?
_Serv_. Sir, the contents will soon resolve you.
[_He read_.
_Man_. Tell Roderick, he has prevented me
In my design of sending to him first.
I'll meet him, single, at the time and place;
But, for my friend, tell him, he must excuse me:
I'll hazard no man in my quarrel, but
Myself alone.--[_Exit Servant_.
Who's within there?
_Enter a Servant_.
Go, call my sister, and Gonsalvo, hither.
[_Exit Servant_.
'Twas pushed so far, that, like two armies, we
Were drawn so closely up, we could not part
Without engagement.--But they must not know it.
_Enter JULIA, GONSALVO, and AMIDEO_.
I have some business calls me hence, and know not
When I shall return: But, ere I go,
That power I have, by my dead father's will,
Over my sister, I bequeath to you: [_To GONS_.
She, and her fortunes, both be firmly yours;
And this when I revoke, let cowardice
Blast all my youth, and treason taint my age.
_Gons_. Sir--
_Man_. Nay, good, no thanks; I cannot stay--
[_Exit MANUEL_.
_Gons_. There's something more than ordinary in this;
Go, Amideo, quickly follow him,
And bring me word which way he takes.
_Amid_. I go, sir. [_Exit AMID. JULIA kneels_.
_Gons_. Madam, when you implore the powers divine,
You have no prayers in which I will not join,
Though made against myself. [_Kneels with her_.
_Jul_. In vain I sue,
Unless my vows may be conveyed by you.
_Gons_. Conveyed by me! My ill success in love
Shews me, too sure, I have few friends above.
How can you fear your just desires to want?
When the gods pray, they both request and grant.
_Jul_. Heaven has resigned my fortune to your hand,
If you, like heaven, the afflicted understand.
_Gons_. The language of the afflicted is not new;
Too well I learned it, when I first saw you.
_Jul_. In spite of me, you now command my fate;
And yet the vanquished seeks the victor's hate;
Even in this low submission, I declare,
That, had I power, I would renew the war.
I'm forced to stoop, and 'twere too great a blow
To bend my pride, and to deny me too.
_Gons_. You have my heart; dispose it to your will;
If not, you know the way to use it ill.
_Jul_. Cruel to me, though kind to your desert,
My brother gives my person, not my heart;
And I have left no other means to sue,
But to you only, to be freed from you.
_Gons_. From such a suit how can you hope success,
Which, given, destroys the giver's happiness?
_Jul_. You think it equal you should not resign
That power you have, yet will not leave me mine;
Yet on my will I have the power alone,
And, since you cannot move it, move your own.
Your worth and virtue my esteem may win,
But women's passions from themselves begin;
Merit may be, but force still is, in vain.
_Gons_. I would but love you, not your love constrain;
And though your brother left me to command,
He placed his thunder in a gentle hand.
_Jul_. Your favour from constraint has set me free,
But that secures not my felicity;
Slaves, who, before, did cruel masters serve,
May fly to deserts, and in freedom starve.
The noblest part of liberty they lose,
Who can but shun, and want the power to chuse.
_Gons_. O whither would your fatal reasons move!
You court my kindness, to destroy my love.
_Jul_. You have the power to make my happiness,
By giving that, which you can ne'er possess.
_Gons_. Give you to Roderick? there wanted yet
That curse, to make my miseries complete.
_Jul_. Departing misers bear a nobler mind;
They, when they can enjoy no more, are kind;
You, when your love is dying in despair,
Yet want the charity to make an heir.
_Gons_. Though hope be dying, yet it is not dead;
And dying people with small food are fed.
_Jul_. The greatest kindness dying friends can have,
Is to dispatch them, when we cannot save.
_Gons_. Those dying people, could they speak' at all,
That pity of their friends would murder call:
For men with horror dissolution meet;
The minutes even of painful life are sweet.
_Jul_. But I'm by powerful inclination led;
And streams turn seldom to their fountain head.
_Gons_. No; 'tis a tide which carries you away;
And tides may turn, though they can never stay.
_Jul_. Can you pretend to love, and see my grief
Caused by yourself, yet give me no relief?
_Gons_. Where's my reward?
_Jul_. The honour of the flame.
_Gons_. I lose the substance, then, to gain the name.
_Jul_. I do too much mistress' power betray;
Must slaves be won by courtship to obey?
Thy disobedience does to treason rise,
Which thou, like rebels, would'st with love disguise.
I'll kill myself, and, if thou can'st deny
To see me happy, thou shalt see me die.
_Gons_. O stay! I can with less regret bequeath
My love to Roderick, than you to death:
And yet--
_Jul_. What new objection can you find?
_Gons_. But are you sure you never shall be kind?
_Jul_. Never.
_Gons_. What! never?
_Jul_. Never to remove.
_Gons_. Oh fatal never to souls damned in love!
_Jul_. Lead me to Roderick.
_Gons_. If it must be so--
_Jul_. Here, take my hand, swear on it thou wilt go.
_Gons_. Oh balmy sweetness! but 'tis lost to me,
[_He kisses her hand_.
Like food upon a wretch condemned to die:
Another, and I vow to go:--Once more;
If I swear often, I shall be foreswore.
Others against their wills may haste their fate;
I only toil to be unfortunate:
More my own foe than all my stars could prove;
They give her person, but I give her love.
I must not trust myself--Hippolito!
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
_Hip_. My lord!
_Gons_. Quickly go find Don Roderick out:
Tell him, the lady Julia will be walking
On the broad rock, that lies beside the port,
And there expects to see him instantly.
In the mean time I'll call for Amideo.
_Jul_. You'll keep your promise to Don Roderick?
_Gons_. Madam, since you bring death, I welcome it;
But to his fortune, not his love, submit.
[_Exit_ GONSALVO.
_Hip_. I dare not ask what I too fain would hear:
But, like a tender mother, hope and fear,
My equal twins, my equal care I make,
And keep hope quiet, lest that fear should wake.
[_Aside. Exit_ HIPPOLITO.
_Jul_. So, now I'm firmly at my own dispose;
And all the lets, my virtue caused, removed:
Now, Roderick, I come--
_Enter_ GONSALVO _again_.
_Gons_. Madam, my boy's not yet returned.
_Jul_. No matter, we'll not stay for him.
_Gon_. Pray make not too much haste.
[_Exeunt JUL. and GONS_.
SCENE II.
_Enter DON RODORICK, and a Servant_.
_Rod_. Have you bespoke a vessel, as I bid you?
_Serv_. I have done better; for I have employed
Some, whom I know, this day to seize a ship;
Which they have done, clapping the men within her
All under hatches, with such speed and silence,
That, though she rides at anchor in the port
Among the rest, the change is not discovered.
_Rod_. Let my best goods and jewels be embarked
With secrecy: We'll put to sea this night.
Have you yet found my sister, or her woman?
_Serv_. Neither, sir; but in all probability
She is with Manuel.
_Rod_. Would God the meanest man in Alicant
Had Angelina, rather than Don Manuel!
I never can forgive, much less forget,
How he (the younger soldier) was preferred
To that command of horse, which was my due.
_Serv_. And, after that, by force disseized you of
Your quarters--
_Rod_. Should I meet him seven years hence
At the altar, I would kill him there:--I had
Forgot to tell you, the design we had,
To carry Julia by force away,
Will now be needless: she'll come to the rock
To see me; you, unseen, shall stand behind,
And carry her into the vessel.
_Serv_. Shall I not help you to dispatch Don Manuel?
_Rod_. I neither doubt my valour nor my fortune:
But if I die, revenge me: Presently
About your business; I must to the rock,
For fear I come too late. [_Exeunt severally_.
SCENE III.--_Through a rock is discovered a navy of
ships riding at a distance_.
_Enter AMIDEO_.
_Amid_. Thus far, unseen by Manuel, I have traced him;
He can be gone no farther than the walk
Behind the rock: I'll back, and tell my master.
_Enter HIPPOLITO at the other end_.
_Hip_. This is the place, where Roderick must expect
His Julia:--How! Amideo here!
_Amid_. Hippolito!
_Hip_. This were so fit a time
For my revenge, had I the courage, now!
My heart swells at him, and my breath grows short;
But whether fear or anger choaks it up,
I cannot tell.
_Amid_. He looks so ghastfully,
Would I were past him; yet I fear to try it,
Because my mind misgives me he will stop me.
By your leave, Hippolito.
_Hip_. Whither so fast?
_Amid_. You'll not presume to hinder my lord's business?
He shall know it.
_Hip_. I'll make you sure, before,
For telling any tales: Do you remember,
Since you defended Angelina's beauty
Against Honoria's; nay, and would maintain it.
_Amid_. And so I will do still; (I must feign courage,
There is no other way.) [_Aside_.
_Hip_. I'll so revenge
That injury! (if my heart fails me not.)
_Amid_. Come, confess truly, for, I know, it fails you.
What would you give to avoid fighting now?
_Hip_. No, 'tis your heart that fails.
_Amid_. I scorn the danger;
Yet, what compassion on your youth might do,
I cannot tell; and, therefore, do not work
Upon my pity; for I feel already
My stout heart melts.
_Hip_. Oh! Are you thereabout?
Now I am sure you fear; and you shall fight.
_Amid_. I will not fight.
_Hip_. Confess, then, Angelina
Is not so fair as is Honoria.
_Amid_. I do confess; now are you satisfied?
_Hip_. There's more behind; confess her not so worthy
To be beloved, nor to possess Gonsalvo,
As fair Honoria is.
_Amid_. That's somewhat hard.
_Hip_. But you must do't, or die.
_Amid_. Well, life is sweet;
She's not so worthy: Now, let me be gone.
_Hip_. No, never to my master; swear to quit
His service, and no more to see his face.
_Amid_. I fain would save my life, but that, which you
Propose, is but another name to die.
I cannot live without my master's sight.
_Hip_. Then you must fight with me for him.
_Amid_. I would
Do any thing with you, but fighting for him.
_Hip_. Nothing but that will serve.
_Amid_. Lay by our swords,
And I'll scratch with you for him.
_Hip_. That's not manly.
_Amid_. Well, since it must be so, I'll fight:--Unbutton.
[_HIPPOLITO unbuttons slowly_.
How many buttons has he? I'll be one
Behind him still. [_Aside_.
[_Unbuttons one by one after him. HIPPOLITO makes more haste_.
You are so prodigal! if you loved my master,
You would not tear his doublet so:--How's this!
Two swelling breasts! a woman, and my rival!
The stings of jealousy have given me courage,
Which nature never gave me:
Come on, thou vile dissembler of thy sex;
Expect no mercy; either thou or I
Must die upon this spot: Now for Gonsalvo--
Sa--Sa--
_Hip_. This courage is not counterfeit; ah me!
What shall I do? for pity, gentle boy--
_Amid_. No pity; such a cause as ours
Can neither give nor take it: If thou yieldest,
I will not spare thee; therefore, fight it out.
[_Tears open his doublet_.
_Hip_. Death to my hopes! a woman! and so rare
A beauty, that my lord must needs doat on her.
I should myself, if I had been a man:
But, as I am, her eyes shoot death at me.
_Amid_. Come, have you said your prayers?
_Hip_. For thy confusion,--
Thou ravenous harpy, with an angel's face,--
Thou art discovered, thou too charming rival;
I'll be revenged upon those fatal eyes.
_Amid_. I'll tear out thine.
_Hip_. I'll bite out hungry morsels
From those plump cheeks, but I will make them
thinner.
_Amid_. I'd beat thee to the blackness of a Moor.
But that the features of thy face are such,
Such damnable, invincible good features,
That as an Ethiop thou would'st still be loved.
_Hip_. I'll quite unbend that black bow o'er thine eyes;
I'll murder thee, and Julia shall have him,
Rather than thou.
_Amid_. I'll kill both thee and her,
Rather than any one but I shall have him.
_Hip_. Come on, thou witch.
_Amid_. Have at thy heart, thou Syren.
[_They draw and fight awkwardly, not coming near one another_.
_Amid_. I think I paid you there.
_Hip_. O stay a little,
And tell me in what corner of thy heart
Gonsalvo lies, that I may spare that place.
_Amid_. He lies in the last drop of all my blood,
And never will come out, but with my soul.
_Hip_. Come, come, we dally;
Would one of us were dead, no matter which!
[_They fight nearer_.
_Enter Don_ MANUEL.
_Man_. The pretty boys, that serve Gonsalvo, fighting!
I come in time to save the life of one.
[HIPPOLITO _gets_ AMIDEO _down in closing:
MANUEL takes away their swords_.
_Hip_. For goodness' sake, hinder not my revenge.
_Amid_. The noble Manuel has saved my life:
Heavens, how unjustly have I hated him. [_Aside_.
_Man_. What is it, gentle youths, that moves you thus?
I cannot tell what causes you may find;
But, trust me, all the world, in so much sweetness,
Would be to seek where to begin a quarrel:
You seem the little Cupids in the song,
Contending for the honey-bag.
_Hip_. 'Tis well
You're come; you may prevent a greater mischief:
Here 'tis Gonsalvo has appointed Roderick--
_Man_.To fight?
_Hip_. What's worse: to give your sister to him.
Won by her tears, he means to leave her free,
And to redeem her misery with his:
At least so I conjecture.
_Man_. 'Tis a doubtful
Problem; either he loves her violently,
Or not at all.
_Amid_. You have betrayed my master:--
[_To_ HIPPOLITO. _Aside_.
_Hip_. If I have injured you, I mean to give you
The satisfaction of a gentlewoman.
_Enter_ GONSALVO _and_ JULIA.
_Man_. Oh, they are here; now I shall be resolved.
_Jul_. My brother Manuel! what fortune's this!
_Man_. I'm glad I have prevented you.
_Gons_. With what
Variety my fate torments me still!
Never was man so dragged along by virtue;
But I must follow her.
_Jul_. Noble Gonsalvo,
Protect me from my brother.
_Gons_. Tell me, sir,
When you bestowed your sister on me, did not
You give her freely up to my dispose?
_Man_. 'Tis true, I did; but never with intent
You should restore her to my enemy.
_Gons_. 'Tis past; 'tis done: She undermined my soul
With tears; as banks are sapped away by streams.
_Man_. I wonder what strange blessing she expects
From the harsh nature of this Rodorick;
A man made up of malice and revenge.
_Jul_. If I possess him, I may be unhappy;
But if I lose him, I am surely so.
Had you a friend so desperately sick,
That all physicians had forsook his cure;
All scorched without, and all parched up within,
The moisture that maintained consuming nature
Licked up, and in a fever fried away;
Could you behold him beg, with dying eyes,
A glass of water, and refuse it him,
Because you knew it ill for his disease?
When he would die without it, how could you
Deny to make his death more easy to him?
_Man_. Talk not to me of love, when honour suffers.
The boys will hiss at me.
_Gons_. I suffer most:
Had there been 'choice, what would I not have chose?
To save my honour I my love must lose:
But promises, once made, are past debate,
And truth's of more necessity than fate.
_Man_. I scarce can think your promise absolute;
There might some way be thought on, if you would,
To keep both her and it.
_Gons_. No, no; my promise was no trick of state:
I meant to be made truly wretched first,
And then to die; and I'll perform them both.
_Man_. Then that revenge, I meant on Rodorick,
I'll take on you. [_Draws_.
_Gons_.--I draw with such regret,
As merchants throw their wealth into the sea,
To save their sinking vessels from a wreck.
_Man_. I find I cannot lift my hand against thee:
Do what thou wilt; but let not me behold it.
[_Goes off a little way_.
I'll cut this gordian knot I cannot loose:
To keep his promise, Rodorick shall have her,
But I'll return and rescue her by force;
Then giving back what he so frankly gave,
At once my honour and his love I'll save.
[_Exit MANUEL_.
_Enter RODORICK_.
_Rod_. How! Julia brought by him?--Who sent
for me?
_Gons_. 'Twas I.
_Rod_. I know your business then; 'tis fighting.
_Gons_. You're mistaken; 'tis something that I
fear.
_Rod_. What is't?
_Gons_. Why,--'twill not out: Here, take her;
And deserve her: but no thanks;
For fear I should consider what I give,
And call it back.--
_Jul_. O my dear Rodorick!
_Gons_. O cruel Julia!
For pity shew not all your joy before me;
Stifle some part of it one minute longer,
'Till I am dead.
_Jul_. My Rodorick shall know,
He owes his Julia to you; thank him, love;
In faith I take it ill you are so slow.
_Rod_. You know he has forbid me; and, beside,
He'll take it better from your mouth than mine;
All that you do must needs be pleasing to him.
_Jul_. Still sullen and unkind!
_Rod_. Why, then, in short,
I do not understand the benefit.
_Gons_. Not to have Julia in thy free possession?
_Rod_. Not brought by you; not of another's leaving.
_Jul_. Speak softly, Rodorick: Let not these hear thee;
But spare my shame for the ill choice I made,
In loving thee.
_Rod_. I will speak loud, and tell thee,
Thou com'st, all cloyed and tired with his embraces,
To proffer thy palled love to me; his kisses
Do yet bedew thy lips; the very print,
His arms made round thy body, yet remains.
_Gons_. O barbarous jealousy!
_Jul_. 'Tis an harsh word:
I am too pure for thee; but yet I love thee.
[_Offers to take his hand_.
_Rod_. Away, foul impudence.
_Gons_. Madam, you wrong
Your virtue, thus to clear it by submission.
_Jul_. Whence grows this boldness, sir? did I ask you
To be my champion?
_Rod_. He chose to be your friend, and not your husband:
Left that dull part of dignity to me;
As often the worst actors play the kings.
_Jul_. This jealousy is but excess of passion,
Which grows up, wild, in every lover's breast;
But changes kind when planted in an husband.
_Rod_. Well, what I am, I am; and what I will be,
When you are mine, my pleasure shall determine.
I will receive no law from any man.
_Jul_. This strange unkindness of my Rodorick
I owe to thee, and thy unlucky love;
Henceforth go lock it up within thy breast;
'Tis only harmless while it is concealed,
But, opened, spreads infection like a vault.
Go, and my curse go with thee!--
_Gons_. I cannot go 'till I behold you happy:--
--Here, Rodorick, receive her on thy knees;
Use her with that respect, which thou would'st pay
Thy guardian angel, if he could be seen.
--Do not provoke my anger by refusing.--
I'll watch thy least offence to her; each word,
Nay, every sullen look;--
And, as the devils, who are damned to torments,
Yet have the guilty souls their slaves to punish;
So, under me, while I am wretched, thou
Shalt be tormented.--
_Rod_. Would'st thou make me the tenant of thy lust,
To toil, and for my labour take the dregs,
The juicy vintage being left for thee?
No: she's an infamous, lewd prostitute:
I loath her at my soul.
_Gons_. I can forbear
No longer: swallow down thy lie, foul villain.
[_They fight off the stage. Exeunt_.
_Jul_. Help, help!
_Amid_. Here is that witch, whose fatal beauty
Began the mischief; she shall pay for all.
[_Goes to kill JULIA_.
_Hip_. I hate her for it more than thou canst do;
But cannot see her die, my master loves.
[_Goes between with her sword_.
_Enter_ GONSALVO, _following_ RODORICK, _who falls_.
_Rod_. So, now I am at rest:--
I feel death rising higher still, and higher,
Within my bosom; every breath I fetch
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass,
And, like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less
And less each pulse, 'till it be lost in air.
[_Swoons away_.
_Gons_. Down at your feet, much injured innocence,
I lay that sword, which--
_Jul_. Take it up again;
It has not done its work 'till I am killed:
For ever, ever, thou hast robbed me of
That man, that only man, whom I could love:
Dost thou thus court thy mistress? thus oblige her?
All thy obligements have been fatal yet,
Yet the most fatal now would most oblige me.
Kill me:--yet I am killed before in him.
I lie there on the ground; cold, cold, and pale:
That death, I die in Roderick, is far
More pleasant than that life, I live in Julia.--
--See how he stands--when he is bid dispatch me!
How dull! how spiritless! that sloth possest
Thee not, when thou didst kill my Roderick.
_Gons_. I'm too unlucky to converse with men:
I'll pack together all my mischiefs up,
Gather with care each little remnant of them,
That none of them be left behind: Thus loaded,
Fly to some desert, and there let them loose,
Where they may never prey upon mankind.
But you may make my journey shorter:--Take
This sword; 'twill shew you how:--
_Jul_.I'll gladly set you on your way:--
[_Takes his sword_.
_Enter three of_ RODORICK'S _servants_.
_1 Serv_. Make haste; he's now unarmed, we may with ease
Revenge my master's death.
_Jul_. Now these shall do it.
_Gons_. I'll die by none but you.--
_Hip_. O here, take my sword, sir.
_Amid_. He shall have mine.
[_Both give their swords_ to GONSALVO.
_Enter MANUEL_.
_Man_. Think not of death.
We'll live and conquer.
[_They beat them off_.
_Man_. These fellows, though beat off, will strait return
With more; we must make haste to save ourselves.
_Hip_. 'Tis far to the town,
And, ere you reach it, you will be discovered.
_Gons_. My life's a burden to me, were not Julia's
Concerned; but, as it is, she, being present,
Will be found accessary to his death.
_Man_. See where a vessel lies, not far from shore;
And near at hand a boat belonging to her;
Let's haste aboard, and what with prayers and gifts
Buy our concealment there:--Come, Julia.
_Gons_. Alas, she swoons away upon the body.
_Man_. The night grows on apace; we'll take her in
Our arms, and bear her hence.
[_Exeunt GONSALVO, and the boys, with MANUEL, carrying JULIA_.
_The Servants enter again_.
_1 Serv_. They are all gone, we may return with safety:
Help me to bear the body to the town.
_2 Serv_. He stirs, and breathes a little; there may be
Some hope.
_3 Serv_. The town's far off, and the evening cold.
Let's carry him to the ship.
_1 Serv_. Haste then away:
Things, once resolved, are ruined by delay.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT V. SCENE I.
_The Scene lying in a Carrack_.
_Enter a Pirate and the Captain_.
_Pir_. Welcome a ship-board, captain; you staid
long.
_Capt_. No longer than was necessary for shifting
trades; to change me from a robber to a pirate.
_Pir_. There's a fair change wrought in you since
yesterday morning; then you talked of nothing but
repentance, and amendment of life.
_Capt_. 'Faith, I have considered better on't: for,
conversing a whole day together with honest men,
I found them all so poor and beggarly, that a civil
person would be ashamed to be seen with them:--but
you come from Don Roderick's cabin; what hopes
have you of his life?
_Pir_. No danger of it, only loss of blood had
made him faint away; he called for you.
_Capt_. Well, are his jewels and his plate brought
in?
_Pir_. They are.--When hoist we sails?
_Capt_. At the first break of day: When we are
got out clear, we'll seize on Roderick and his men:
They are not many, but fear may make them desperate.
_Pir_. We may take them, when they are laid to
sleep.
_Capt_. 'Tis well advised.
_Pir_. I forgot to tell you, sir, that a little before
Don Roderick was brought in, a company of gentlemen
(pursued it seems by justice) procured our
boat to row them hither. Two of them carried a
very fair lady betwixt them, who was either dead,
or swooned.
_Capt_. We'll sell them altogether to the Turk,--at
least I'll tell them so. [_Aside_.
_Pir_. Pray, sir, let us reserve the lady to our own
uses; it were a shame to good catholicks to give
her up to infidels.
_Capt_. Don Roderick's door opens; I'll speak to
him.
_The Scene draws, and discovers the Captains cabin;
RODORICK on a bed, and two Servants by him_.
_Capt_. How is it with the brave Don Roderick?
Do you want any thing?
_Rod_. I have too much
Of that I would not, love;
And what I would have, that I want, revenge.
I must be set ashore.
_Capt_. That you may, sir;
But our own safety must be thought on first.
[_One enters, and whispers the Captain_.
_Capt_. I come:--Seignior, think you are lord
here, and command all freely.
[_Exeunt Captain and Pirates_.
_Rod_. He does well to bid me think so: I am of opinion
We are fallen into huckster's hands.
_1 Serv_. Indeed he talked suspiciously enough;
He half denied to land us.
_Rod_. These, Pedro, are your confiding men--
_2 Serv_. I think them still so.
_Rod_. Would I were from them.
_2 Serv_. 'Tis impossible
To attempt it now; you have not strength enough
To walk.
_Rod_. That venture must be mine: We're lost,
If we stay here to-morrow.
_2 Serv_. I hope better.
_1 Serv_. One whom I saw among 'em, to my knowledge,
Is a notorious robber.
_2 Serv_. He looked so like a gentleman, I could
not know him then.
_Rod_. What became of Julia when I fell?
_1 Serv_. We left her weeping over you, till we
Were beaten off; but she, and those with her,
Were gone when we returned.
_Rod_. Too late I find,
I wronged her in my thoughts. I'm every way
A wretched man:--
Something we must resolve on, ere we sleep;
Draw in the bed, I feel the cold.
[_Bed drawn in. Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Enter GONSALVO, MANUEL, HIPPOLITO and
AMIDEO_.
_Hip_. Nay, 'tis too true; for, peeping through a chink,
I saw Don Roderick lying on a bed,
Not dead, as we supposed, but only hurt;
So waited on as spoke him master here.
_Man_. Was there ever so fatal an adventure!
To fly into that very ship, for refuge,
Where the only person, we would shun, commands!
This mischief is so strange, it could not happen,
But was the plot and juggle of our fate,
To free itself, and cast the blame on us.
_Gons_. This is not yet our fortune's utmost malice;
The gall remains behind. This ship was that,
Which yesterday was mine; I can see nothing
Round me, but what's familiar to my eyes;
Only the persons new: Which makes me think,
Twas seized upon by Roderick, to revenge
Himself on me.
_Man_. Tis wonderful indeed.
_Amid_. The only comfort is, we are not known;
For when we entered it was dark.
_Hip_. That comfort
Is of as short continuance as the night;
The day will soon discover us.
_Man_. Some way must be invented to get out.
_Hip_. Fair Julia, sadly pining by herself.
Sits on her bed; tears falling from her eyes,
As silently as dews in dead of night.
All we consult of must be kept from her:
That moment, that she knows of Roderick's life,
Dooms us to certain death.
_Man_. 'Tis well considered.
_Gons_. For my part, were not you and she concerned,
I look upon my life, like an estate,
So charged with debts, it is not worth the keeping.
We cannot long be undiscovered by them;
Let us then rush upon them on the sudden,
(All hope of safety placed in our despair)
And gain quick victory, or speedy death.
_Man_. Consider first, the impossibility
Of the attempt; four men, and two poor boys,
(Which, added to our number, make us weaker)
Against ten villains, more resolved for death,
Than any ten among our holiest priests.
Stay but a little longer, till they all
Disperse to rest within their several cabins;
Then more securely we may set upon them,
And kill them half, before the rest can wake:
By this means too, the boys are useful for us,
For they can cut the throats of sleeping men.
_Hip_. Now have I the greatest temptation in the world to reveal,
Thou art a woman. [_To AMIDEO_.
_Amid_. If 'twere not for thy beauty, my master should know,
What a man he keeps. [_To HIPPOLITO_.
_Hip_. Why should we have recourse to desperate ways,
When safer may be thought on?
'Tis like giving the extreme unction.
In the beginning of a sickness;
Can you imagine to find all asleep?
The wicked joy, of having such a booty
In their possession, will keep some awake;
And some, no doubt, will watch with wounded
Roderick.
_Amid_. What would your wisdom now propose?
_Hip_. To say
That some of us are sea-sick; (your complexion
Will make the excuse for us who are less fair:)
So, by good words and promises, procure
We may be set ashore, ere morning come.
_Amid_. O, the deep reasons of the grave Hippolito!--
As if 'twere likely, in so calm a season,
We should be sick so soon; or, if we were,
Whom should we chuse among us to go tell it?
For whoe'er ventures out must needs be known:
Or, if none knew us, can you think that pirates
Will let us go upon such easy terms,
As promising rewards?--Let me advise you.
_Hip_. Now, we expect an oracle.
_Amid_. Here are bundles,
Of canvas and of cloth, you see lie by us;
In which one of us shall sew up the rest,
Only some breathing place, for air, and food:
Then call the pirates in, and tell them, we,
For fear, had drowned ourselves: And when we come
To the next port, find means to bring us out.
_Hip_. Pithily spoken!--
As if you were to bind up marble statues,
Which only bore the shapes of men without,
And had no need of ever easing nature.
_Gons_. There's but one way left, that's this;--
You know the rope, by which the cock-boat's tied,
Goes down by the stern, and now, we are at anchor,
There sits no pilot to discover us;
My counsel is, to go down by the ladder,
And, being once there, unloose, and row to shore.
_Man_. This, without doubt, were best; but there lies ever
Some one, or more, within the boat, to watch it.
_Gons_. I'll slide down first, and run the venture of it;
You shall come after me, if there be need,
To give me succour.
_Man_. 'Tis the only way.
_Gons_. Go in to Julia, then, and first prepare her,
With knowledge of the pirates, and the danger
Her honour's in, among such barbarous people.
_Man_. Leave it to me.
_Amid_. Hippolito and Julia,
My rivals, like two pointed rocks appear;
And I, through both, must to Gonsalvo steer. [_Aside_.
[_Exeunt all but HIPPOLITA_.
_Hip_. As from some steep and dreadful precipice
The frighted traveller casts down his eyes,
And sees the ocean at so great a distance,
It looks as if the skies were sunk below him;
Yet if some neighbouring shrub (how weak soe'er)
Peeps up, his willing eyes stop gladly there,
And seem to ease themselves, and rest upon it:
So, in my desperate state, each little comfort
Preserves me from despair. Gonsalvo strove not
With greater care to give away his Julia,
Than I have done to part with my Gonsalvo;
Yet neither brought to pass our hateful wish.
Then, we may meet, since different ways we move,
Chasing each other in the maze of love.
[_Exit_.
SCENE III.
_Enter Don RODORICK, carried by two Servants_.
_1 Serv_. It was the only way that could be thought on,
To get down by the ladder to the boat.
_2 Serv_. You may thank me for that invention.
_Rod_. What a noise is here, when the least breath's
As dangerous as a tempest.
_2 Serv_. If any of those rogues should hear him talk,
In what a case were we?
_Rod_. O, patience! patience!--
This ass brays out for silence.
_Enter, at the other end, MANUEL, leading JULIA,
GONSALVO, HIPPOLITO, and AMIDEO_.
_Gons_. Hark! what noise is that? go softly.
[_They meet on the middle of the stage_.
_Rod_. Who's here? I am betrayed! and nothing grieves me,
But I want strength to die with honour.
_Jul_. Roderick!
Is it thy voice, my love?--Speak, and resolve me,
Whether thou livest, or I am dead with thee?
_Man_. Kill him, and force our way.
_Rod_. Is Manuel there?
Hold up my arm, that I may make one thrust
At him, before I die.
_Gons_. Since we must fall,
We'll sell our lives as dearly as we can.
_1 Serv_. And we'll defend our master to the last.
[_Fight_.
_Enter Pirates, without their Captain_.
_1 Pirate_. What's the meaning of this uproar?--Quarrelling
Amongst yourselves at midnight?
_2 Pirate_. We are come in a fit time to decide the
difference.
_Man_. Hold, gentlemen! we're equally concerned.
[_To RODORICK'S Servants_.
We for our own, you for your master's safety;
If we join forces, we may then resist them,
If not, both sides are ruined.
_1 Serv_. We agree.
_Gons_. Come o'er on our side then. [_They join_.
_1 Pirate_. A mischief on our captain's drowsiness;
We're lost, for want of him! [_They fight_.
_Gons_. Dear madam, get behind; while you are safe,
We cannot be o'ercome. [_To JULIA_.
[_They drive off the Pirates, and follow them off.
RODORICK remains on the ground_.
_Rod_. I had much rather my own life were lost,
Than Manuel's were preserved.
_Enter the Pirates, retreating before GONSALVO, &c_.
_1 Pirate_. All's lost! they fight like devils, and our captain
Yet sleeping in his bed.
_2 Pirate_. Here lies Don Roderick;
If we must die, we'll not leave him behind.
[_Goes to kill him_.
_Jul_. O, spare my Roderick's life; and, in exchange,
Take mine! I put myself within your power,
To save or kill.
_1 Pirate_. So, here's another pawn,
For all our safeties.
_Man_. Heaven! what has she done?
_Gons_. Let go the lady, or expect no mercy!--The
least drop of her blood is worth all yours.
And mine together.
_1 Pirate_. I am glad you think so:--
Either deliver up your sword, or mine
Shall pierce her heart this moment.
_Gons_. Here, here, take it.
_Man_. You are not mad, to give away all hopes
[_MANUEL holds him_
Of safety and defence, from us, from her,
And from yourself, at once!
_Gons_. When she is dead,
What is there worth defending?
_Man_. Will you trust
A pirate's promise, sooner than your valour?
_Gons_. Any thing, rather than see her in danger.
_1 Pirate_. Nay, if you dispute the matter!--
[_Holds his sword to her breast_.
_Gons_. I yield, I yield!--Reason to love must bow:
Love, that gives courage, can make cowards too!
[_Gives his sword_.
_Jul_. O, strange effect of a most generous passion!
_Rod_. His enemies themselves must needs admire it.
_Man_. Nay, if Gonsalvo makes a fashion of it,
'Twill be valour to die tamely. [_Gives his_.
_Hip_. I am for dying too with my dear master.
_Amid_. My life will go as easily as a fly's;
The least fillip does it in this fright.
_1 Pirate_. One call our captain up: Tell him, he
deserves little of the booty.
_Jul_. It has so much prevailed upon my soul,
I ever must acknowledge it. [_To GONS_.
_Rod_. Julia has reason, if she love him; yet,
I find I cannot bear it. [_Aside_.
_Gons_. Say but, you love me; I am more than
paid.
_Jul_. You ask that only thing, I cannot give;--
Were I not Roderick's first, I should be yours;
My violent love for him, I know, is faulty;
Yet passion never can be placed so ill,
But that to change it is the greater crime.
Inconstancy is such a guilt, as makes
That very love suspected, which it brings;
It brings a gift, but 'tis of ill-got wealth,
The spoils of some forsaken lover's heart.
Love, altered once, like blood let out before,
Will lose its virtue, and can cure no more.
_Gons_. In those few minutes which I have to live,
To be called yours, is all I can enjoy.
Roderick receives no prejudice by that;
I would but make some small acquaintance here,
For fear I never should enquire you out
In that new world, which we are going to.
_Amid_. Then, I can hold no longer;--You desire,
In death, to be called hers; and all I wish,
Is, dying, to be yours.
_Hip_. You'll not discover? [_Aside_.
_Amid_. See here the most unfortunate of women,
That Angelina, whom you all thought lost;
And lost she was indeed, when she beheld
Gonsalvo first.
_All_. How?--Angelina!
_Rod_. Ha!
My sister!
_Amid_. I thought to have fled love in flying Manuel,
But love pursued me in Gonsalvo's shape:
For him, I ventured all that maids hold dear;
The opinion of my modesty, and virtue,
My loss of fortune, and my brother's love.
For him, I have exposed myself to dangers,
Which, great themselves, yet greater would appear,
If you could see them through a woman's fear.
But why do I my right by dangers prove?
The greatest argument for love is love:
That passion, Julia, while he lives, denies,
He should refuse to give her when he dies:
Yet grant he did his life to her bequeath,
May I not claim my share of him in death?
I only beg, when all the glory's gone,
The heatless beams of a departing sun.
_Gons_. Never was passion, hid so modestly,
So generously revealed.
_Man_. We're now a chain of lovers linked in death;
Julia goes first, Gonsalvo hangs on her,
And Angelina holds upon Gonsalvo,
As I on Angelina.
_Hip_. Nay, here's Honoria too:--You
look on me with wonder in your eyes,
To see me here, and in this strange disguise.
_Jul_. What new miracle is this? Honoria!
_Man_. I left you with my aunt at Barcelona,
And thought, ere this, you had been married to
The rich old man, Don Estevan de Gama.
_Hip_. I ever had a strange aversion for him:
But when Gonsalvo landed there, and made
A kind of courtship, (though, it seems, in jest,)
It served to conquer me; which Estevan
Perceiving, pressed my aunt to haste the marriage.
What should I do? My aunt importuned me
For the next day: Gonsalvo, though I loved him,
Knew not my love; nor was I sure his courtship
Was not the effect of a bare gallantry.
_Gons_. Alas! how grieved I am, that slight address
Should make so deep impression on your mind,
In three days time!
_Hip_. That accident, in which
You saved my life, when first you saw me, caused it,
Though now the story be too long to tell.
Howe'er it was, hearing that night, you lay
Aboard your ship, thus, as you see, disguised,
In clothes belonging to my youngest nephew,
I rose ere day, resolved to find you out,
And, if I could, procure to wait on you
Without discovery of myself: but fortune
Crossed all my hopes.
_Gons_. It was that dismal night
Which tore my anchor up, and tossed my ship,
Past hope of safety, many days together,
Until at length it threw me on this port.
_Hip_. I will not tell you what my sorrows were,
To find you gone; but there was now no help.
Go back again, I durst not; but, in fine,
Thought best, as fast as my weak legs would bear me,
To come to Alicant, and find my sister,
Unknown to any else: But, being near
The city, I was seized upon by thieves,
From whom you rescued me.--The rest you know.
_Gons_. I know too much indeed for my repose.
_Enter Captain_.
_Capt_. Do you know me?
_Gons_. Now I look better on thee,
Thou seemest a greater villain than I thought thee.
_Jul_ 'Tis he!
_Hip_. That bloody wretch, that robbed us in
The woods.
_Gons_. Slave! darest thou lift thy hand against me?
Darest thou touch any one whom he protects,
Who gave thee life? But I accuse myself,
Not thee: The death of all these guiltless persons
Became my crime, that minute when I spared thee.
_Capt_. It is not all your threats can alter me
From what I have resolved.
_Gons_. Begin, then, first
With me.
_Capt_. I will, by laying here my sword.
[_Lays his sword at Gonsalvo's feet_.
_All_. What means this sudden change?
_Capt_. Tis neither new, nor sudden.--From that time
You gave me life, I watched how to repay it;
And Roderick's servant gave me speedy means
To effect my wish: For, telling me, his master
Meant a revenge on you, and on Don Manuel,
And then to seize on Julia, and depart,
I proffered him my aid to seize a vessel;
And having, by enquiry, found out yours,
Acquainted first the captain with my purpose,
To make a seeming mastery of the ship.
_Man_. How durst he take your word?
_Capt_. That I secured,
By letting him give notice to the ships
That lay about: This done, knowing the place
You were to fight on was behind the rock,
Not far from thence, I, and some chosen men,
Lay out of sight, that, if foul play were offered,
We might prevent it:
But came not in; because, when there was need,
Don Manuel, who was nearer, stepped before me.
_Gons_. Then the boat, which seemed
To lie by chance, hulling not far from shore,
Was placed by your direction there?
_Capt_. It was.
_Gons_. You're truly noble; and I owe much more
Than my own life and fortunes to your worth.
_Capt_. 'Tis time I should restore their liberty
To such of yours, as yet are seeming prisoners.
I'll wait on you again. [_Exit Captain_.
_Rod_. My enemies are happy; and the storm,
Prepared for them, must break upon my head.
_Gons_. So far am I from happiness, heaven knows
My griefs are doubled!
I stand engaged in hopeless love to Julia;
In gratitude to these:--
Here I have given my heart, and here I owe it.
_Hip_. Dear master, trouble not yourself for me;
I ever made your happiness my own;
Let Julia witness with what faith I served you.
When you employed me in your love to her,
I gave your noble heart away, as if
It had been some light gallant's, little worth:
Not that I loved you less than Angelina,
But myself less than you.
_Gons_. Wonder of honour!
Of which my own was but a fainter shadow.
When I gave Julia, whom I could not keep,
You fed a fire within, with too rich fuel,
In giving it your heart to prey upon;
The sweetest offering that was ever burnt
Since last the Phoenix died.
_Hip_. If Angelina knew, like me, the pride
Of noble minds, which is to give, not take,
Like me she would be satisfied, her heart
Was well bestowed, and ask for no return.
_Amid_. Pray, let my heart alone; you'll use it as
The gipsies do our money;
If they once touch it, they have power upon't.
_Enter the Servant, who appeared in the first act with GONSALVO_.
_Serv_. O, my dear lord, Gonsalvo de Peralta!
_Rod_. De Peralta, said you? You amaze me!
_Gons_. Why?--Do you know that family in Seville?
_Rod_. I am myself the elder brother of it.
_Gons_. Don Rodorick de Peralta!
_Rod_. I was so,
Until my mother died, whose name, de Sylva,
I chose, (our custom not forbidding it)
Three years ago, when I returned from Flanders:
I came here to possess a fair estate,
Left by an aunt, her sister; for whose sake
I take that name; and liked the place so well,
That never since have I returned to Seville.
_Gons_. 'Twas then that change of name, which caused my letters
All to miscarry. What an happy tempest
Was this, which would not let me rest at Seville,
But blew me farther on, to see you here!
_Amid_. Brother, I come to claim a sister's share:
But you're too near me, to be nearer now.
_Gons_. In my room, let me beg you to receive
Don Manuel.
_Amid_. I take it half unkindly,
You give me from yourself so soon: Don Manuel,
I know, is worthy, and, but yesterday,
Preserved my life; but, it will take some time
To change my heart.
_Man_. I'll watch it patiently, as chemists do
Their golden birth; and, when 'tis changed, receive it
With greater care than they their rich elixir,
Just passing from one vial to another.
_Rod_. Julia is still my brother's, though I lose her.
_Gons_. You shall not lose her; Julia was born
For none but you;
And I for none but my Honoria:
Julia is yours by inclination;
And I, by conquest, am Honoria's.
_Hon_. 'Tis the most glorious one that e'er was made:
And I no longer will dispute my happiness.
_Rod_. Julia, you know my peevish jealousies;
I cannot promise you a better husband
Than you have had a servant.
_Jul_. I receive you
With all your faults.
_Rod_. And think, when I am froward,
My sullen humour punishes itself:
I'm like a day in March, sometimes o'ercast
With storms, but then the after clearness is
The greater. The worst is, where I love most,
The tempest falls most heavy.
_Jul_. Ah! what a little time to love is lent!
Yet half that time is in unkindness spent.
_Rod_. That you may see some hope of my amendment,
I give my friendship to Don Manuel, ere
My brother asks, or he himself desires it.
_Man_. I'll ever cherish it.
_Gons_. Since, for my sake, you become friends, my care
Shall be to keep you so. You, captain, shall
Command this carrack, and, with her, my fortunes.
You, my Honoria, though you have an heart
Which Julia left, yet think it not the worse;
'Tis not worn out, but polished by the wearing.
Your merit shall her beauty's power remove;
Beauty but gains, obligement keeps our love.
[_Exeunt_.
THE
INDIAN QUEEN,
A
TRAGEDY,
WRITTEN BY THE
HON. SIR ROBERT HOWARD,
AND
MR DRYDEN.
THE INDIAN QUEEN
The plays of Sir Robert Howard were tolerated by his contemporaries,
on account of the rank, gallantry, and loyalty, of the author; at
least, we are now unable to discover any better reason for their
success. The Committee, alone, kept possession of the stage till our
time; and that solely supported by the humours of Teague, an honest
blundering Irish footman, such as we usually see in a modern farce.
From a hint, given by Langbaine, Sir Robert Howard seems to have been
suspected of frequent plagiarisms. At any rate it is certain, that, in
the composition of the Indian Queen, he was so fortunate, as to have
the assistance of our great poet, who was bound to him by ties of
personal obligation.
It is, of course, difficult even to guess at the share which Dryden
had in the Indian Queen. Several of the characters have a strong
resemblance to others, which he afterwards drew in bolder colours.
Thus, Montezuma, who, like the hero of an ancient romance, bears
fortune to any side which he pleases to espouse, is justly pointed out
by Settle, as the prototype of Almanzor; though we look in vain for
the glowing language, which, though sometimes bordering on burlesque,
suits so well the extravagant character of the Moorish hero. Zempoalla
strongly resembles Nourmuhal in Aureng-Zebe; both shewing that high
spirit of pride, with which Dryden has often invested his female
characters. The language of the Indian Queen possesses, in general,
greater ease, and a readier flow of verse, than Sir Robert Howard
appears to have possessed, when unassisted. Of this he seems,
himself, to have been sensible; and alludes to Dryden's acknowledged
superiority, when maintaining against him the cause of dramatic blank
verse, as preferable to rhyme[1]. Besides general hints towards the
conception of the characters, and a superintendance of the dialogue,
it is probable, that Dryden wrote some entire scenes of the following
piece. In the third act particularly, the passage respecting the
incantation, which resembles that in the Indian Emperor, has strong
traces of our author's manner.
[Footnote 1: "But writing the epistle in so much haste, I had almost
forgot one argument, or observation, which that author (Dryden) has
most good fortune in. It is in his Epistle Dedicatory, before his
essay of _Dramatic Poesie_; where, speaking of rhyme in plays, he
desires it may be observed, that none are violent against it, but such
as have not attempted it, or who have succeeded ill in the attempt:
Which, as to myself, and him, I easily acknowledge;--for, I confess,
none has written in that way better than himself, nor few worse than
I."
_Introduction to the Great Favourite, or the Duke of Lerma_.]
The Indian Queen was acted in 1664; and received, says Langbaine, with
great applause. It was printed in 1665.
Prologue
_As the music plays a soft air, the curtain rises slowly, and
discovers an Indian Boy and Girl sleeping under two plantain-trees;
and, when the curtain is almost up, the music turns into a tune
expressing an alarm, at which the Boy awakes, and speaks;
_Boy_. WAKE, wake, Quevira! our soft rest must cease,
And fly together with our country's peace!
No more must we sleep under plantain shade,
Which neither heat could pierce, nor cold invade;
Where bounteous nature never feels decay,
And opening buds drive falling fruits away.
_Que_. Why should men quarrel here, where all possess
As much as they can hope for by success?--
None can have most, where nature is so kind,
As to exceed man's use, though not his mind.
_Boy_. By ancient prophecies we have been told,
Our world shall be subdued by one more old;--
And, see, that world already hither come.
_Que_. If these be they, we welcome then our doom!
Their looks are Such, that mercy flows from thence,
More gentle than our native innocence.
_Boy_. Why should we then fear these, our enemies,
That rather seem to us like deities?
_Que_. By their protection, let us beg to live;
They came not here to conquer, but forgive.--
If so, your goodness may your power express,
And we shall judge both best by our success.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
_The Inca of Peru_.
MONTEZUMA, _his General_.
ACACIS, _son to_ ZEMPOALLA.
TRAXALLA, _General to_ ZEMPOALLA.
GARUCCA, _a faithful subject to_ AMEXIA.
_The God of Dreams_.
ISMERON, _one of the prophets, a conjuror_.
_Officers and Soldiers.
Peruvians and Mexicans.
Priests_.
AMEXIA, _the lawful queen of Mexico_.
ZEMPOALLA, _the usurping Indian Queen_.
ORAZIA,_daughter to the Inca_.
_Attendants of Ladies_.
THE
INDIAN QUEEN.
ACT I. SCENE I.
_Enter Inca,_ ORAZIA, MONTEZUMA, ACACIS, _prisoners, with
Peruvians_.
_Inca_. Thrice have the Mexicans before us fled,
Their armies broke, their prince in triumph led;
Both to thy valour, brave young man, we owe;
Ask thy reward, but such as it may show
It is a king thou hast obliged, whose mind
Is large, and, like his fortune, unconfined.
_Mont_. Young, and a stranger, to your court I
came,
There, by your favour, raised to what I am:
I conquer, but in right of your great fate,
And so your arms, not mine, are fortunate.
_Inca_. I am impatient, till this debt be paid.
Which still encreases on me while delayed;
A bounteous monarch to himself is kind:
Ask such a gift as may for ever bind
Thy service to my empire, and to me.
_Mont_. What can this gift, he bids me ask him, be!
Perhaps he has perceived our mutual fires,
And now, with ours, would crown his own desires;
'Tis so, he sees my service is above
All other payments but his daughter's love.
[_Aside_.
_Inca_. So quick to merit, and to take so slow?
I first prevent small wishes, and bestow
This prince, his sword and fortunes, to thy hand;
He's thine unasked; now make thy free demand.
_Mont_. Here, prince, receive this sword, as only due
[_Gives_ ACACIS _his sword_.
To that excess of courage shown in you.--
When you, without demand, a prince bestow,
Less than a prince to ask of you were low.
_Inca_. Then ask a kingdom; say, where thou wilt
reign.
_Mont_. I beg not empires, those my sword can gain;
But, for my past and future service too,
What I have done, and what I mean to do;
For this of Mexico which I have won,
And kingdoms I will conquer yet unknown;
I only ask from fair Orazia's eyes
To reap the fruits of all my victories.
_1 Peru_. Our Inca's colour mounts into his face.
_2 Peru_. His looks speak death.
_Inca_. Young man of unknown race,
Ask once again; so well thy merits plead,
Thou shall not die for that which thou hast said;
The price of what thou ask'st, thou dost not know;
That gift's too high.
_Mont_. And all besides too low.
_Inca_. Once more I bid thee ask.
_Mont_. Once more I make
The same demand.
_Inca_. The Inca bids thee take
Thy choice, what towns, what kingdoms thou would'st have.
_Mont_. Thou giv'st me only what before I gave.
Give me thy daughter.
_Inca_. Thou deserv'st to die.
O thou great author of our progeny,
Thou glorious sun, dost thou not blush to shine,
While such base blood attempts to mix with thine!
_Mont_. That sun, thou speak'st of, did not hide his face,
When he beheld me conquering with his race.
_Inca_. My fortunes gave thee thy success in fight!
Convey thy boasted valour from my sight;
I can o'ercome without thy feeble aid.
[_Exeunt Inca_, ORAZIA, _and Peruvians_.
_Mont_. And is it thus my services are paid?
Not all his guards--
[_Offers to go,_ ACACIS _holds him_.
_Aca_. Hold, sir.
_Mont_. Unhand me.
_Aca_. No, I must your rage prevent
From doing what your reason would repent;
Like the vast seas, your mind no limits knows,
Like them, lies open to each wind that blows.
_Mont_. Can a revenge, that is so just, be ill?
_Aca_. It is Orazia's father, you would kill.
_Mont_. Orazia! how that name has charmed my sword!
_Aca_. Compose these wild distempers in your breast;
Anger, like madness, is appeased by rest.
_Mont_. Bid children sleep, my spirits boil too high;
But, since Orazia's father must not die,
A nobler vengeance shall my actions guide;
I'll bear the conquest to the conquered side,
Until this Inca for my friendship sues,
And proffers what his pride does now refuse.
_Aca_. Your honour is obliged to keep your trust.
_Mont_. He broke that bond, in ceasing to be just.
_Aca_. Subjects to kings should more obedience pay.
_Mont_. Subjects are bound, not strangers, to obey.
_Aca_. Can you so little your Orazia prize,
To give the conquest to her enemies?
Can you so easily forego her sight?
I, that hold liberty more dear than light,
Yet to my freedom should my chains prefer,
And think it were well lost to stay with her.
_Mont_. How unsuccessfully I still o'ercome!
I brought a rival, not a captive, home;
Yet I may be deceived; but 'tis too late
To clear those doubts, my stay brings certain fate.
[_Aside_.
Come, prince, you shall to Mexico return,
Where your sad armies do your absence mourn;
And in one battle I will gain you more
Than I have made you lose in three before.
_Aca_. No, Montezuma, though you change your side,
I, as a prisoner, am by honour tied.
_Mont_. You are my prisoner, and I set you free.
_Aca_. 'Twere baseness to accept such liberty.
_Mont_. From him, that conquered you, it should be sought.
_Aca_. No, but from him, for whom my conqueror fought.
_Mont_. Still you are mine, his gift has made you so.
_Aca_. He gave me to his general, not his foe.
_Mont_. How poorly have you pleaded honour's laws!
Yet shun the greatest in your country's cause.
_Aca_. What succour can the captive give the free.
_Mont_. A needless captive is an enemy.
In painted honour you would seem to shine;
But 'twould be clouded, were your wrongs like mine.
_Aca_. When choler such unbridled power can
have,
Thy virtue seems but thy revenge's slave:
If such injustice should my honour stain,
My aid would prove my nation's loss, not gain.
_Mont_. Be cozened by thy guilty honesty,
To make thyself thy country's enemy.
_Aca_. I do not mean in the next fight to stain
My sword in blood of any Mexican,
But will be present in the fatal strife,
To guard Orazia's and the Inca's life.
_Mont_. Orazia's life, fond man! First guard thy
own;
Her safety she must owe to me alone.
_Aca_. Your sword, that does such wonders, cannot
be,
In an ill cause, secure of victory.
_Mont_. Hark, hark! [_Noise of trampling_.
_Aca_. What noise is this invades my ear?
Fly, Montezuma! fly, the guards are near:
To favour your retreat, I'll freely pay
That life, which you so frankly gave this day.
_Mont_. I must retire; but those, that follow me,
Pursue their deaths, and not their victory.
[_Exit_ MONT.
_Aca_. Our quarrels kinder than our friendships
prove:
You for my country fight, I for your love.
_Enter_ INCA _and Guards_.
_Inca_. I was to blame to leave this madman free;
Perhaps he may revolt to the enemy,
Or stay, and raise some fatal mutiny.
_Aca_. Stop your pursuits, for they must pass
through me.
_Inca_. Where is the slave?
_Aca_. Gone.
_Inca_. Whither?
_Aca_. O'er the plain;
Where he may soon the camp, or city, gain.
_Inca_. Curse on my dull neglect!
And yet I do less cause of wonder find,
That he is gone, than that thou stayest behind.
_Aca_. My treatment, since you took me, was so free,
It wanted but the name of liberty.
I with less shame can still your captive live,
Than take that freedom, which you did not give.
_Inca_. Thou brave young man, that hast thy years outdone,
And, losing liberty, hast honour won,
I must myself thy honour's rival make,
And give that freedom, which thou would'st not take.
Go, and be safe.--
_Aca_. But that you may be so--
Your dangers must be past before I go.
Fierce Montezuma will for fight prepare,
And bend on you the fury of the war,
Which, by my presence, I will turn away,
If fortune gives my Mexicans the day.
_Inca_. Come, then, we are alike to honour just,
Thou to be trusted thus, and I to trust.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.--_Mexico_.
_Enter_ ZEMPOALLA, TRAXALLA, _and attendants_.
_Zemp_. O my Acacis!
Does not my grief, Traxalla, seem too rude,
Thus to press out before my gratitude
Has paid my debts to you?--yet it does move
My rage and grief, to see those powers above
Punish such men, as, if they be divine,
They know will most adore, and least repine.
_Trax_. Those, that can only mourn when they are crost,
May lose themselves with grieving for the lost.
Rather to your retreated troops appear,
And let them see a woman void of fear:
The shame of that may call their spirits home.
Were the prince safe, we were not overcome,
Though we retired: O, his too youthful heat,
That thrust him where the dangers were so great!
Heaven wanted power his person to protect
From that, which he had courage to neglect:
But since he's lost, let us draw forth, and pay
His funeral rites in blood; that we or they
May, in our fates, perform his obsequies,
And make death triumph when Acacis dies.
_Zemp_. That courage, thou hast shown in fight, seems less
Than this, amidst despair to have excess:
Let thy great deeds force fate to change her mind:
He, that courts fortune boldly, makes her kind.
_Trax_. If e'er Traxalla so successful proves,
May he then say he hopes, as well as loves;
And that aspiring passion boldly own,
Which gave my prince his fate, and you his throne?
I did not feel remorse to see his blood
Flow from the spring of life into a flood;
Nor did it look like treason, since to me
You were a sovereign much more great than he.
_Zemp_. He was my brother, yet I scorned to pay
Nature's mean debts, but threw those bonds away;
When his own issue did my hopes remove,
Not only from his empire, but his love.
You, that in all my wrongs then bore a part,
Now need not doubt a place within my heart:
I could not offer you my crown and bed,
Till fame and envy with long time were dead;
But fortune does now happily present
Occasions, fit to second my intent.
Your valour may regain the public love,
And make the people's choice their queen's approve.
[_Shout_.
Hark, hark, what noise is this, that strikes my ear!
_Trax_. 'Tis not a sound that should beget a fear;
Such shouts as these have I heard often fly
From conquering armies, crowned with victory.
_Zemp_. Great God of vengeance, here I firmly vow,
Make but my Mexicans successful now,
And with a thousand feasts thy flames I'll feed;
And that I take shall on the altars bleed;
Princes themselves shall fall, and make thy shrine,
Died with their blood, in glorious blushes shine.
_Enter a Messenger_.
_Trax_. How now!
What news is this that makes thy haste a flight?
_Mess_. Such as brings victory without a fight.
The prince Acacis lives--
_Zemp_. Oh, I am blest!--
_Mess_. Reserve some joy till I have told the rest.
He's safe, and only wants his liberty:
But that great man, that carries victory
Where'er he goes; that mighty man, by whom
In three set battles we were overcome;
Ill used (it seems) by his ungrateful king,
Does to our camp his fate and valour bring.
The troop gaze on him, as if some bright star
Shot to their aids; call him the god of war:
Whilst he, as if all conquest did of right
Belong to him, bids them prepare to fight;
Which if they should delay one hour, he swears
He'll leave them to their dangers, or their fears,
And shame, which is the ignoble coward's choice.
At this the army seemed to have one voice,
United in a shout, and called upon
The god-like stranger, "Lead us, lead us on."
Make haste, great sir, lest you should come too late,
To share with them in victory, or fate.
_Zemp_. My general, go; the gods be on our side;
Let valour act, but let discretion guide.
[_Exit_ TRAX.
Great god of vengeance,
I see thou dost begin to hear me now:
Make me thy offering, if I break my vow. [_Exeunt_.
ACT II. SCENE I.
_Enter_ INCA _and_ ORAZIA, _as pursued in a battle_.
_Oraz_. O fly, sir, fly; like torrents your swift foes
Come rolling on--
_Inca_. The gods can but destroy.
The noblest way to fly is that death shows;
I'll court her now, since victory's grown coy.
_Oraz_. Death's winged to your pursuit, and yet you wait
To meet her--
_Inca_. Poor Orazia, time and fate
Must once o'ertake me, though I now should fly.
_Oraz_. Do not meet death; but when it comes, then die.
_Enter three Soldiers_.
_3 Sold_. Stand, sir, and yield yourself, and that fair prey.
_Inca_. You speak to one, unpractised to obey.
_Enter_ MONTEZUMA.
_Mont_. Hold, villains, hold, or your rude lives shall be
Lost in the midst of your own victory:
These have I hunted for;--nay, do not stare;
Be gone, and in the common plunder share.
[_Exeunt Soldiers_.
How different is my fate, from theirs, whose fame
From conquest grows! from conquest grows my shame.
_Inca_. Why dost thou pause? thou canst not give me back,
With fruitless grief, what I enjoyed before;
No more than seas, repenting of a wreck,
Can with a calm our buried wealth restore.
_Mont_. 'Twere vain to own repentance, since I know
Thy scorn, which did my passions once despise,
Once more would make my swelling anger flow,
Which now ebbs lower than your miseries:
The gods, that in my fortunes were unkind,
Gave me not sceptres, nor such gilded things;
But, whilst I wanted crowns, enlarged my mind
To despise sceptres, and dispose of kings.
_Inca_. Thou art but grown a rebel by success,
And I, that scorned Orazia should be tied
To thee my slave, must now esteem thee less:
Rebellion is a greater guilt than pride.
_Mont_. Princes see others' faults, but not their own;
'Twas you that broke that bond, and set me free:
Yet I attempted not to climb your throne,
And raise myself; but level you to me.
_Oraz_. O, Montezuma, could thy love engage
Thy soul so little, or make banks so low
About thy heart, that thy revenge and rage,
Like sudden floods, so soon should overflow?
Ye gods, how much I was mistaken here!
I thought you gentle as the gall-less dove;
But you as humoursome as winds appear,
And subject to more passions than your love.
_Mont_. How have I been betrayed by guilty rage,
Which, like a flame, rose to so vast a height,
That nothing could resist, nor yet assuage,
Till it wrapt all things in one cruel fate.
But I'll redeem myself, and act such things,
That you shall blush Orazia was denied;
And yet make conquest, though with wearied wings,
Take a new flight to your own fainting side.
_Inca_. Vain man, what foolish thoughts fill thy swelled mind!
It is too late our ruin to recall;
Those, that have once great buildings undermined,
Will prove too weak to prop them in their fall.
_Enter_ TRAXALLA, _with the former soldiers_.
_1 Sold_. See, mighty sir, where the bold stranger stands,
Who snatched these glorious prisoners from our hands.
_Trax_. 'Tis the great Inca; seize him as my prey,
To crown the triumphs of this glorious day.
_Mont_. Stay your bold hands from reaching at what's mine,
If any title springs from victory;
You safer may attempt to rob a shrine,
And hope forgiveness from the deity.
_Enter_ ACACIS.
_Trax_. O, my dear prince, my joys to see you live
Are more than all that victory can give.
_Aca_. How are my best endeavours crost by fate!
Else you had ne'er been lost, or found so late.
Hurried by the wild fury of the fight,
Far from your presence, and Orazia's sight,
I could not all that care and duty show,
Which, as your captive, mighty prince, I owe.
_Inca_. You often have preserved our lives this day,
And one small debt with many bounties pay.
But human actions hang on springs, that be
Too small, or too remote, for us to see.
My glories freely I to yours resign,
And am your prisoner now, that once were mine.
_Mont_. These prisoners, sir, are mine by right of war;
And I'll maintain that right, if any dare.
_Trax_. Yes, I would snatch them from thy weak defence;
But that due reverence, which I owe my prince,
Permits me not to quarrel in his sight;
To him I shall refer his general's right.
_Mont_. I knew too well what justice I should find
From an armed plaintiff, and a judge so kind.
_Aca_. Unkindly urged, that I should use thee so;
Thy virtue is my rival, not my foe;
The prisoners fortune gave thee shall be thine.
_Trax_. Would you so great a prize to him resign?
_Aca_. Should he, who boldly for his prey designed
To dive the deepest under swelling tides,
Have the less title if he chance to find
The richest jewel that the ocean hides?
They are his due--
But in his virtue I repose that trust,
That he will be as kind as I am just:
Dispute not my commands, but go with haste,
Rally our men, they may pursue too fast,
And the disorders of the inviting prey
May turn again the fortune of the day.
[_Exit_ TRAX.
_Mont_. How gentle all this prince's actions be!
Virtue is calm in him, but rough in me.
_Aca_. Can Montezuma place me in his breast?
_Mont_. My heart's not large enough for such a guest.
_Aca_. See, Montezuma, see, Orazia weeps.
[ORAZ. _weeps_.
_Mont_. Acacis! is he deaf, or, waking, sleeps?
He does not hear me, sees me not, nor moves;
How firm his eyes are on Orazia fixt!
Gods, that take care of men, let not our loves
Become divided by their being mixt.
_Aca_. Weep not, fair princess, nor believe you are
A prisoner, subject to the chance of war;
Why should you waste the stock of those fair eyes,
That from mankind can take their liberties?
And you, great sir, think not a generous mind
To virtuous princes dares appear unkind,
Because those princes are unfortunate,
Since over all men hangs a doubtful fate:
One gains by what another is bereft;
The frugal deities have only left
A common bank of happiness below,
Maintained, like nature, by an ebb and flow.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
ZEMPOALLA _appears seated upon a throne, frowning
upon her attendants; then comes down and speaks.
Zemp_. No more, you, that above your prince's
dare proclaim,
With your rebellious breath, a stranger's name.
_1 Peru_. Dread empress--
_Zemp_. Slaves, perhaps you grieve to see
Your young prince glorious, 'cause he sprang from me;
Had he been one of base Amexia's brood,
Your tongues, though silent now, had then been
loud.
_Enter TRAXALLA_.
Traxalla, welcome; welcomer to me
Than what thou bring'st, a crown and victory.
_Trax_. All I have done is nothing; fluttering
fame
Now tells no news, but of the stranger's name,
And his great deeds; 'tis he, they cry, by whom
Not men, but war itself is overcome;
Who, bold with his success, dares think to have
A prince to wear his chains, and be his slave.
_Zemp_. What prince?
_Trax_. The great Peruvian Inca, that of late
In three set battles was so fortunate,
Till this strange man had power to turn the tide,
And carry conquest into any side.
_Zemp_. Would you permit a private man to have
The great Peruvian Inca for his slave?
Shame to all princes! was it not just now
I made a sacred, and a solemn vow,
To offer up (if blest with victory)
The prisoners that were took? and they shall die.
_Trax_. I soon had snatched from this proud stranger's hand
That too great object for his bold demand;
Had not the prince, your son, to whom I owe
A kind obedience, judged it should be so.
_Zemp_. I'll hear no more; go quickly take my guards,
And from that man force those usurped rewards;
That prince, upon whose ruins I must rise,
Shall be the gods', but more my sacrifice:
They, with my slaves, in triumph shall be tied,
While my devotion justifies my pride:
Those deities, in whom I place my trust,
Shall see, when they are kind, that I am just. [_Exit_.
_Trax_. How gladly I obey!
There's something shoots from my enlivened frame,
Like a new soul, but yet without a name,
Nor can I tell what the bold guest will prove;
It must be envy, or it must be love:
Let it be either, 'tis the greatest bliss
For man to grant himself, all he dares wish;
For he, that to himself himself denies,
Proves meanly wretched, to be counted wise.
[_Exit_ TRAXALLA.
SCENE III.
_Enter_ MONTEZUMA _and_ ACACIS.
_Aca_. You wrong, me, my best friend, not to believe
Your kindness gives me joy; and when I grieve,
Unwillingly my sorrows I obey:
Showers sometimes fall upon a shining day.
_Mont._. Let me, then, share your griefs, that in
your fate
Would have took part.
_Aca_. Why should you ask me that?
Those must be mine, though I have such excess;
Divided griefs increase, and not grow less.
_Mont_. It does not lessen fate, nor satisfy
The grave, 'tis true, when friends together die;
And yet they are unwilling to divide.
_Aca_. To such a friend nothing can be denied.
You, when you hear my story, will forgive
My grief, and rather wonder that I live;
Unhappy in my title to a throne,
Since blood made way for my succession:
Blood of an uncle too, a prince so free
From being cruel, it taught cruelty.
His queen Amexia then was big with child;
Nor was he gentler than his queen was mild;
Th'impatient people longed for what should come
From such a father, bred in such a womb;
When false Traxalla, weary to obey,
Took with his life their joys and hopes away.
Amexia, by the assistance of the night,
When this dark deed was acted, took her flight;
Only with true Garucca for her aid:
Since when, for all the searches that were made,
The queen was never heard of more: Yet still
This traitor lives, and prospers by the ill:
Nor does my mother seem to reign alone,
But with this monster shares the guilt and throne.
Horror choaks up my words: now you'll believe,
'Tis just I should do nothing else but grieve.
_Mont_. Excellent prince!
How great a proof of virtue have you shown,
To be concerned for griefs, though not your own!
_Aca_. Pray, say no more.
_Enter a Messenger hastily_.
_Mont_. How now, whither so fast?
_Mess_. O sir, I come too slow with all my haste!
The fair Orazia--
_Mont_. Ha, what dost thou say?
_Mess_. Orazia with the Inca's forced away
Out of your tent; Traxalla, in the head
Of the rude soldiers, forced the door, and led,
Those glorious captives, who on thrones once shined,
To grace the triumph, that is now designed. [_Exit_.
_Mont_. Orazia forced away!--what tempests roll
About my thoughts, and toss my troubled soul!
Can there be gods to see, and suffer this?
Or does mankind make his own fate or bliss;
While every good and bad happens by chance,
Not from their orders, but their ignorance?--
I will pull a ruin on them all,
And turn their triumph to a funeral.
_Aca_. Be temperate, friend.
_Mont_. You may as well advise
That I should have less love, as grow more wise.
_Aca_. Yet stay--I did not think to have revealed
A secret, which my heart has still concealed;
But, in this cause since I must share with you,
'Tis fit you know--I love Orazia too:
Delay not then, nor waste the time in words,
Orazia's cause calls only for our swords.
_Mont_. That ties my hand, and turns from thee that rage
Another way, thy blood should else assuage:
The storm on our proud foes shall higher rise,
And, changing, gather blackness as it flies:
So, when winds turn, the wandering waves obey,
And all the tempest rolls another way.
_Aca_. Draw then a rival's sword, as I draw mine.
And, like friends suddenly to part, let's join
In this one act, to seek one destiny;
Rivals with honour may together die. [_Exeunt_.
ACT III. SCENE I.
ZEMPOALLA _appears seated upon her Slaves in triumph,
and the Indians, as to celebrate the victory,
advance in a warlike dance; in the midst of which
triumph_, ACACIS _and_ MONTEZUMA _fall in upon
them_.
ZEMPOALLA _descends from her triumphant throne,
and_ ACACIS _and_ MONTEZUMA _are brought in before
her.
Zemp_. Shame of my blood, and traitor to thy own:
Born to dishonour, not command a throne!
Hast thou, with envious eyes, my triumph seen?
Or couldst not see thy mother in thy queen?
Couldst thou a stranger above me prefer?
_Aca_. It was my honour made my duty err;
I could not see his prisoners forced away,
To whom I owed my life, and you the day.
_Zemp_. Is that young man the warrior so renowned?
_Mont_. Yes, he, that made thy men thrice quit their ground.
Do, smile at Montezuma's chains; but know,
His valour gave thee power to use him so.
_Trax_. Grant that it did, what can his merits be,
That sought his vengeance, not our victory?
What has thy brutish fury gained us more,
Than only healed the wounds, it gave before?
Die then, for, whilst thou liv'st, wars cannot cease;
Thou may'st bring victory, but never peace.
Like a black storm thou roll'st about us all,
Even to thyself unquiet, till thy fall.
[_Draws to kill him_.
_Aca_. Unthankful villain, hold!
_Trax_. You must not give
Him succour, sir.
_Aca_. Why then, I must not live.
Posterity shall ne'er report, they had
Such thankless fathers, or a prince so bad.
_Zemp_. You're both too bold to will or to deny:
On me alone depends his destiny.
Tell me, audacious stranger, whence could rise
The confidence of this rash enterprise?
_Mont_. First tell me, how you dared to force from me
The fairest spoils of my own victory?
_Zemp_. Kill him--hold, must he die?--why, let him die;--
Whence should proceed this strange diversity.
In my resolves?
Does he command in chains? What would he do,
Proud slave, if he were free, and I were so?
But is he bound, ye gods, or am I free?
'Tis love, 'tis love, that thus disorders me.
How pride and love tear my divided soul!
For each too narrow, yet both claim it whole:
Love, as the younger, must be forced away.--
Hence with the captives, general, and convey
To several prisons that young man, and this
Peruvian woman.
_Trax_. How concerned she is!
I must know more.
_Mont_. Fair princess, why should I
Involve that sweetness in my destiny?
I could out-brave my death, were I alone
To suffer, but my fate must pull yours on.
My breast is armed against all sense of fear;
But where your image lies, 'tis tender there.
_Inca_. Forbear thy saucy love, she cannot be
So low, but still she is too high for thee.
_Zemp_. Be gone, and do as I command; away!
_Mont_. I ne'er was truly wretched till this day.
_Oraz_. Think half your sorrows on Orazia fall,
And be not so unkind to suffer all:
Patience, in cowards, is tame hopeless fear,
But, in brave minds, a scorn of what they bear.
[_Exit Inca_, MONTEZUMA, ORAZIA, _and_ TRAXALLA.
_Zemp_. What grief is this which in your face appears?
_Aca_. The badge of sorrow, which my soul still wears.
_Zemp_. Though thy late actions did my anger move,
It cannot rob thee of a mother's love.
Why shouldst thou grieve?
Grief seldom joined with blooming youth is seen;
Can sorrow be where knowledge scarce has been?
Fortune does well for heedless youth provide,
But wisdom does unlucky age misguide;
Cares are the train of present power and state,
But hope lives best that on himself does wait:
O happiest fortune if well understood,
The certain prospect of a future good!
_Aca_. What joy can empire bring me, when I know
That all my greatness to your crimes I owe:
_Zemp_. Yours be the joy, be mine the punishment.
_Aca_. In vain, alas, that wish to Heaven is sent
For me, if fair Orazia must not live.
_Zemp_. Why should you ask me what I cannot
give?
She must be sacrificed: Can I bestow
What to the gods, by former vows, I owe?
_Aca_. O plead not vows; I wish you had not shown
You slighted all things sacred for a throne.
_Zemp_. I love thee so, that, though fear follows still,
And horror urges, all that have been ill,
I could for thee
Act o'er my crimes again; and not repent,
Even when I bore the shame and punishment.
_Aca_. Could you so many ill acts undertake,
And not perform one good one for my sake?
_Zemp_. Prudence permits not pity should be shown
To those, that raised the war to shake my throne.
_Aca_. As you are wise, permit me to be just;
What prudence will not venture, honour must;
We owe our conquest to the stranger's sword,
Tis just his prisoners be to him restored.
I love Orazia; but a nobler way,
Than for my love my honour to betray.
_Zemp_. Honour is but an itch of youthful blood,
Of doing acts extravagantly good;
We call that virtue, which is only heat
That reigns in youth, till age finds out the cheat.
_Aca_. Great actions first did her affections move,
And I, by greater, would regain her love.
_Zemp_. Urge not a suit which I must still deny;
Orazia and her father both shall die:
Begone, I'll hear no more.
_Aca_. You stop your ears--
But though a mother will not, Heaven will hear;
Like you I vow, when to the powers divine
You pay her guiltless blood, I'll offer mine. [_Exit_.
_Zemp_. She dies, this happy rival, that enjoys
The stranger's love, and all my hopes destroys;
Had she triumphed, what could she more have done,
Than robbed the mother, and enslaved the son?
Nor will I, at the name of cruel, stay:
Let dull successive monarchs mildly sway:
Their conquering fathers did the laws forsake,
And broke the old, ere they the new could make,
I must pursue my love; yet love, enjoyed,
Will, with esteem, that caused it first, grow less:
But thirst and hunger fear not to be cloyed,
And when they be, are cured by their excess.
_Enter_ TRAXALLA.
_Trax_. Now I shall see, what thoughts her heart
conceals;
For that, which wisdom covers, love reveals. [_Aside_.
Madam, the prisoners are disposed.
_Zemp_. They are?
And how fares our young blustering man of war?
Does he support his chains with patience yet?
_Trax_. He, and the princess, madam--
_Zemp_. Are they met?
_Trax_. No: but from whence is all this passion
grown?
_Zemp_. 'Twas a mistake.
_Trax_. I find this rash unknown
Is dangerous; and, if not timely slain,
May plunge your empire in new wars again.
_Zemp_. Thank ye; I shall consider.
_Trax_. Is that all?
The army doat on him, already call
You cruel; and, for aught I know, they may
By force unchain, and crown him in a day.
_Zemp_. You say, I have already had their curse
For his bad usage; should I use him worse?
_Trax_. Yet once you feared his reputation might
Obscure the prince's in the people's sight.
_Zemp_. Time will inform us best what course to
steer,
But let us not our sacred vows defer:
The Inca and his daughter both shall die.
_Trax_. He suffers justly for the war; but why
Should she share his sad fate? A poor pretence,
That birth should make a crime of innocence.
_Zemp_. Yet we destroy the poisonous viper's young,
Not for themselves, but those from whom they
sprung.
_Trax_. O no, they die not for their parents' sake,
But for the poisonous seed which they partake.
Once more behold her, and then let her die,
If in that face or person you can see
But any place to fix a cruelty.
The heavens have clouds, and spots are in the moon;
But faultless beauty shines in her alone.
_Zemp_. Beauty has wrought compassion in your
mind!
_Trax_. And you to valour are become as kind.
To former services there's something due,
Yet be advised--
_Zemp_. Yes, by myself, not you.
_Trax_. Princes are sacred.
_Zemp_. True, whilst they are free:
But power once lost, farewell their sanctity:
'Tis power, to which the gods their worship owe,
Which, uncontrouled, makes all things just below:
Thou dost the plea of saucy rebels use;
They will be judge of what their prince must chuse:
Hard fate of monarchs, not allowed to know
When safe, but as their subjects tell them so.
Then princes but like public pageants move,
And seem to sway, because they sit above. [_Exit_.
_Trax_. She loves him; in one moment this new
guest
Has drove me out from this false woman's breast;
They, that would fetter love with constancy,
Make bonds to chain themselves, but leave him free
With what impatience I her falsehood bear!
Yet do myself that, which I blame in her;
But interest in my own cause makes me see
That act unjust in her, but just in me. [_Exit_.
SCENE II.
ISMERON _asleep.--Enter_ ZEMPOALLA.
_Zemp_. Ho, Ismeron, Ismeron!
He stirs not; ha, in such a dismal cell
Can gentle sleep with his soft blessings dwell?
Must I feel tortures in a human breast,
While beasts and monsters can enjoy their rest?
What quiet they possess in sleep's calm bliss!
The lions cease to roar, the snakes to hiss,
While I am kept awake,
Only to entertain my miseries.
Or if a slumber steal upon my eyes,
Some horrid dream my labouring soul benumbs
And brings fate to me sooner than it comes.
Fears most oppress when sleep has seized upon
The outward parts, and left the soul alone.
What envied blessings these cursed things enjoy!
Next to possess, 'tis pleasure to destroy.
Ismeron! ho, Ismeron, Ismeron! [_Stamps_.
_Ism_. Who's that, that with so loud and fierce a call
Disturbs my rest?
_Zemp_. She, that has none at all,
Nor ever must, unless thy powerful art
Can charm the passions of a troubled heart.
_Ism_. How can you have a discontented mind,
To whom the gods have lately been so kind?
_Zemp_. Their envious kindness how can I enjoy,
When they give blessings, and the use destroy?
_Ism_. Dread empress, tell the cause of all your grief;
If art can help, be sure of quick relief.
_Zemp_. I dreamed, before the altar that I led
A mighty lion in a twisted thread;
I shook to hold him in so slight a tie,
Yet had not power to seek a remedy:
When, in the midst of all my fears, a clove,
With hovering wings, descended from above,
Flew to the lion, and embraces spread,
With wings, like clasping arms, about his head,
Making that murmuring noise that cooing doves
Use, in the soft expression of their loves;
While I, fixed by my wonder, gazed to see
So mild a creature with so fierce agree:
At last the gentle dove turned from his head,
And, pecking, tried to break the slender thread,
Which instantly she severed, and released
From that small bond the fierce and mighty beast,
Who presently turned all his rage on me,
And, with his freedom, brought my destiny.
_Ism_. Dread empress, this strange vision you relate
Is big with wonder, and too full of fate,
Without the god's assistance, to expound.
In those low regions, where sad night hangs round
The drowsy vaults, and where moist vapours steep
The god's dull brows, that sways the realm of sleep;
There all the informing elements repair,
Swift messengers of water, fire, and air,
To give account of actions, whence they came,
And how they govern every mortal frame;
How, from their various mixture, or their strife,
Are known the calms and tempests of our life:
Thence souls, when sleep their bodies overcome,
Have some imperfect knowledge of their doom.
From those dark caves those powers shall strait appear;
Be not afraid, whatever shapes they wear.
_Zemp_. There's nothing, thou canst raise, can make me start;
A living form can only shake my heart.
_Ism_. _You twice ten hundred deities,
To whom we daily sacrifice;
You powers, that dwell with fate below,
And see what men are doomed to do;
Where elements in discord dwell;
Thou god of sleep, arise and tell
Great Zempoalla what strange fate
Must on her dismal vision wait._
_Zemp_. How slow these spirits are! Call, make them rise,
Or they shall fast from flame and sacrifice.
_Ism_. Great empress,
Let not your rage offend what we adore,
And vainly threaten, when we must implore.
Sit silently, and attend--
While my powerful charms I end.
_By the croaking of the toad,
In their caves that make abode;
Earthy Dun that pants for breath,
With her swelled sides full of death;
By the crested adders' pride,
That along the clifts do glide;
By thy visage fierce and black;
By the death's-head on thy back;
By the twisted serpents placed
For a girdle round thy waist;
By the hearts of gold that deck
Thy breast, thy shoulders, and thy neck:
From thy sleepy mansion rise,
And open thy unwilling eyes,
While bubbling springs their music keep,
That use to lull thee in thy sleep._
_God of Dreams rises_.
_God_. Seek not to know what must not be revealed;
Joys only flow where fate is most concealed:
Too busy man would find his sorrows more,
If future fortunes he should know before;
For, by that knowledge of his destiny,
He would not live at all, but always die.
Enquire not, then, who shall from bonds be freed,
Who 'tis shall wear a crown, and who shall bleed:
All must submit to their appointed doom;
Fate and misfortune will too quickly come:
Let me no more with powerful charms be pressed;
I am forbid by fate to tell the rest.
[_The god descends_.
_Zemp_. Stay, cozener, thou, that hat'st clear truth like light,
And usest words dark as thy own dull night.
You tyrant gods, do you refuse to free
The soul, you gave, from its perplexity?
Why should we in your mercies still believe,
When you can never pity, though we grieve?
For you have bound yourselves by harsh decrees;
And those, not you, are now the deities.
[_Sits down sad_.
_Ism_. She droops under the weight of rage and care:
You spirits, that inhabit in the air,
With all your powerful charms of music, try
To bring-her soul back to its harmony.
SONG SUNG BY AERIAL SPIRITS.
_Poor mortals, that are clogged with earth below,
Sink under love and care,
While we, that dwell in air,
Such heavy passions never know.
Why then should mortals be
Unwilling to be free
From blood, that sullen cloud,
Which shining souls does shroud?
Then they'll shew bright,
And like us light,
When leaving bodies with their care,
They slide to us and air_.
_Zemp_. Death on these trifles! Cannot your art find
Some means, to ease the passions of the mind?
Or, if you cannot give a lover rest,
Can you force love into a scornful breast?
_Ism_. Tis reason only can make passions less;
Art gives not new, but may the old increase;
Nor can it alter love in any breast,
That is with other flames before possessed.
_Zemp_. If this be all your slighted arts can do,
I'll kindle other flames, since I must burn,
And all their temples into ashes turn.
_Ism_. Great queen--
_Zemp. If you would have this sentence staid,
Summon their godheads quickly to your aid,
And presently compose a charm, that may
Love's flames into the stranger's breast convey,
The captive stranger, he whose sword and eyes
Wheree'er they strike, meet ready victories:
Make him but burn for me, in flames like mine,
Victims shall bleed, and feasted altars shine:
If not--
Down go your temples, and your gods shall see
They have small use of their divinity. [_Exeunt_.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.--_The scene opens, and discovers_ MONTEZUMA
_sleeping in prison_.
_Enter_ TRAXALLA _leading in_ ORAZIA.
_Trax_. Now take your choice, and bid him live or die;
To both shew pity, or shew cruelty:
'Tis you that must condemn, I'll only act;
Your sentence is more cruel than my fact.
_Oraz_. You are most cruel, to disturb a mind,
Which to approaching fate was so resigned.
_Trax_. Reward my passion, and you'll quickly prove
There's none dare sacrifice what I dare love.
Next to thee, stranger; wake, and now resign
The bold pretences of thy love to mine,
Or in this fatal minute thou shalt find--
_Mont_. Death, fool; in that thou may'st be just and kind:
'Twas I that loved Orazia, yet did raise
The storm, in which she sinks: Why dost thou gaze,
Or stay thy hand from giving that just stroke,
Which, rather than prevent, I would provoke?
When I am dead, Orazia may forgive;
She never must, if I dare wish to live.
_Oraz_. Hold, hold--O Montezuma, can you be
So careless of yourself, but more of me?
Though you have brought me to this misery,
I blush to say I cannot see you die.
_Mont_. Can my approaching fate such pity move?
The gods and you at once forgive and love.
_Trax_. Fond fool, thus to mis-spend that little breath
I lent thee to prevent, not hasten, death:
Let her thank you she was unfortunate,
And you thank her for pulling on your fate;
Prove to each other your own destinies. [_Draws_.
_Enter_ ZEMPOALLA _hastily, and sets a dagger to_
ORAZIA'S _breast._
_Zemp_. Hold, hold, Traxalla, or Orazia dies.--
O, is't Orazia's name that makes you stay?
'Tis her great power, not mine, that you obey.
Inhuman wretch, dar'st thou the murderer be
Of him, that is not yet condemned by me?
_Trax_. The wretch, that gave you all the power you have,
May venture sure to execute a slave;
And quench a flame your fondness would have burn,
Which may this city into ashes turn,
The nation in your guilty passion lost;
To me ungrateful, to your country most:
But this shall be their offering, I their priest.
_Zemp_. The wounds, thou giv'st, I'll copy on her breast:
Strike, and I'll open here a spring of blood,
Shall add new rivers to the crimson flood.
How his pale looks are fixed on her!--'tis so.
Oh, does amazement on your spirits grow?
What, is your public love Orazia's grown?
Could'st thou see mine, and yet not hide thy own?
Suppose I should strike first, would it not breed
Grief in your public heart to see her bleed?
_Trax_. She mocks my passion; in her sparkling eyes
Death, and a close dissembled fury lies:
I dare not trust her thus. [_Aside_.]--If she must die,
The way to her loved life through mine shall lie.
[_He puts her by, and steps before_ ORAZIA; _and
she runs before_ MONTEZUMA.
_Zemp_. And he, that does this stranger's fate design,
Must, to his heart, a passage force through mine.
_Trax_. Can fair Orazia yet no pity have?
'Tis just she should her own preserver save.
_Zemp_. Can Montezuma so ungrateful prove
To her, that gave him life, and offers love?
_Oraz_. Can Montezuma live, and live to be
Just to another, and unjust to me?
You need not be ungrateful; can she give
A life to you, if you refuse to live?--
Forgive my passion; I had rather see
You dead, than kind to any thing but me.
_Mont_. O, my Orazia!
To what new joys and knowledge am I brought!
Are death's hard lessons by a woman taught?
How to despise my fate I always knew;
But ne'er durst think, at once, of death and you:
Yet since you teach this generous jealousy,
I dare not wish your life, if I must die.
How much your love my courage does exceed!
Courage alone would shrink to see you bleed!
_Zemp_. Ungrateful stranger! thou shalt please thy eyes,
And gaze upon Orazia while she dies!--
I'll keep my vow!--It is some joy to see,
That my revenge will prove my piety.
_Trax_. Then both shall die!--We have too long withstood,
By private passions urged, the public good.
_Zemp_. Sure he dissembles; and, perhaps, may prove
My ruin, with his new ambitious love:
Were but this stranger kind, I'd cross his art,
And give my empire, where I gave my heart.
[_Aside_. Yet, thou ungrateful man,
Let thy approaching ruin make thee wise.
_Mont_. Thee, and thy love, and mischief, I despise!
_Zemp_. What shall I do? Some way must yet be tried;--
What reason can she use whom passions guide!
[_Aside. Trax_. Some black designs are hatching now:--False eyes
Are quick to see another's treacheries.
[_Aside. Zemp_. Rash stranger, thus to pull down thy own fate!
_Mont_. You, and that life you offer me, I hate.
_Enter Jailor_.
_Zemp_. Here, jailor, take--What title must he have?
Slave, slave!--Am I then captive to a slave?--
Why art thou thus unwilling to be free?
_Mont_. Death will release me from these chains, and thee.
_Zemp_. Here, jailor, take this monster from my sight,
And keep him where it may be always night.
Let none come near him; if thou dost, expect
To pay thy life, the price of the neglect.
_Mont_. I scorn thy pity, and thy cruelty;
And should despise a blessing sent from thee.
_Zemp_. O, horror to my soul! take him away!--
My rage, like dammed-up streams, swelled by some stay,
Shall, from this opposition, get new force,
And leave the bound of its old easy course.--
Come, my Traxalla, let us both forgive,
And in these wretches' fates begin to live.
The altars shall be crowned with funeral boughs,
Peace-offerings paid,--but with unquiet vows.
[_Exeunt_ ZEMP. _and_ TRAX.
_Oraz_. How are things ordered, that the wicked should
Appear more kind and gentle than the good?
Her passion seems to make her kinder prove,
And I seem cruel through excess of love:
She loves, and would prevent his death; but I,
That love him better, fear he should not die.
My jealousy, immortal as my love,
Would rob my grave below, and me above,
Of rest.--Ye gods, if I repine, forgive!
You neither let me die in peace, nor live.
_Enter_ ACACIS, _Jailor, and Indian_.
_Jail_. They are just gone, sir.
_Aca_. 'Tis well: Be faithful to my just design,
And all thy prince's fortune shall be thine.
[_Exit_ ACACIS.
_Ind_. This shall to the empress. [_Exit Indian_.
_Oraz_. What can this mean!--
'Twas Prince Acacis, if I durst believe
My sight; but sorrow may like joy deceive:
Each object different from itself appears,
That comes not to the eyes, but through their tears.
_Enter_ ACACIS, _bringing in_ MONTEZUMA.
Ha!--
_Aca_. Here, sir, wear this again;--[_Gives a sword_.
Now follow me.
_Mont_. So, very good;--
I dare not think, for I may guess amiss;
None can deceive me while I trust in this. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Enter_ ORAZIA, _conducted by two Indians with their
swords drawn;_ MONTEZUMA, ACACIS _whispering
another Indian_.
_Aca_. Think what a weight upon thy faith I lay.
_Ind_. I ne'er did more unwillingly obey.
_Aca_. First, Montezuma, take thy liberty;
Thou gavest me freedom, here I set thee free:
We're equal now. Madam, the danger's great
Of close pursuit; to favour your retreat,
Permit we two a little while remain
Behind, while you go softly o'er the plain.
_Oraz_. Why should I go before?--What's your intent?--
Where is my father?--Whither am I sent?
_Aca_. Your doubts shall soon be cleared. Conduct her on.
[_Exit_ ORAZIA.
So, Montezuma, we are now alone.
That which my honour owed thee I have paid;
As honour was, so love must be obeyed.
I set Orazia, as thy captive, free;
But, as my mistress, ask her back from thee.
_Mont_. Thou hast performed what honour bid thee do:
But friendship bars what honour prompts me to.--
Friends should not fight.
_Aca_. If friendship we profess,
Let us secure each others happiness:
One needs must die, and he shall happy prove
In her remembrance, t'other in her love.
My guards wait near; and, if I fail, they must
Give up Orazia, or betray their trust.
_Mont_. Suppose thou conquer'st, would'st thou wander o'er
The south-sea sands, or the rough northern shore,
That parts thy spacious kingdom from Peru,
And, leaving empire, hopeless love pursue?
_Aca_. By which of all my actions could you guess,
Though more your merit, that my love was less?
What prize can empire with Orazia bear?
Or, where love fills the breast, what room for fear?
_Mont_. Let fair Orazia then the sentence give,
Else he may die whom she desires to live.
_Aca_. Your greater merits bribe her to your side;
My weaker title must by arms be tried.
_Mont_. Oh, tyrant love! how cruel are thy laws!
I forfeit friendship, or betray thy cause:
That person, whom I would defend from all
The world, that person by my hand must fall.
_Aca_. Our lives we to each others friendship owe;
But love calls back what friendship did bestow:
Love has its cruelties, but friendship none;
And we now fight in quarrels not our own. [_Fight.
Enter_ ORAZIA.
_Oraz_. What noise is this?--
Hold, hold! what cause could be so great, to move
This furious hatred?--
_Mont_. 'Twas our furious love.--
_Aca_. Love, which I hid till I had set you free,
And bought your pardon with my liberty;
That done, I thought, I less unjustly might
With Montezuma, for Orazia, fight;
He has prevailed, and I must now confess
His fortune greater, not my passion less;
Yet cannot yield you, till his sword remove
A dying rival, that holds fast his love.
_Oraz_. Whoever falls, 'tis my protector still,
And then the crime's as great, to die as kill.--
Acacis, do not hopeless love pursue;
But live, and this soft malady subdue.
_Aca_. You bid me live, and yet command me die!
I am not worth your care;--Fly, madam, fly!
(While I fall here unpitied) o'er this plain,
Free from pursuit, the faithless mountains gain;
And these I charge,
As they would have me think their friendship true,
Leave me alone, to serve, and follow you:
Make haste, fair princess, to avoid that fate,
Which does for your unhappy father wait.
_Oraz_. Is he then left to die, and shall he see
Himself forsaken, ere his death, by me?
_Mont_. That would you do?
_Oraz_. To prison I'll return,
And there, in fetters, with my father mourn.
_Mont_. That saves not his, but throws your life
away.
_Oraz_. Duty shall give what nature once must
pay.
_Aca_. Life is the gift, which heaven and parents
give,
And duty best preserves it, if you live.
_Oraz_. I should but further from my fountain fly,
And, like an unfed stream, run on and die:
Urge me no more, and do not grieve to see
Your honour rivalled by my piety.
[_She goes softly of, and often looks back_.
_Mont_. If honour would not, shame would lead the way;
I'll back with her.
_Aca_. Stay, Montezuma, stay!--
Thy rival cannot let thee go alone,
My love will bear me, though my blood is gone.
[_As they are going off,_
_Enter_ ZEMPOALLA, TRAXALLA, _the Indian that
went to tell her, and the rest, and seize them_.
_Zemp_. Seize them!--
_Aca_. Oh, Montezuma, thou art lost.
_Mont_. No more, proud heart, thy useless courage boast!--
Courage, thou curse of the unfortunate!
That canst encounter, not resist, ill fate.
_Zemp_. Acacis bleeds!--
What barbarous hand has wounded thus my son?
_Mont_. 'Twas I; by my unhappy sword 'twas done.--
Thou bleed'st, poor prince, and I am left to grieve
My rival's fall.
_Trax_. He bleeds, but yet may live.
_Aca_. Friendship and love my failing strength renew;
I dare not die, when I should live for you;
My death were now my crime, as it would be
My guilt to live when I have set you free:
Thus I must still remain unfortunate,
Your life and death are equally my fate.
ORAZIA _comes back_.
_Oraz_. A noise again!--alas, what do I see!
Love, thou didst once give place to piety:
Now, piety, let love triumph awhile;--
Here, bind my hands: Come, Montezuma, smile
At fortune; since thou sufferest for my sake,
Orazia will her captive's chains partake.
_Mont_. Now, fate, thy worst.
_Zemp_. Lead to the temple straight,
A priest and altar for these lovers wait:
They shall be joined, they shall.
_Trax_. And I will prove
Those joys in vengeance, which I want in love.
_Aca_. I'll quench your thirst with blood, and will destroy
Myself, and, with myself, your cruel joy.
Now, Montezuma, since Orazia dies,
I'll fall before thee, the first sacrifice;
My title in her death shall exceed thine,
As much as, in her life, thy hopes did mine:
And when with our mixed blood the altar's dyed,
Then our new title let the gods decide.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT V. SCENE I.
_The Scene opens, and discovers the Temple of the Sun,
all of gold, and four Priests, in habits of white and
red feathers, attending by a bloody altar, as ready
for sacrifice.
Then enter the Guards_, ZEMPOALLA, _and_ TRAXALLA;
_Inca_, ORAZIA, _and_ MONTEZUMA,_ bound. As soon
as they are placed, the Priest sings_.
SONG.
_You to whom victory we owe,
Whose glories rise
By sacrifice,
And from our fates below;
Never did your altars shine
Feasted with blood so near divine;
Princes to whom we bow,
As they to you:--
Thus you can ravish from a throne,
And, by their loss of power, declare your own._
_Zemp_. Now to inflict those punishments, that are
Due to the authors of invasive war;
Who, to deceive the oppressed world, like you,
Invent false quarrels to conceal the true.
_Inca_. My quarrel was the same, that all the gods
Must have to thee, if there be any odds
Betwixt those titles that are bad or good,
To crowns descended, or usurped by blood:--
Swell not with this success; 'twas not to thee,
But to this man, the gods gave victory.
_Mont_. Since I must perish by my own success,
Think my misfortunes more, my crimes the less;
And so, forgiving, make me pleased to die,
Thus punished for this guilty victory.
_Inca_. Death can make virtue easy; I forgive:
That word would prove too hard, were I to live;
The honour of a prince would then deny,
But in the grave all our distinctions die.
_Mont_. Forgive me one thing yet; to say, I love,
Let it no more your scorn and anger move;
Since, dying in one flame, my ashes must
Embrace and mingle with Orazia's dust.
_Inca_. Name thy bold love no more, lest that last breath,
Which should forgive, I stifle with my death.
_Oraz_. Oh, my dear father! Oh, why may not I,
Since you gave life to me, for you now die?
_Mont_. 'Tis I, that wrought this mischief, ought to fall
A just and willing sacrifice for all.
Now, Zempoalla, be both just and kind,
And, in my fate, let me thy mercy find:
Be grateful, then, and grant me that esteem,
That as alive, so dead, I may redeem.
_Oraz_. O, do not for her cruel mercy move;
None should ask pity but from those they love.
[_Weeps_.
_Inca_. Fond girl! to let thy disobedient eyes
Show a concern for him, whom I despise.
_Oraz_. How love and nature may divide a breast,
At once by both their powers severely prest!
Yet, sir, since love seems less, you may forgive;
I would not have you die, nor have him live;
Yet if he dies, alas! what shall I do?
I cannot die with him, and live with you.
_Mont_. How vainly we pursue this generous strife,
Parting in death more cruel than in life!--
Weep not, we both shall have one destiny;
As in one flame we lived, in one we'll die.
_Trax_. Why do we waste in vain these precious hours?
Each minute of his life may hazard ours:
The nation does not live whilst he enjoys
His life, it is his safety that destroys.
He shall fall first, and teach the rest to die.
_Zemp_. Hold!--
Who is it that commands;--ha! you, or I?--
Your zeal grows saucy!--sure, you may allow
Your empress freedom first to pay her vow.
_Trax_. She may allow--a justice to be done
By him, that raised his empress to her throne.
_Zemp_. You are too bold,--
_Trax_. And you too passionate.
_Zemp_. Take heed, with his, you urge not your own fate.--
For all this pity is now due to me.
_Mont_. I hate thy offered mercy more than thee.
_Trax_. Why will not then the fair Orazia give
Life to herself, and let Traxalla live?
_Mont_. Orazia will not live, and let me die;
She taught me first this cruel jealousy.
_Oraz_. I joy that you have learned it!--
That flame not like immortal love appears.
Where death can cool its warmth, or kill its fears.
_Zemp_. What shall I do? am I so quite forlorn,
No help from my own pride, nor from his scorn!
My rival's death may more effectual prove;
He, that is robbed of hope, may cease to love:--
Here, lead these offerings to their deaths.
_Trax_. Let none
Obey but he, that will pull on his own!
_Zemp_. Tempt me not thus; false and ungrateful too!
_Trax_. Just as ungrateful, and as false, as you.
_Zemp_. 'Tis thy false love that fears her destiny.
_Trax_. And your false love that fears to have him die.
_Zemp_. Seize the bold traitor!
_Trax_. What a slighted frown
Troubles your brow! feared nor obeyed by none;
Come, prepare for sacrifice.
_Enter_ ACACIS _weakly_.
_Aca_. Hold, hold! such sacrifices cannot be
Devotions, but a solemn cruelty:
How can the gods delight in human blood?
Think them not cruel, if you think them good.
In vain we ask that mercy, which they want,
And hope that pity, which they hate to grant.
_Zemp_. Retire, Acacis;--
Preserve thyself, for 'tis in vain to waste
Thy breath for them: The fatal vow is past.
_Aca_. To break that vow is juster than commit
A greater crime, by your preserving it.
_Zemp_. The gods themselves their own will best express
To like the vow, by giving the success.
_Aca_. If all things by success are understood,
Men, that make war, grow wicked to be good:
But did you vow, those that were overcome,
And he that conquered, both, should share one doom?
There's no excuse; for one of these must be
Not your devotion, but your cruelty.
_Trax_. To that rash stranger, sir, we nothing owe;
What he had raised, he strove to overthrow:
That duty lost, which should our actions guide,
Courage proves guilt, when merits swell to pride.
_Aca_. Darest thou, who didst thy prince's life betray,
Once name that duty, thou hast thrown away?
Like thy injustice to this stranger shown,
To tax him with a guilt, that is thy own?--
Can you, brave soldiers, suffer him to die,
That gave you life, in giving victory?
Look but upon this stranger, see those hands,
That brought you freedom, fettered up in bands.
Not one looks up,--
Lest sudden pity should their hearts surprise,
And steal into their bosoms through their eyes.
_Zemp_. Why thus, in vain, are thy weak spirits prest?
Restore thyself to thy more needful rest.
_Aca_. And leave Orazia!--
_Zemp_. Go, you must resign:
For she must be the gods'; not yours, nor mine.
_Aca_. You are my mother, and my tongue is tied
So much by duty, that I dare not chide.--
Divine Orazia!
Can you have so much mercy to forgive?
I do not ask it with design to live,
But in my death to have my torments cease:
Death is not death, when it can bring no peace.
_Oraz_. I both forgive, and pity;--
_Aca_. O, say no more, lest words less kind destroy
What these have raised in me of peace and joy:
You said, you did both pity and forgive;
You would do neither, should Acacis live.
By death alone the certain way appears,
Thus to hope mercy, and deserve your tears.
[_Stabs himself_.
_Zemp_. O, my Acacis!
What cruel cause could urge this fatal deed?--
[_Weeps_.
He faints!--help, help! some help! or he will bleed
His life, and mine, away!--
Some water there!--Not one stirs from his place!
I'll use my tears to sprinkle on his face.
_Aca_. Orazia,--
_Zemp_. Fond child! why dost thou call upon her name?
I am thy mother.
_Aca_. No, you are my shame.
That blood is shed that you had title in,
And with your title may it end your sin!--
Unhappy prince, you may forgive me now,
Thus bleeding for my mother's cruel vow.
_Inca_. Be not concerned for me;
Death's easier than the changes I have seen:
I would not live to trust the world again.
_Mont_. Into my eyes sorrow begins to creep;
When hands are tied, it is no shame to weep.
_Aca_. Dear Montezuma,
I may be still your friend, though I must die
Your rival in her love: Eternity
Has room enough for both; there's no desire,
Where to enjoy is only to admire:
There we'll meet friends, when this short storm is past.
_Mont_. Why must I tamely wait to perish last?
_Aca_. Orazia weeps, and my parched soul appears
Refreshed by that kind shower of pitying tears;
Forgive those faults my passion did commit,
'Tis punished with the life that nourished it;
I had no power in this extremity
To save your life, and less to see you die.
My eyes would ever on this object stay,
But sinking nature takes the props away.
Kind death,
To end with pleasures all my miseries,
Shuts up your image in my closing eyes.
[_Dies_.
_Enter a Messenger_.
_Mess_. To arms, to arms!
_Trax_. From whence this sudden fear?
_Mess_. Stand to your guard, my lord, the danger's near:
From every quarter crowds of people meet,
And, leaving houses empty, fill the street.
[_Exit Mess_.
_Trax_. Fond queen, thy fruitless tears a while defer;
Rise, we must join again--Not speak, nor stir!
I hear the people's voice like winds that roar,
When they pursue the flying waves to shore.
_Enter Second Messenger_.
_2 Mess_. Prepare to fight, my lord; the banished queen,
With old Garucca, in the streets are seen.
_Trax_. We must go meet them or it be too late;
Yet, madam, rise; have you no sense of fate?
_Enter third Messenger_.
_3 Mess_. King Montezuma their loud shouts proclaim,
The city rings with their new sovereign's name;
The banished queen declares he is her son,
And to his succour all the people run.
[ZEMPOALLA _rises_.
_Zemp_. Can this be true? O love! O fate! have I
Thus doated on my mortal enemy?
_Trax_. To my new prince I thus my homage pay;
Your reign is short, young king--
_Zemp_. Traxalla, stay--
'Tis to my hand that he must owe his fate,
I will revenge at once my love and hate.
[_She sets a dagger to_ MONTEZUMA'S _breast_.
_Trax_. Strike, strike, the conquering enemy is near.
My guards are passed, while you detain me here.
_Zemp_. Die then, ungrateful, die; Amexia's son
Shall never triumph on Acacis' throne.
Thy death must my unhappy flames remove:
Now where is thy defence--against my love?
[_She cuts the cords, and gives him the dagger_.
_Trax_. Am I betrayed?
[_He draws and thrusts at_ MONTEZUMA,
_he puts it by and kills him_.
_Mont_. So may all rebels die:
This end has treason joined with cruelty.
_Zemp_. Live thou whom I must love, and yet must hate;
She gave thee life, who knows it brings her fate.
_Mont_. Life is a trifle which I would not take,
But for Orazia's and her father's sake:
Now, Inca, hate me, if thou canst; for he,
Whom thou hast scorned, will die, or rescue thee.
_As he goes to attack the guards with_ TRAXALLA'S
_sword, enter_ AMEXIA, GARUCCA, _Indians, driving
some of the other party before them_.
_Gar_. He lives; ye gods, he lives! great queen, see here
Your coming joys, and your departing fear.
_Amex_. Wonder and joy so fast together flow,
Their haste to pass has made their passage slow;
Like struggling waters in a vessel pent,
Whose crowding drops choak up the narrow vent.
My son!--
[_She embraces him_.
_Mont_. I am amazed! it cannot be
That fate has such a joy in store for me.
_Amex_. Can I not gain belief that this is true?
_Mont_. It is my fortune I suspect, not you.
_Gar_. First ask him if he old Garucca know.
_Mont_. My honoured father! let me fall thus low.
_Gar_. Forbear, great prince; 'tis I must pay to you
That adoration, as my sovereign's due:
For, from my humble race you did not spring;
You are the issue of our murdered king,
Sent by that traitor to his blest abode,
Whom, to be made a king, he made a god:
The story is too full of fate to tell,
Or what strange fortune our lost queen befel.
_Amex_. That sad relation longer time will crave;
I lived obscure, he bred you in a cave,
But kept the mighty secret from your ear,
Lest heat of blood to some strange course should steer
Your youth.
_Mont_. I owe him all, that now I am;
He taught me first the noble thirst of fame.
Shewed me the baseness of unmanly fear,
Till the unlicked whelp I plucked from the rough bear,
And made the ounce and tyger give me way,
While from their hungry jaws I snatched the prey:
'Twas he that charged my young arms first with toils,
And drest me glorious in my savage spoils.
_Gar_. You spent in shady forest all the day,
And joyed, returning, to shew me the prey,
To tell the story, to describe the place,
With all the pleasures of the boasted chace;
Till fit for arms, I reaved you from your sport,
To train your youth in the Peruvian court:
I left you there, and ever since have been
The sad attendant of my exiled queen.
_Zemp_. My fatal dream comes to my memory;
That lion, whom I held in bonds, was he,
Amexia was the dove that broke his chains;
What now but Zempoalla's death remains?
_Mont_. Pardon, fair princess, if I must delay
My love a while, my gratitude to pay.
Live, Zempoalla--free from dangers live,
For present merits I past crimes forgive:
Oh, might she hope Orazia's pardon, too!
_Oraz_. I would have none condemned for loving you;
In me her merit much her fault o'erpowers;
She sought my life, but she preserved me yours.
_Amex_. Taught by my own, I pity her estate,
And wish her penitence, but not her fate.
_Inca_. I would not be the last to bid her live;
Kings best revenge their wrongs, when they forgive.
_Zemp_. I cannot yet forget what I have been:
Would you give life to her, that was a queen?
Must you then give, and must I take? there's yet
One way, that's by refusing, to be great:
You bid me live--bid me be wretched too;
Think, think, what pride, unthroned, must undergo:
Look on this youth, Amexia, look, and then
Suppose him yours, and bid me live again;
A greater sweetness on these lips there grows,
Than breath shut out from a new-folded rose:
What lovely charms on these cold cheeks appear!
Could any one hate death, and see it here?
But thou art gone--
_Mont_. O that you would believe
Acacis lives in me, and cease to grieve.
_Zemp_. Yes, I will cease to grieve, and cease to be.
His soul stays watching in his wound for me;
All that could render life desired is gone,
Orazia has my love, and you my throne,
And death, Acacis--yet I need not die,
You leave me mistress of my destiny;
In spite of dreams, how am I pleased to see,
Heaven's truth, or falsehood, should depend on me!
But I will help the Gods;
The greatest proof of courage we can give,
Is then to die when we have power to live. [_Kills herself_.
_Mont_. How fatally that instrument of death
Was hid--
_Amex_. She has expired her latest breath.
_Mont_. But there lies one, to whom all grief is due.
_Oraz_. None e'er was so unhappy and so true.
_Mont_. Your pardon, royal sir.
_Inca_. You have my love. [_Gives him ORAZIA_.
_Amex_. The gods, my son, your happy choice approve.
_Mont_. Come, my Orazia, then, and pay with me,
[_Leads her to ACACIS_.
Some tears to poor Acacis' memory;
So strange a fate for men the gods ordain,
Our clearest sunshine should be mixt with rain;
How equally our joys and sorrows move!
Death's fatal triumphs, joined with those of love.
Love crowns the dead, and death crowns him that lives,
Each gains the conquest, which the other gives.
[_Exeunt omnes_.
EPILOGUE.
SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.
You see what shifts we are enforced to try,
To help out wit with some variety;
Shows may be found that never yet were seen,
'Tis hard to find such wit as ne'er has been:
You have seen all that this old world can do,
We, therefore, try the fortune of the new,
And hope it is below your aim to hit
At untaught nature with your practised wit:
Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear,
Would as soon chuse to have the Spaniards here.
'Tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show,
The poet's scenes, nay, more, the painter's too;
If all this fail, considering the cost,
'Tis a true voyage to the Indies lost:
But if you smile on all, then these designs,
Like the imperfect treasure of our minds,
Will pass for current wheresoe'er they go,
When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.
THE
INDIAN EMPEROR
OR,
THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO
BY
THE SPANIARDS.
BEING THE SEQUEL OF
THE INDIAN QUEEN.
Dum relego, scripsisse pudet, quia plurima cerno,
Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna limi. OVID.
TO THE
MOST EXCELLENT
AND MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCESS,
ANNE,
DUCHESS OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUCH,
WIFE TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS
AND HIGH-BORN PRINCE,
JAMES,
DUKE OF MONMOUTH[A].
[Footnote A: Anne Scott, duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, was the
last scion of a race of warriors, more remarkable for their exploits
in the field, than their address in courts, or protection of
literature. She was the heiress of the Scotts, barons and earls of
Buccleuch; and became countess, in her own right, upon the death of
her elder sister, lady Mary, who married the unfortunate Walter
Scott, earl of Tarras, and died without issue in 1662. In 1665, Anne,
countess of Buccleuch, married James Fitzroy, duke of Monmouth, eldest
natural son of Charles II. They were afterwards created duke and
duchess of Buccleuch. She was an accomplished and high-spirited lady,
distinguished for her unblemished conduct in a profligate court.
It was her patronage which first established Dryden's popularity; a
circumstance too honourable to her memory to be here suppressed.]
May it please Your Grace,
The favour which heroic plays have lately found upon our theatres, has
been wholly derived to them from the countenance and approbation they
have received at court. The most eminent persons for wit and honour
in the royal circle having so far owned them, that they have judged
no way so fit as verse to entertain a noble audience, or to express
a noble passion; and among the rest which have been written in this
kind, they have been so indulgent to this poem, as to allow it no
inconsiderable place. Since, therefore, to the court I owe its fortune
on the stage; so, being now more publicly exposed in print, I humbly
recommend it to your grace's protection, who by all knowing persons
are esteemed a principal ornament of the court. But though the rank
which you hold in the royal family might direct the eyes of a poet to
you, yet your beauty and goodness detain and fix them. High objects,
it is true, attract the sight; but it looks up with pain on craggy
rocks and barren mountains, and continues not intent on any object,
which is wanting in shades and greens to entertain it. Beauty, in
courts, is so necessary to the young, that those, who are without it,
seem to be there to no other purpose than to wait on the triumphs of
the fair; to attend their motions in obscurity, as the moon and stars
do the sun by day; or, at best, to be the refuge of those hearts which
others have despised; and, by the unworthiness of both, to give and
take a miserable comfort. But as needful as beauty is, virtue and
honour are yet more: The reign of it without their support is unsafe
and short, like that of tyrants. Every sun which looks on beauty
wastes it; and, when it once is decaying, the repairs of art are of as
short continuance, as the after-spring, when the sun is going
further off. This, madam, is its ordinary fate; but yours, which is
accompanied by virtue, is not subject to that common destiny. Your
grace has not only a long time of youth in which to flourish, but
you have likewise found the way, by an untainted preservation of your
honour, to make that perishable good more lasting: And if beauty, like
wines, could be preserved, by being mixed and embodied with others of
their own natures, then your grace's would be immortal, since no
part of Europe can afford a parallel to your noble lord in masculine
beauty, and in goodliness of shape. To receive the blessings and
prayers of mankind, you need only to be seen together: We are ready
to conclude, that you are a pair of angels sent below to make virtue
amiable in your persons, or to sit to poets when they would pleasantly
instruct the age, by drawing goodness in the most perfect and alluring
shape of nature. But though beauty be the theme on which poets love to
dwell, I must be forced to quit it as a private praise, since you have
deserved those which are more public: For goodness and humanity, which
shine in you, are virtues which concern mankind; and, by a certain
kind of interest, all people agree in their commendation, because the
profit of them may extend to many. It is so much your inclination to
do good, that you stay not to be asked; which is an approach so nigh
the Deity, that human nature is not capable of a nearer. It is my
happiness, that I can testify this virtue of your grace's by my
own experience; since I have so great an aversion from soliciting
court-favours, that I am ready to look on those as very bold, who
dare grow rich there without desert. But I beg your grace's pardon for
assuming this virtue of modesty to myself, which the sequel of this
discourse will no way justify: For in this address I have already
quitted the character of a modest man, by presenting you this poem as
an acknowledgment, which stands in need of your protection; and which
ought no more to be esteemed a present, than it is accounted bounty
in the poor, when they bestow a child on some wealthy friend, who
will better breed it up. Offsprings of this nature are like to be so
numerous with me, that I must be forced to send some of them abroad;
only this is like to be more fortunate than his brothers, because I
have landed him on a hospitable shore. Under your patronage Montezuma
hopes he is more safe than in his native Indies; and therefore comes
to throw himself at your grace's feet, paying that homage to your
beauty, which he refused to the violence of his conquerors. He begs
only, that when he shall relate his sufferings, you will consider
him as an Indian Prince, and not expect any other eloquence from his
simplicity, than what his griefs have furnished him withal. His story
is, perhaps, the greatest which was ever represented in a poem of this
nature; the action of it including the discovery and conquest of a new
world. In it I have neither wholly followed the truth of the history,
nor altogether left it; but have taken all the liberty of a poet,
to add, alter, or diminish, as I thought might best conduce to
the beautifying of my work: it being not the business of a poet to
represent historical truth, but probability. But I am not to make
the justification of this poem, which I wholly leave to your grace's
mercy. It is an irregular piece, if compared with many of Corneille's,
and, if I may make a judgment of it, written with more flame than art;
in which it represents the mind and intentions of the author, who is
with much more zeal and integrity, than design and artifice,
MADAM,
Your Grace's most obedient,
And most obliged servant,
JOHN DRYDEN,
_October_ 12. 1667.
Betwixt 1664, when our author assisted Sir Robert Howard in composing
the preceding play, and the printing of the Indian Emperor in 1668,
some disagreement had arisen betwixt them. Sir Robert appears to have
given the first provocation, by prefixing to his tragedy of the Duke
of Lerma, or Great Favourite, in 1668, some remarks, which drew down
the following severe retort. It is therefore necessary to mention the
contents of the offensive preface.
Sir Robert Howard begins, as one taking leave of the drama and
dramatic authors, "his too long acquaintances;" and unwilling again to
venture "into the civil wars of Censure,
_Ubi--Nullos habitura triumphos_."
He states his unwilling interference to be owing to the "unnecessary
understanding" of some, who endeavoured to apply as strict rules to
poetry as mathematics, which rendered it incumbent on him to justify
his having written some scenes of his tragedy in blank verse. In the
next paragraph, Dryden is expressly pointed out as the author of the
Essay on Dramatic Poetry; and is ridiculed for attempting to prove,
not that rhyme is more natural in a dialogue on the stage supposed to
be spoken _extempore_, but grander and more expressive. In like
manner, Sir Robert unfortunately banters our author for drawing from
Seneca an instance of a lofty mode of expressing so ordinary a thing
as _shutting a door_[A], instead of giving an example to the same
effect in English.
[Footnote A:
Reserate clusos regii postes laris.
Howard's mistranslation of this passage seems to have been
inadvertent. In the Essay it is rendered,
"Set wide the palace gates."]
The author of the Duke of Lerma proceeds to attack the unities;
arguing, because it is impossible that the stage can represent exactly
a house, or that the time of acting can be extended to twenty-four
hours; therefore it is needless there should be any limitation
whatever as to time or place, since otherwise it must be inferred,
that there are degrees in impossibility, and that one thing may be
more impossible than another.
The whole tone of the preface is that of one who wished to have it
supposed, that he was writing concerning a subject rather beneath his
notice, and only felt himself called forth to do so by the dogmatism
of those who laid down confident rules or laws in matters so trifling.
This affectation of supercilious censure appears deeply to have
provoked Dryden, and prompted the acrimony of the following Defence,
which he prefixed to a second edition of the Indian Emperor published
in 1668, probably shortly after the offence had been given. The angry
friends were afterwards reconciled; and Dryden, listening more to
the feelings of former kindness than of recent passion, cancelled the
_Defence_, which was never afterwards reprinted, till Congreve
collected our author's dramatic works. It is worthy of preservation,
as it would be difficult to point out deeper contempt and irony,
couched under language so temperate, cold, and outwardly respectful.
A
DEFENCE
OF AN
ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY;
BEING
AN ANSWER TO THE PREFACE
OF THE
GREAT FAVOURITE, OR THE DUKE OF LERMA.
The former edition of "the Indian Emperor" being full of faults, which
had escaped the printer, I have been willing to overlook this second
with more care: and though I could not allow myself so much time as
was necessary, yet by that little I have done, the press is freed
from some errors which it had to answer for before. As for the more
material faults of writing, which are properly mine, though I see many
of them, I want leisure to amend them. It is enough for those who
make one poem the business of their lives, to leave that correct: yet,
excepting Virgil, I never met with any which was so in any language.
But while I was thus employed about this impression, there came to my
hands a new printed play, called, "The Great Favourite, or, The Duke
of Lerma;" the author of which, a noble and most ingenious person, has
done me the favour to make some observations and animadversions upon
my Dramatic Essay. I must confess he might have better consulted his
reputation, than by matching himself with so weak an adversary. But
if his honour be diminished in the choice of his antagonist, it is
sufficiently recompensed in the election of his cause: which being the
weaker, in all appearance, as combating the received opinions of
the best ancient and modern authors, will add to his glory, if he
overcome; and to the opinion of his generosity, if he be vanquished,
since he engages at so great odds; and, so like a cavalier, undertakes
the protection of the weaker party. I have only to fear, on my
own behalf, that so good a cause as mine may not suffer by my ill
management, or weak defence; yet I cannot in honour but take the glove
when it is offered me; though I am only a champion by succession,
and no more able to defend the right of Aristotle and Horace, than an
infant Dimock[A] to maintain the title of a king.
[Footnote A: The family of Dimock, or Dymock, are hereditary champions
of England; and, as such, obliged to maintain the king's title in
single combat against all challengers.]
For my own concernment in the controversy, it is so small, that I can
easily be contented to be driven from a few notions of dramatic poesy;
especially by one, who has the reputation of understanding all things:
and I might justly make that excuse for my yielding to him, which the
philosopher made to the emperor; why should I offer to contend with
him, who is master of more than twenty legions of arts and sciences?
But I am forced to fight, and therefore it will be no shame to be
overcome.
Yet I am so much his servant, as not to meddle with any thing which
does not concern me in his preface: therefore I leave the good sense
and other excellencies of the first twenty lines, to be considered by
the critics. As for the play of "The Duke of Lerma," having so much
altered and beautified it as he has done, it can justly belong to none
but him. Indeed they must be extremely ignorant, as well as envious,
who would rob him of that honour; for you see him putting in his claim
to it, even in the first two lines:
Repulse upon repulse, like waves thrown back,
That slide to hung upon obdurate rocks.
After this, let detraction do its worst; for if this be not his, it
deserves to be. For my part, I declare for distributive justice; and
from this, and what follows, he certainly deserves those advantages,
which he acknowledges to have received from the opinion of sober men.
In the next place, I must beg leave to observe his great address in
courting the reader to his party: For, intending to assault all poets,
both ancient and modern, he discovers not his whole design at once,
but seems only to aim at me, and attacks me on my weakest side, my
defence of verse.
To begin with me, he gives me the compellation of "The Author of a
Dramatic Essay;" which is a little discourse in dialogue, for the most
part borrowed from the observations of others: therefore, that I may
not be wanting to him in civility, I return his compliment, by calling
him, "The Author of the Duke of Lerma."
But (that I may pass over his salute) he takes notice of my great
pains to prove rhyme as natural in a serious play, and more effectual
than blank verse. Thus indeed I did state the question; but he tells
me, "I pursue that which I call natural in a wrong application; For
'tis not the question, whether rhyme, or not rhyme, be best, or most
natural for a serious subject, but what is nearest the nature of that
it represents."
If I have formerly mistaken the question, I must confess my ignorance
so far, as to say I continue still in my mistake: But he ought to have
proved that I mistook it; for it is yet but _gratis dictum_; I
still shall think I have gained my point, if I can prove that rhyme is
best, or most natural for a serious subject. As for the question as he
states it, whether rhyme be nearest the nature of what it represents,
I wonder he should think me so ridiculous as to dispute, whether prose
or verse be nearest to ordinary conversation.
It still remains for him to prove his inference; that, since verse
is granted to be more remote than prose from ordinary conversation,
therefore no serious plays ought to be writ in verse: and when he
clearly makes that good, I will acknowledge his victory as absolute as
he can desire it.
The question now is, which of us two has mistaken it; and if it appear
I have not, the world will suspect, "what gentleman that was, who was
allowed to speak twice in parliament, because he had not yet spoken to
the question[A];" and perhaps conclude it to be the same, who, as it
is reported, maintained a contradiction _in terminis_, in the
face of three hundred persons.
[Footnote A: A sneer which Sir Robert aims at Dryden. Dryden had
written twice on the question of rhyming tragedies.]
But to return to verse, whether it be natural or not in plays, is a
problem which is not demonstrable of either side: It is enough for me,
that he acknowledges he had rather read good verse than prose: for
if all the enemies of verse will confess as much, I shall not need
to prove that it is natural. I am satisfied if it cause delight; for
delight is the chief, if not the only, end of poesy: Instruction can
be admitted but in the second place, for poesy only instructs as it
delights. It is true, that to imitate well is a poet's work; but to
affect the soul, and excite the passions, and, above all, to move
admiration (which is the delight of serious plays), a bare imitation
will not serve. The converse, therefore, which a poet is to imitate,
must be heightened with all the arts and ornaments of poesy; and must
be such as, strictly considered, could never be supposed spoken by any
without premeditation.
As for what he urges, that "a play will still be supposed to be a
composition of several persons speaking _extempore_, and that good
verses are the hardest things which can be imagined to be so spoken;"
I must crave leave to dissent from his opinion, as to the former part
of it: For, if I am not deceived, a play is supposed to be the work
of the poet, imitating, or representing, the conversation of several
persons: and this I think to be as clear, as he thinks the contrary.
But I will be bolder, and do not doubt to make it good, though a
paradox, that one great reason why prose is not to be used in serious
plays, is, because it is too near the nature of converse: There may be
too great a likeness; as the most skilful painters affirm, that there
may be too near a resemblance in a picture: To take every lineament
and feature is not to make an excellent piece, but to take so much
only as will make a beautiful resemblance of the whole: and, with an
ingenious flattery of nature, to heighten the beauties of some parts,
and hide the deformities of the rest. For so says Horace,
_Ut pictura poesis erit. &c.--
Haec amat obscurum, vult haec sub luce videri,
Judicis argutum quae formidat acumen.
Et quae
Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit._
In "Bartholomew Fair," or the lowest kind of comedy, that degree of
heightening is used, which is proper to set off that subject: It is
true the author was not there to go out of prose, as he does in his
higher arguments of comedy, "The Fox" and "Alchemist;" yet he does so
raise his matter in that prose, as to render it delightful; which
he could never have performed, had he only said or done those very
things, that are daily spoken or practised in the fair: for then the
fair itself would be as full of pleasure to an ingenious person as the
play, which we manifestly see it is not. But he hath made an excellent
lazar of it; the copy is of price, though the original be vile. You
see in "Catiline" and "Sejanus," where the argument is great, he
sometimes ascends to verse, which shews he thought it not unnatural in
serious plays; and had his genius been as proper for rhyme as it
was for humour, or had the age in which he lived attained to as much
knowledge in verse as ours, it is probable he would have adorned those
subjects with that kind of writing.
Thus Prose, though the rightful prince, yet is by common consent
deposed, as too weak for the government of serious plays: and he
failing, there now start up two competitors; one, the nearer in blood,
which is Blank Verse; the other, more fit for the ends of government,
which is Rhyme. Blank Verse is, indeed, the nearer Prose, but he is
blemished with the weakness of his predecessor. Rhyme (for I will
deal clearly) has somewhat of the usurper in him; but he is brave, and
generous, and his dominion pleasing. For this reason of delight,
the ancients (whom I will still believe as wise as those who so
confidently correct them) wrote all their tragedies in verse, though
they knew it most remote from conversation.
But I perceive I am falling into the danger of another rebuke from my
opponent; for when I plead that the ancients used verse, I prove not
that they would have admitted rhyme, had it then been written. All
I can say is only this, that it seems to have succeeded verse by the
general consent of poets in all modern languages; for almost all their
serious plays are written in it; which, though it be no demonstration
that therefore they ought to be so, yet at least the practice first,
and then the continuation of it, shews that it attained the end, which
was to please; and if that cannot be compassed here, I will be the
first who shall lay it down: for I confess my chief endeavours are
to delight the age in which I live. If the humour of this be for low
comedy, small accidents, and raillery, I will force my genius to obey
it, though with more reputation I could write in verse. I know I am
not so fitted by nature to write comedy: I want that gaiety of humour
which is required to it. My conversation is slow and dull; my humour
saturnine and reserved: In short, I am none of those who endeavour to
break jests in company, or make repartees. So that those, who decry my
comedies, do me no injury, except it be in point of profit: reputation
in them is the last thing to which I shall pretend. I beg pardon for
entertaining the reader with so ill a subject; but before I quit that
argument, which was the cause of this digression, I cannot but take
notice how I am corrected for my quotation of Seneca, in my defence of
plays in verse. My words are these: "Our language is noble, full, and
significant; and I know not why he, who is a master of, it, may not
clothe ordinary things in it as decently as in the Latin, if he use
the same diligence in his choice of words." One would think, "unlock
a door," was a thing as vulgar as could be spoken; yet Seneca could
make it sound high and lofty in his Latin.
"_Reserate clusos regii postes laris_."
But he says of me, "That being filled with the precedents of the
ancients, who writ their plays in verse, I commend the thing,
declaring our language to be full, noble, and significant, and
charging all defects upon the _ill placing of words_, which I
prove by quoting Seneca loftily expressing such an ordinary thing as
_shutting a door_."
Here he manifestly mistakes; for I spoke not of the placing, but
of the choice of words; for which I quoted that aphorism of
Julius Caesar, _Delectus verborum est origo eloquentiae_; but
_delectus verborum_ is no more Latin for the _placing of
words_, than _reserate_ is Latin for _shut the door_,
as he interprets it, which I ignorantly construed _unlock_ or
_open_ it.
He supposes I was highly affected with the sound of those words, and
I suppose I may more justly imagine it of him; for if he had not been
extremely satisfied with the sound, he would have minded the sense a
little better.
But these are now to be no faults; for ten days after his book is
published, and that his mistakes are grown so famous, that they are
come back to him, he sends his _Errata_[A] to be printed, and
annexed to his play; and desires, that, instead of _shutting_,
you would read _opening_, which, it seems, was the printer's
fault. I wonder at his modesty, that he did not rather say it was
Seneca's or mine; and that, in some authors, _reserate_ was to
_shut_ as well as to _open_, as the word _barach_, say
the learned, is both to _bless_ and _curse_.
[Footnote A: This erratum has been suffered to remain in the edition
of the Knight's plays now before us, published in 1692.]
Well, since it was the printer, he was a naughty man to commit
the same mistake twice in six lines: I warrant you _delectus
verborum_, for _placing of words_, was his mistake too, though
the author forgot to tell him of it: If it were my book, I assure you
I should. For those rascals ought to be the proxies of every gentleman
author, and to be chastised for him, when he is not pleased to own an
error. Yet since he has given the _errata_, I wish he would have
enlarged them only a few sheets more, and then he would have spared
me the labour of an answer: For this cursed printer is so given to
mistakes, that there is scarce a sentence in the preface without some
false grammar, or hard sense in it; which will all be charged upon the
poet, because he is so good-natured as to lay but three errors to the
printer's account, and to take the rest upon himself, who is better
able to support them. But he needs not apprehend that I should
strictly examine those little faults, except I am called upon to do
it: I shall return therefore to that quotation of Seneca, and answer,
not to what he writes, but to what he means. I never intended it as
an argument, but only as an illustration of what I had said before
concerning the election of words; and all he can charge me with is
only this, that if Seneca could make an ordinary thing sound well in
Latin by the choice of words, the same, with the like care, might be
performed in English: If it cannot, I have committed an error on the
right hand, by commending too much the copiousness and well-sounding
of our language, which I hope my countrymen will pardon me; at least
the words which follow in my Dramatic Essay will plead somewhat in my
behalf; for I say there, that this objection happens but seldom in
a play; and then, too, either the meanness of the expression may be
avoided, or shut out from the verse by breaking it in the midst.
But I have said too much in the defence of verse; for, after all,
it is a very indifferent thing to me whether it obtain or not. I am
content hereafter to be ordered by his rule, that is, to write it
sometimes because it pleases me, and so much the rather, because he
has declared that it pleases him. But he has taken his last farewell
of the muses, and he has done it civilly, by honouring them with the
name of "his long acquaintances," which is a compliment they have
scarce deserved from him. For my own part, I bear a share in
the public loss; and how emulous soever I may be of his fame and
reputation, I cannot but give this testimony of his style, that it is
extremely poetical, even in oratory; his thoughts elevated sometimes
above common apprehension; his notions politic and grave, and tending
to the instruction of princes, and reformation of states; that
they are abundantly interlaced with variety of fancies, tropes, and
figures, which the critics have enviously branded with the name of
obscurity and false grammar.
"Well, he is now fettered in business of more unpleasant nature:" The
muses have lost him, but the commonwealth gains by it; the corruption
of a poet is the generation of a statesman.
"He will not venture again into the civil wars of censure,
_ubi--nullos habitura triumphos_:" If he had not told us he
had left the muses, we might have half suspected it by that word
_ubi_, which does not any way belong to them in that place:
the rest of the verse is indeed Lucan's, but that _ubi_, I will
answer for it, is his own. Yet he has another reason for this disgust
of poesy; for he says immediately after, that "the manner of plays
which are now in most esteem is beyond his power to perform:" to
perform the manner of a thing, I confess, is new English to me.
"However, he condemns not the satisfaction of others, but rather their
unnecessary understanding, who, like Sancho Panza's doctor, prescribe
too strictly to our appetites; for," says he, "in the difference of
tragedy and comedy, and of farce itself, there can be no determination
but by the taste, nor in the manner of their composure."
We shall see him now as great a critic as he was a poet; and the
reason why he excelled so much in poetry will be evident, for it will
appear to have proceeded from the exactness of his judgment. "In
the difference of tragedy, comedy, and farce itself, there can be no
determination but by the taste." I will not quarrel with the obscurity
of his phrase, though I justly might; but beg his pardon if I do
not rightly understand him. If he means that there is no essential
difference betwixt comedy, tragedy, and farce, but what is only made
by the people's taste, which distinguishes one of them from the other,
that is so manifest an error, that I need not lose time to contradict
it. Were there neither judge, taste, nor opinion in the world, yet
they would differ in their natures; for the action, character, and
language of tragedy, would still be great and high; that of comedy,
lower and more familiar. Admiration would be the delight of one, and
satire of the other.
I have but briefly touched upon these things, because, whatever his
words are, I can scarce imagine, that "he, who is always concerned for
the true honour of reason, and would have no spurious issue fathered
upon her," should mean any thing so absurd as to affirm, "that there
is no difference betwixt comedy and tragedy but what is made by the
taste only;" unless he would have us understand the comedies of my
lord L. where the first act should be pottages, the second fricassees,
&c. and the fifth a _chere entiere_ of women.
I rather guess he means, that betwixt one comedy or tragedy and
another, there is no other difference, but what is made by the liking
or disliking of the audience. This is indeed a less error than the
former, but yet it is a great one. The liking or disliking of the
people gives the play the denomination of good or bad, but does not
really make or constitute it such. To please the people ought to be
the poet's aim, because plays are made for their delight; but it does
not follow that they are always pleased with good plays, or that the
plays which please them are always good. The humour of the people is
now for comedy; therefore, in hope to please them, I write comedies
rather than serious plays: and so far their taste prescribes to
me. But it does not follow from that reason, that comedy is to be
preferred before tragedy in its own nature; for that, which is so in
its own nature, cannot be otherwise, as a man cannot but be a rational
creature: But the opinion of the people may alter, and in another age,
or perhaps in this, serious plays may be set up above comedies.
This I think a sufficient answer; if it be not, he has provided me of
an excuse: it seems, in his wisdom, he foresaw my weakness, and has
found out this expedient for me, "That it is not necessary for poets
to study strict reason, since they are so used to a greater latitude
than is allowed by that severe inquisition, that they must infringe
their own jurisdiction, to profess themselves obliged to argue well."
I am obliged to him for discovering to me this back door; but I am not
yet resolved on my retreat; for I am of opinion, that they cannot be
good poets, who are not accustomed to argue well. False reasonings and
colours of speech are the certain marks of one who does not understand
the stage: for moral truth is the mistress of the poet as much as of
the philosopher; poesy must resemble natural truth, but it must be
ethical. Indeed, the poet dresses truth, and adorns nature, but does
not alter them:
_Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris_.
Therefore, that is not the best poesy, which resembles notions of
things, that are not, to things that are: though the fancy may be
great, and the words flowing, yet the soul is but half satisfied when
there is not truth in the foundation. This is that which makes Virgil
be preferred before the rest of poets. In variety of fancy, and
sweetness of expression, you see Ovid far above him; for Virgil
rejected many of those things which Ovid wrote. "A great wit's great
work is to refuse," as my worthy friend Sir John Berkenhead has
ingeniously expressed it: you rarely meet with any thing in Virgil but
truth, which therefore leaves the strongest impression of pleasure in
the soul. This I thought myself obliged to say in behalf of poesy; and
to declare, though it be against myself, that when poets do not argue
well, the defect is in the workmen, not in the art.
And now I come to the boldest part of his discourse, wherein he
attacks not me, but all the ancients and moderns; and undermines, as
he thinks, the very foundations on which Dramatic Poesy is built. I
could wish he would have declined that envy which must of necessity
follow such an undertaking, and contented himself with triumphing over
me in my opinions of verse, which I will never hereafter dispute with
him; but he must pardon me if I have that veneration for Aristotle,
Horace, Ben Jonson, and Corneille, that I dare not serve him in such
a cause, and against such heroes, but rather fight under their
protection, as Homer reports of little Teucer, who shot the Trojans
from under the large buckler of Ajax Telamon.
[Greek: Stae d ax up Aiantos sachei Telamoniadao]
He stood beneath his brother's ample shield;
And covered there, shot death through all the field.
The words of my noble adversary are these:
"But if we examine the general rules laid down for plays by strict
reason, we shall find the errors equally gross; for the great
foundation which is laid to build upon, is nothing as it is generally
stated, as will appear upon the examination of the particulars."
These particulars in due time shall be examined. In the mean while,
let us consider what this great foundation is, which he says is
nothing, as it is generally stated. I never heard of any other
foundation of Dramatic Poesy than the imitation of nature; neither was
there ever pretended any other by the ancients or moderns, or me, who
endeavour to follow them in that rule. This I have plainly said in
my definition of a play; that it is a just and lively image of human
nature, &c. Thus the foundation, as it is generally stated, will stand
sure, if this definition of a play be true; if it be not, he ought to
have made his exception against it, by proving that a play is not an
imitation of nature, but somewhat else, which he is pleased to think
it.
But 'tis very plain, that he has mistaken the foundation for that
which is built upon it, though not immediately: for the direct and
immediate consequence is this; if nature be to be imitated, then there
is a rule for imitating nature rightly, otherwise there may be an
end, and no means conducing to it. Hitherto I have proceeded by
demonstration; but as our divines, when they have proved a Deity,
because there is order, and have inferred that this Deity ought to be
worshipped, differ afterwards in the manner of the worship; so, having
laid down, that nature is to be imitated, and that proposition proving
the next, that then there are means which conduce to the imitating of
nature, I dare proceed no farther positively; but have only laid down
some opinions of the ancients and moderns, and of my own, as means
which they used, and which I thought probable for the attaining of
that end. Those means are the same which my antagonist calls the
foundations, how properly the world may judge; and to prove that this
is his meaning, he clears it immediately to you, by enumerating
those rules or propositions against which he makes his particular
exceptions; as, namely, those of time and place, in these words:
"First, we are told the plot should not be so ridiculously contrived,
as to crowd two several countries into one stage; secondly, to cramp
the accidents of many years or days into the representation of two
hours and an half; and, lastly, a conclusion drawn, that the only
remaining dispute is, concerning time, whether it should be contained
in twelve or twenty-four hours; and the place to be limited to that
spot of ground where the play is supposed to begin: and this is called
nearest nature; for that is concluded most natural, which is most
probable, and nearest to that which it presents."
Thus he has only made a small mistake, of the means conducing to the
end for the end itself, and of the superstructure for the foundation:
But he proceeds:
"To shew therefore upon what ill grounds they dictate laws for
Dramatic Poesy," &c. He is here pleased to charge me with being
magisterial, as he has done in many other places of his preface;
therefore, in vindication of myself, I must crave leave to say, that
my whole discourse was sceptical, according to that way of reasoning
which was used by Socrates, Plato, and all the academics of old, which
Tully and the best of the ancients followed, and which is imitated by
the modest inquisitions of the Royal Society. That it is so, not
only the name will shew, which is, _An Essay_, but the frame and
composition of the work. You see it is a dialogue sustained by persons
of several opinions, all of them left doubtful, to be determined by
the readers in general; and more particularly deferred to the accurate
judgment of my Lord Buckhurst, to whom I made a dedication of my
book. These are my words in my epistle, speaking of the persons whom I
introduced in my dialogue: "'Tis true they differed in their opinions,
as 'tis probable they would: neither do I take upon me to reconcile,
but to relate them, leaving your lordship to decide it in favour of
that part which you shall judge most reasonable." And after that, in
my advertisement to the reader, I said this: "The drift of the ensuing
discourse is chiefly to vindicate the honour of our English writers
from the censure of those who unjustly prefer the French before them.
This I intimate, lest any should think me so exceeding vain, as to
teach others an art, which they understand much better than myself."
But this is more than necessary to clear my modesty in that point: and
I am very confident, that there is scarce any man who has lost so much
time, as to read that trifle, but will be my compurgator, as to that
arrogance whereof I am accused. The truth is, if I had been naturally
guilty of so much vanity as to dictate my opinions; yet I do not find
that the character of a positive or self-conceited person is of such
advantage to any in this age, that I should labour to be publicly
admitted of that order.
But I am not now to defend my own cause, when that of all the ancients
and moderns is in question. For this gentleman, who accuses me of
arrogance, has taken a course not to be taxed with the other extreme
of modesty. Those propositions, which are laid down in my discourse
as helps to the better imitation of nature, are not mine (as I
have said), nor were ever pretended so to be, but derived from the
authority of Aristotle and Horace, and from the rules and examples
of Ben Jonson and Corneille. These are the men with whom properly he
contends, and against "whom he will endeavour to make it evident, that
there is no such thing as what they all pretend."
His argument against the unities of place and time is this: "That 'tis
as impossible for one stage to present two rooms or houses truly,
as two countries or kingdoms; and as impossible that five hours or
twenty-four hours should be two hours, as that a thousand hours or
years should be less than what they are, or the greatest part of time
to be comprehended in the less: for all of them being impossible, they
are none of them nearest the truth, or nature of what they present;
for impossibilities are all equal, and admit of no degree."
This argument is so scattered into parts, that it can scarce be united
into a syllogism; yet, in obedience to him, _I will abbreviate_,
and comprehend as much of it as I can in few words, that my answer to
it may be more perspicuous. I conceive his meaning to be what follows,
as to the unity of place: (if I mistake, I beg his pardon, professing
it is not out of any design to play the _Argumentative Poet_.) If
one stage cannot properly present two rooms or houses, much less two
countries or kingdoms, then there can be no unity of place. But one
stage cannot properly perform this: therefore there can be no unity of
place.
I plainly deny his minor proposition; the force of which, if I mistake
not, depends on this, that the stage being one place cannot be two.
This indeed is as great a secret, as that we are all mortal; but to
requite it with another, I must crave leave to tell him, that though
the stage cannot be two places, yet it may properly represent them
successively, or at several times. His argument is indeed no more than
a mere fallacy, which will evidently appear when we distinguish place,
as it relates to plays, into real and imaginary. The real place is
that theatre, or piece of ground, on which the play is acted. The
imaginary, that house, town, or country where the action of the drama
is supposed to be, or, more plainly, where the scene of the play is
laid. Let us now apply this to that Herculean argument, "which if
strictly and duly weighed, is to make it evident, that there is no
such thing as what they all pretend." 'Tis impossible, he says, for
one stage to present two rooms or houses: I answer, 'tis neither
impossible, nor improper, for one real place to represent two or more
imaginary places, so it be done successively; which, in other words,
is no more than this, that the imagination of the audience, aided by
the words of the poet, and painted scenes, may suppose the stage to
be sometimes one place, sometimes another; now a garden, or wood, and
immediately a camp: which I appeal to every man's imagination, if it
be not true. Neither the ancients nor moderns, as much fools as he is
pleased to think them, ever asserted that they could make one place
two; but they might hope, by the good leave of this author, that the
change of a scene might lead the imagination to suppose the place
altered: so that he cannot fasten those absurdities upon this scene
of a play, or imaginary place of action, that it is one place, and yet
two. And this being so clearly proved, that 'tis past any shew of a
reasonable denial, it will not be hard to destroy that other part of
his argument, which depends upon it, namely, that 'tis as impossible
for a stage to represent two rooms or houses, as two countries or
kingdoms: for his reason is already overthrown, which was, because
both were alike impossible. This is manifestly otherwise; for 'tis
proved that a stage may properly represent two rooms or houses; for
the imagination being judge of what is represented, will in reason be
less choked with the appearance of two rooms in the same house, or
two houses in the same city, than with two distant cities in the same
country, or two remote countries in the same universe. Imagination in
a man, or reasonable creature, is supposed to participate of reason,
and when that governs, as it does in the belief of fiction, reason
is not destroyed, but misled, or blinded; that can prescribe to the
reason, during the time of the representation, somewhat like a weak
belief of what it sees and hears; and reason suffers itself to be so
hood-winked, that it may better enjoy the pleasures of the fiction:
But it is never so wholly made a captive, as to be drawn headlong into
a persuasion of those things which are most remote from probability:
It is in that case a free-born subject, not a slave; it will
contribute willingly its assent, as far as it sees convenient, but
will not be forced. Now, there is a greater vicinity in nature betwixt
two rooms, than betwixt two houses; betwixt two houses, than betwixt
two cities; and so of the rest: Reason, therefore, can sooner be led,
by imagination, to step from one room into another, than to walk to
two distant houses, and yet rather to go thither, than to fly like
a witch through the air, and be hurried from one region to another.
Fancy and Reason go hand in hand; the first cannot leave the last
behind: And though Fancy, when it sees the wide gulph, would venture
over, as the nimbler, yet it is with-held by Reason, which will refuse
to take the leap, when the distance over it appears too large. If Ben
Jonson himself will remove the scene from Rome into Tuscany in
the same act, and from thence return to Rome, in the scene which
immediately follows, reason will consider there is no proportionable
allowance of time to perform the journey, and, therefore, will choose
to stay at home. So, then, the less change of place there is, the
less time is taken up in transporting the persons of the drama, with
analogy to reason; and in that analogy, or resemblance of fiction to
truth, consists the excellency of the play.
For what else concerns the unity of place, I have already given my
opinion of it in my Essay, that there is a latitude to be allowed to
it, as several places in the same town or city, or places adjacent to
each other in the same country; which may all be comprehended under
the larger denomination of one place; yet with this restriction,
that the nearer and fewer those imaginary places are, the greater
resemblance they will have to truth; and reason, which cannot make
them one, will be more easily led to suppose them so.
What has been said of the unity of place, may easily be applied to
that of time: I grant it to be impossible, that the greater part of
time should be comprehended in the less, that twenty-four hours should
be crowded into three: But there is no necessity of that supposition;
for as _place_, so time relating to a play, is either imaginary
or real: The real is comprehended in those three hours, more or less,
in the space of which the play is represented; the imaginary is that
which is supposed to be taken up in the representation, as twenty-four
hours, more or less. Now, no man ever could suppose, that twenty-four
real hours could be included in the space of three; but where is
the absurdity of affirming, that the feigned business of twenty-four
imagined hours, may not more naturally be represented in the compass
of three real hours, than the like feigned business of twenty-four
years, in the same proportion of real time? For the proportions are
always real, and much nearer, by his permission, of twenty-four to
three, than of four thousand to it.
I am almost fearful of illustrating any thing by similitude, lest he
should confute it for an argument; yet I think the comparison of
a glass will discover very aptly the fallacy of his argument, both
concerning time and place. The strength of his reason depends on this,
that the less cannot comprehend the greater. I have already answered,
that we need not suppose it does; I say not that the less can
comprehend the greater, but only, that it may represent it. As in
a glass, or mirror, of half-a-yard diameter, a whole room, and many
persons in it, may be seen at once; not that it can comprehend that
room, or those persons, but that it represents them to the sight.
But the author of the "Duke of Lerma" is to be excused for his
declaring against the unity of time; for, if I be not much mistaken,
he is an interested person;--the time of that play taking up so many
years, as the favour of the Duke of Lerma continued; nay, the second
and third act including all the time of his prosperity, which was a
great part of the reign of Philip the Third: For in the beginning of
the second act he was not yet a favourite, and, before the end of
the third, was in disgrace. I say not this with the least design of
limiting the stage too servilely to twenty-four hours, however he be
pleased to tax me with dogmatising on that point, In my dialogue, as I
before hinted, several persons maintained their several opinions: One
of them, indeed, who supported the cause of the French poesy, said how
strict they were in that particular; but he who answered, in behalf of
our nation, was willing to give more latitude to the rule, and cites
the words of Corneille himself, complaining against the severity of
it, and observing, what beauties it banished from the stage, p. 44.
of my Essay. In few words, my own opinion is this, (and I willingly
submit it to my adversary, when he will please impartially to consider
it) that the imaginary time of every play ought to be contrived into
as narrow a compass, as the nature of the plot, the quality of the
persons, and variety of accidents will allow. In comedy, I would
not exceed twenty-four or thirty hours; for the plot, accidents, and
persons, of comedy are small, and may be naturally turned in a little
compass: But in tragedy, the design is weighty, and the persons great;
therefore, there will naturally be required a greater space of time in
which to move them. And this, though Ben Jonson has not told us, yet
it is manifestly his opinion: For you see that to his comedies
he allows generally but twenty-four hours; to his two tragedies,
"Sejanus," and "Catiline," a much larger time, though he draws both
of them into as narrow a compass as he can: For he shews you only the
latter end of Sejanus's favour, and the conspiracy of Catiline already
ripe, and just breaking out into action.
But as it is an error, on the one side, to make too great a
disproportion betwixt the imaginary time of the play, and the real
time of its representation; so, on the other side, it is an oversight
to compress the accidents of a play into a narrower compass than that
in which they could naturally be produced. Of this last error the
French are seldom guilty, because the thinness of their plots prevents
them from it; but few Englishmen, except Ben Jonson, have ever made
a plot, with variety of design in it, included in twenty-four hours,
which was altogether natural. For this reason, I prefer the "Silent
Woman" before all other plays, I think justly, as I do its author, in
judgment, above all other poets. Yet, of the two, I think that error
the most pardonable, which in too strait a compass crowds together
many accidents, since it produces more variety, and, consequently,
more pleasure to the audience; and, because the nearness of proportion
betwixt the imaginary and real time, does speciously cover the
compression of the accidents.
Thus I have endeavoured to answer the meaning of his argument; for, as
he drew it, I humbly conceive that it was none,--as will appear by his
proposition, and the proof of it. His proposition was this:
"If strictly and duly weighed, it is as impossible for one stage to
present two rooms, or houses, as two countries, or kingdoms," &c.
And his proof this: "For all being impossible, they are none of them
nearest the truth or nature of what they present."
Here you see, instead of proof or reason, there is only _petitio
principii_. For, in plain words, his sense is this: Two things
are as impossible as one another, because they are both equally
impossible: But he takes those two things to be granted as impossible,
which he ought to have proved such, before he had proceeded to prove
them equally impossible: He should have made out first, that it was
impossible for one stage to represent two houses, and then have gone
forward to prove, that it was as equally impossible for a stage to
present two houses, as two countries.
After all this, the very absurdity, to which he would reduce me, is
none at all: For he only drives at this, that, if his argument
be true, I must then acknowledge that there are degrees in
impossibilities, which I easily grant him without dispute; and, if I
mistake not, Aristotle and the School are of my opinion. For there are
some things which are absolutely impossible, and others which are only
so _ex parte_; as it is absolutely impossible for a thing _to
be_, and _not to be_ at the same time: But for a stone to move
naturally upward, is only impossible _ex parte materiae_; but it
is not impossible for the first mover to alter the nature of it.
His last assault, like that of a Frenchman, is most feeble; for
whereas I have observed, that none have been violent against verse,
but such only as have not attempted it, or have succeeded ill in their
attempt, he will needs, according to his usual custom, improve my
observation to an argument, that he might have the glory to confute
it, But I lay my observation at his feet, as I do my pen, which I have
often employed willingly in his deserved commendations, and now most
unwillingly against his judgment. For his person and parts, I honour
them as much as any man living, and have had so many particular
obligations to him, that I should be very ungrateful, if I did not
acknowledge them to the world. But I gave not the first occasion
of this difference in opinions. In my epistle dedicatory, before my
"Rival Ladies," I had said somewhat in behalf of verse, which he was
pleased to answer in his preface to his plays. That occasioned my
reply in my essay; and that reply begot this rejoinder of his, in
his preface to the "Duke of Lenna." But as I was the last who took
up arms, I will be the first to lay them down. For what I have here
written, I submit it wholly to him; and if I do not hereafter answer
what may be objected against this paper, I hope the world will not
impute it to any other reason, than only the due respect which I have
for so noble an opponent.
THE INDIAN EMPEROR.
The Indian Emperor is the first of Dryden's plays which exhibited, in
a marked degree, the peculiarity of his stile, and drew upon him the
attention of the world. Without equalling the extravagancies of the
Conquest of Granada, and the Royal Martyr, works produced when our
author was emboldened, by public applause, to give full scope to
his daring genius, the following may be considered as a model of the
heroic drama, A few words, therefore, will not be here misplaced, on
the nature of the kind of tragedies, in which, during the earlier part
of his literary career, our author delighted and excelled.
The heroic, or rhyming, plays, were borrowed from the French, to whose
genius they are better suited than to the British. An analogy may be
observed between all the different departments of the belles lettres;
and none seem more closely allied, than the pursuits of the dramatic
writer, and those of the composer of romances or novels. Both deal in
fictitious adventure; both write for amusement; and address themselves
nearly to the same class of admirers. Nay, although the pride of the
dramatist may be offended by the assertion, it would seem, that the
nature of his walk is often prescribed by the successful impression
of a novel upon the public mind. If we laugh over low adventures in a
novel, we soon see low comedy upon the stage: If we are horror-struck
with a tale of robbers and murder in our closet, the dagger and the
green carpet will not long remain unemployed in the theatre; and if
ghosts haunt our novels, they soon stalk amongst our scenes. Under
this persuasion, we have little doubt that the heroic tragedies were
the legitimate offspring of the French romances of Calprenede and
Scuderi. Such as may deign to open these venerable and neglected
tomes, will be soon convinced of their extreme resemblance to the
heroic drama. A remarkable feature in both, is the ideal world which
they form for themselves. Every sentiment is lofty, splendid, and
striking; and no apology is admitted for any departure from the
dignity of character, however natural or impressive. The beauty of the
heroine, and the valour of the hero, must be alike resistless; and the
moving spring, through the whole action, is the overbearing passion
of love. Their language and manners are as peculiar to themselves,
as their prowess and susceptibility. The pastoral Arcadian does not
differ more widely from an ordinary rustic, than these lofty
persons do from the princes and kings of this world. Neither is any
circumstance of national character, or manners, allowed as an apology
for altering the established character, which must be invariably
sustained by the persons of the heroic drama. The religion, and
the state of society of the country where the scene is laid, may be
occasionally alluded to as authority for varying a procession, or
introducing new dresses and decorations; but, in all other respects,
an Indian Inca, attired in feathers, must hold the same dignity of
deportment, and display the same powers of declamation, and ingenuity
of argument, with a Roman emperor in his purple, or a feudal warrior
in his armour; for the rule and decorum of this species of composition
is too peremptory, to give way either to the current of human
passions, or to the usages of nations. Gibbon has remarked, that the
kings of the Gepidae, and the Ostrogoths in Corneille's tragedy
of Attila, are profound politicians, and sentimental lovers;--a
description which, with a varying portion of pride, courtesy, and
heroism, will apply to almost all the characters in plays drawn upon
this model.
It is impossible to conceive any thing more different from the old
English drama, than the heroic plays which were introduced by Charles
II. The former, in labouring to exhibit a variety and contrast of
passions, tempers, or humours, frequently altogether neglected the
dignity of the scene. In the heroical tragedy, on the other hand,
nothing was to be indecorous, nothing grotesque: The personages were
to speak, not as men, but as heroes; to whom, as statuaries have
assigned a superiority of stature, so these poets have given an
uniform grandeur of feeling and of expression. It may be thought, that
this monotonous splendour of diction would have palled upon an English
audience, less pleased generally with refinement, however elegant,
than with bursts of passion, and flights of novelty. But Dryden felt
his force in the line which he chose to pursue and recommend. The
indescribable charms of his versification gratified the ear of the
public, while their attention was engaged by the splendour of his
images, and the matchless ingenuity of his arguments. It must also
be admitted, that, by their total neglect of the unities, our ancient
dramatic authors shocked the feelings of the more learned, and
embarrassed the understanding of the less acute, among the spectators.
We do not hold it treason to depart from the strict rules respecting
time and place, inculcated by the ancients, and followed in the heroic
plays. But it will surely be granted to us, that, where they can be
observed, without the sacrifice of great beauties, or incurring such
absurdities as Dennis has justly charged upon Cato, the play will be
proportionally more intelligible on the stage, and more pleasing in
the closet. And although we willingly censure the practice of driving
argument, upon the stage, into metaphysical refinement, and rendering
the contest of contrasted passions a mere combat in logic, yet we must
equally condemn those tragedies, in which the poet sketches out the
character with a few broken common-places, expressive of love, of
rage, or of grief, and leaves the canvas to be filled up by the actor,
according to his own taste, power, and inclination.
The Indian Emperor is an instance, what beautiful poetry may be united
to, we had almost said thrown away upon, the heroic drama. The very
first scene exhibits much of those beauties, and their attendant
deformities. A modern audience would hardly have sate in patience
to hear more than the first extravagant and ludicrous supposition of
Cortez:
As if our old world modestly withdrew;
And here, in private, had brought forth a new.
But had they condemned the piece for this uncommon case of
parturition, they would have lost the beautiful and melodious verses,
in which Cortez, and his followers, describe the advantages of the
newly discovered world; and they would have lost the still more
exquisite account, which, immediately after, Guyomar gives of the
arrival of the Spanish fleet. Of the characters little need be said;
they stalk on, in their own fairy land, in the same uniform livery,
and with little peculiarity of discrimination. All the men, from
Montezuma down to Pizarro, are brave warriors; and only vary, in
proportion to the mitigating qualities which the poet has infused into
their military ardour. The women are all beautiful, and all deeply
in love; differing from each other only, as the haughty or tender
predominates in their passion. But the charm of the poetry, and the
ingenuity of the dialogue, render it impossible to peruse, without
pleasure, a drama, the faults of which may be imputed to its
structure, while its beauties are peculiar to Dryden.
The plot of the Indian Emperor is certainly of our author's own
composition; since even the malignant assiduity of Langbaine has been
unable to point out any author from whom it is borrowed. The play was
first acted in 1665, and received with great applause.
CONNECTION
OF
THE INDIAN EMPEROR
TO
THE INDIAN QUEEN [A].
[Footnote A: This argument was printed, and dispersed amongst the
audience upon the first night of representation. Hence Bayes is made
to say, in the Rehearsal, that he had printed many reams, to instil
into the audience some conception of his plot.]
The conclusion of the Indian Queen (part of which poem was wrote
by me) left little matter for another story to be built on, there
remaining but two of the considerable characters alive, viz. Montezuma
and Orazia. Thereupon the author of this thought it necessary to
produce new persons from the old ones; and considering the late Indian
Queen, before she loved Montezuma, lived in clandestine marriage
with her general Traxalla, from those two he has raised a son and two
daughters, supposed to be left young orphans at their death. On the
other side, he has given to Montezuma and Orazia, two sons and a
daughter; all now supposed to be grown up to mens' and womens' estate;
and their mother, Orazia, (for whom there was no further use in the
story,) lately dead.
So that you are to imagine about twenty years elapsed since the
coronation of Montezuma; who, in the truth of the history, was a great
and glorious prince; and in whose time happened the discovery and
invasion of Mexico, by the Spaniards, under the conduct of Hernando
Cortez, who, joining with the Traxallan Indians, the inveterate
enemies of Montezuma, wholly subverted that flourishing empire;--the
conquest of which is the subject of this dramatic poem.
I have neither wholly followed the story, nor varied from it; and, as
near as I could, have traced the native simplicity and ignorance of
the Indians, in relation to European customs;--the shipping, armour,
horses, swords, and guns of the Spaniards, being as new to them, as
their habits and their language were to the Christians.
The difference of their religion from ours, I have taken from the
story itself; and that which you find of it in the first and fifth
acts, touching the sufferings and constancy of Montezuma in his
opinions, I have only illustrated, not altered, from those who have
written of it.
PROLOGUE
Almighty critics! whom our Indians here
Worship, just as they do the devil--for fear;
In reverence to your power, I come this day,
To give you timely warning of our play.
The scenes are old, the habits are the same
We wore last year, before the Spaniards came[A].
Now, if you stay, the blood, that shall be shed
From this poor play, be all upon your head.
We neither promise you one dance, or show;
Then plot, and language, they are wanting too:
But you, kind wits, will those light faults excuse,
Those are the common frailties of the muse;
Which, who observes, he buys his place too dear;
For 'tis your business to be cozened here.
These wretched spies of wit must then confess,
They take more pains to please themselves the less.
Grant us such judges, Phoebus, we request,
As still mistake themselves into a jest;
Such easy judges, that our poet may
Himself admire the fortune of his play;
And, arrogantly, as his fellows do,
Think he writes well, because he pleases you.
This he conceives not hard to bring about,
If all of you would join to help him out:
Would each man take but what he understands,
And leave the rest upon the poet's hands.
[Footnote A: Alluding to the Indian Queen, in which the scene is laid
before the arrival of the Spaniards in America, and which was acted in
1664, as this was in 1665.]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
INDIAN MEN.
MONTEZUMA, _Emperor of Mexico_.
ODMAR, _his eldest son_.
GUYOMAR, _his younger son_.
ORBELLAN, _son of the late Indian Queen by TRAXALLA_.
_High Priest of the Sun_.
WOMEN.
CYDARIA, _MONTEZUMA'S daughter_.
ALMERIA, } _Sisters; and daughters to the late_
ALIBECH, } _Indian Queen_.
SPANIARDS.
CORTEZ, _the Spanish General_.
VASQUEZ, } _Commanders under him_.
PIZARRO, }
SCENE--_Mexico, and two leagues about it_.
THE INDIAN EMPEROR.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_A pleasant Indian country_.
_Enter_ CORTEZ, VASQUEZ, PIZARRO, _with Spaniards and Indians
of their party_.
_Cort_. On what new happy climate are we thrown,
So long kept secret, and so lately known;
As if our old world modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a new?
_Vasq._ Corn, oil, and wine, are wanting to this ground,
In which our countries fruitfully abound;
As if this infant world, yet unarrayed,
Naked and bare in Nature's lap were laid.
No useful arts have yet found footing here,
But all untaught and savage does appear.
_Cort._ Wild and untaught are terms which we alone
Invent, for fashions differing from our own;
For all their customs are by nature wrought,
But we, by art, unteach what nature taught.
_Piz_. In Spain, our springs, like old men's children, be
Decayed and withered from their infancy:
No kindly showers fall on our barren earth,
To hatch the season in a timely birth:
Our summer such a russet livery wears,
As in a garment often dyed appears.
_Cort_. Here nature spreads her fruitful sweetness round,
Breathes on the air, and broods upon the ground:
Here days and nights the only seasons be;
The sun no climate does so gladly see:
When forced from hence, to view our parts, he mourns;
Takes little journies, and makes quick returns.
_Vasq_. Methinks, we walk in dreams on Fairy-land,
Where golden ore lies mixt with common sand;
Each downfal of a flood, the mountains pour
From their rich bowels, rolls a silver shower.
_Cort_. Heaven from all ages wisely did provide
This wealth, and for the bravest nation hide,
Who, with four hundred foot and forty horse,
Dare boldly go a new-found world to force.
_Piz_. Our men, though valiant, we should find too few,
But Indians join the Indians to subdue;
Taxallan, shook by Montezuma's powers,
Has, to resist his forces, called in ours.
_Vasq_. Rashly to arm against so great a king,
I hold not safe; nor is it just to bring
A war, without a fair defiance made.
_Piz_. Declare we first our quarrel; then invade.
_Cort_. Myself, my king's ambassador, will go;
Speak, Indian guide, how far to Mexico?
_Ind_. Your eyes can scarce so far a prospect make,
As to discern the city on the lake;
But that broad causeway will direct your way,
And you may reach the town by noon of day.
_Cort_. Command a party of our Indians out,
With a strict charge, not to engage, but scout:
By noble ways we conquest will prepare;
First, offer peace, and, that refused, make war.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.--_A Temple_.
_The High Priest with other Priests. To them an
Indian_.
_Ind_. Haste, holy priest, it is the king's command.
_High Pr_. When sets he forward?
_Ind_. He is near at hand.
_High Pr_. The incense is upon the altar placed,
The bloody sacrifice already past;
Five hundred captives saw the rising sun,
Who lost their light, ere half his race was run.
That which remains we here must celebrate;
Where, far from noise, without the city gate,
The peaceful power that governs love repairs,
To feast upon soft vows and silent prayers.
We for his royal presence only stay,
To end the rites of this so solemn day.
[_Exit Ind_.
_Enter_ MONTEZUMA; _his eldest son_, ODMAR; _his
daughter_, CYDARIA; ALMERIA, ALIBECH, ORBELLAN,
_and Train. They place themselves_.
_High Pr_. On your birthday, while we sing
To our gods and to our king,
Her, among this beauteous quire,
Whose perfections you admire,
Her, who fairest does appear,
Crown her queen of all the year,
Of the year and of the day,
And at her feet your garland lay.
_Odm_. My father this way does his looks direct;
Heaven grant, he give it not where I suspect!
[MONTEZUMA _rises, goes about the Ladies, and
at length stays at_ ALMERIA, _and bows_.
_Mont_. Since my Orazia's death, I have not seen
A beauty, so deserving to be queen
As fair Almeria.
_Alm_. Sure he will not know
[_To her brother and sister, aside_.
My birth I to that injured princess owe,
Whom his hard heart not only love denied,
But in her sufferings took unmanly pride.
_Alib_. Since Montezuma will his choice renew,
In dead Orazia's room electing you,
'Twill please our mother's ghost that you succeed
To all the glories of her rival's bed.
_Alm_. If news be carried to the shades below,
The Indian queen will be more pleased, to know,
That I his scorns on him, who scorned her, pay.
_Orb_. Would you could right her some more noble way!
[_She turns to him, who is kneeling all this while_.
_Mont_. Madam, this posture is for heaven designed,
[_Kneeling_.
And what moves heaven I hope may make you kind.
_Alm_. Heaven may be kind; the gods uninjured live.
And crimes below cost little to forgive:
By thee, inhuman, both my parents died;
One by thy sword, the other by thy pride.
_Mont_. My haughty mind no fate could ever bow,
Yet I must stoop to one, who scorns me now:
Is there no pity to my sufferings due?
_Alm_. As much as what my mother found from you.
_Mont_. Your mother's wrongs a recompence shall meet;
I lay my sceptre at her daughter's feet.
_Alm_. He, who does now my least commands obey,
Would call me queen, and take my power away.
_Odm_. Can he hear this, and not his fetters break?
Is love so powerful, or his soul so weak?
I'll fright her from it.--Madam, though you see
The king is kind, I hope your modesty
Will know, what distance to the crown is due.
_Alm_. Distance and modesty prescribed by you!
_Odm_. Almeria dares not think such thoughts as these.
_Alm_. She dares both think and act what thoughts she please.
Tis much below me on his throne to sit;
But when I do, you shall petition it.
_Odm_. If, sir, Almeria does your bed partake,
I mourn for my forgotten mother's' sake.
_Mont_. When parents' loves are ordered by a son,
Let streams prescribe their fountains where to run.
_Odm_. In all I urge, I keep my duty still,
Not rule your reason, but instruct your will.
_Mont_. Small use of reason in that prince is shown,
Who follows others, and neglects his own.
[ALMERIA _to_ ORBELLAN _and_ ALIBECH, _who are this while
whispering to her_.
_Alm_. No, he shall ever love, and always be
The subject of my scorn and cruelty.
_Orb_. To prove the lasting torment of his life,
You must not be his mistress, but his wife.
Few know what care an husband's peace destroys,
His real griefs, and his dissembled joys.
_Alm_. What mark of pleasing vengeance could be shown,
If I, to break his quiet, lose my own?
_Orb_. A brother's life upon your love relics,
Since I do homage to Cydaria's eyes:
How can her father to my hopes be kind,
If in your heart he no example find?
_Alm_. To save your life I'll suffer any thing,
Yet I'll not flatter this tempestuous king;
But work his stubborn soul a nobler way,
And, if he love, I'll force him to obey.
I take this garland, not as given by you,
[_To MONT_.
But as my merit and my beauty's due.
As for the crown, that you, my slave, possess,
To share it with you would but make me less.
_Enter_ GUYOMAR _hastily_.
_Odm_. My brother Guyomar! methinks I spy
Haste in his steps, and wonder in his eye.
_Mont_. I sent thee to the frontiers; quickly tell
The cause of thy return; are all things well?
_Guy_. I went, in order, sir, to your command,
To view the utmost limits of the land:
To that sea-shore where no more world is found,
But foaming billows breaking on the ground;
Where, for a while, my eyes no object met,
But distant skies, that in the ocean set;
And low-hung clouds, that dipt themselves in rain,
To shake their fleeces on the earth again.
At last, as far as I could cast my eyes
Upon the sea, somewhat, methought, did rise,
Like blueish mists, which, still appearing more,
Took dreadful shapes, and moved towards the shore.
_Mont_. What forms did these new wonders represent?
_Guy_. More strange than what your wonder can invent.
The object, I could first distinctly view,
Was tall straight trees, which on the waters flew;
Wings on their sides, instead of leaves, did grow,
Which gathered all the breath the winds could blow:
And at their roots grew floating palaces,
Whose outblowed bellies cut the yielding seas.
_Mont_. What divine monsters, O ye gods, were these,
That float in air, and fly upon the seas!
Came they alive, or dead, upon the shore?
_Guy_. Alas, they lived too sure; I heard them roar.
All turned their sides, and to each other spoke;
I saw their words break out in fire and smoke.
Sure 'tis their voice, that thunders from on high,
Or these the younger brothers of the sky.
Deaf with the noise, I took my hasty flight;
No mortal courage can support the fright.
_High Pr_. Old prophecies foretel our fall at hand,
When bearded men in floating castles land.
I fear it is of dire portent.
_Mont_. Go see
What it foreshows, and what the gods decree.
Meantime proceed we to what rites remain.--
Odmar, of all this presence does contain,
Give her your wreath, whom you esteem most fair.
_Odm_. Above the rest I judge one beauty rare,
And may that beauty prove as kind to me,
[_He gives_ ALIBECH _the wreath_.
As I am sure fair Alibech is she.
_Mont_. You, Guyomar, must next perform your part.
_Guy_. I want a garland, but I'll give a heart:
My brother's pardon I must first implore,
Since I with him fair Alibech adore.
_Odm_. That all should Alibech adore, 'tis true;
But some respect is to my birthright due.
My claim to her by eldership I prove.
_Guy_. Age is a plea in empire, not in love.
_Odm_. I long have staid for this solemnity,
To make my passion public.
_Guy_. So have I.
_Odm_. But from her birth my soul has been her slave;
My heart received the first wounds which she save:
I watched the early glories of her eyes,
As men for daybreak watch the eastern skies.
_Guy_. It seems my soul then moved the quicker pace;
Yours first set out, mine reached her in the race.
_Mont_. Odmar, your choice I cannot disapprove;
Nor justly, Guyomar, can blame your love.
To Alibech alone refer your suit,
And let her sentence finish your dispute.
_Alib_. You think me, sir, a mistress quickly won.
So soon to finish what is scarce begun:
In this surprise should I a judgment make,
'Tis answering riddles ere I'm well awake:
If you oblige me suddenly to chuse,
The choice is made, for I must both refuse:
For to myself I owe this due regard,
Not to make love my gift, but my reward.
Time best will show, whose services will last.
_Odm_. Then judge my future service by my past.
What I shall be, by what I was, you know:
That love took deepest root, which first did grow.
_Guy_. That love, which first was set, will first decay;
Mine, of a fresher date, will longer stay.
_Odm_. Still you forget my birth.
_Guy_. But you, I see,
Take care still to refresh my memory.
_Mont_. My sons, let your unseemly discord cease,
If not in friendship, live at least in peace.
Orbellan, where you love, bestow your wreath.
_Orb_. My love I dare not, even in whispers, breathe.
_Mont_. A virtuous love may venture any thing.
_Orb_. Not to attempt the daughter of my king.
_Mont_. Whither is all my former fury gone?
Once more I have Traxalla's chains put on,
And by his children am in triumph led:
Too well the living have revenged the dead!
_Alm_. You think my brother born your enemy;
He's of Traxalla's blood, and so am I.
_Mont_. In vain I strive.
My lion-heart is with love's toils beset;
Struggling I fall still deeper in the net.
Cydaria, your new lover's garland take,
And use him kindly for your father's sake.
_Cyd_. So strong an hatred does my nature sway.
That, spite of duty, I must disobey:
Besides, you warned me still of loving two;
Can I love him, already loving you?
_Enter a Guard hastily_.
_Mont_. You look amazed, as if some sudden fear
Had seized your hearts; is any danger near?
_1 Guard_. Behind the covert, where this temple stands,
Thick as the shades, there issue swarming bands
Of ambushed men, whom, by their arms and dress,
To be Taxallan enemies I guess.
_2 Guard_. The temple, sir, is almost compassed round.
_Mont_. Some speedy way for passage must be found.
Make to the city by the postern gate,
I'll either force my victory, or fate;
A glorious death in arms I'll rather prove,
Than stay to perish tamely by my love.
[_Exeunt_.
_An alarm within. Enter_ MONTEZUMA, ODMAR, GUYOMAR, ALIBECH,
ORBELLAN, CYDARIA, ALMERIA, _as pursued by Taxallans_.
_Mont_. No succour from the town?
_Odm_. None, none is nigh.
_Guy_. We are inclosed, and must resolve to die.
_Mont_. Fight for revenge, now hope of life is past
But one stroke more, and that will be my last.
_Enter_ CORTEZ, VASQUEZ, PIZARRO, _to the Taxallans_: CORTEZ
_stays them, just falling on_.
_Cort_. Contemned? my orders broke even in my sight?
Did I not strictly charge, you should not fight?
[_To his Indians_.
_Ind_. Your choler, general, does unjustly rise,
To see your friends pursue your enemies.
The greatest and most cruel foes we have,
Are these, whom you would ignorantly save.
By ambushed men, behind their temple laid,
We have the king of Mexico betrayed.
_Cort_. Where, banished virtue, wilt thou shew thy face,
If treachery infects thy Indian race?
Dismiss your rage, and lay your weapons by:
Know I protect them, and they shall not die.
_Ind_. O wondrous mercy, shewn to foes distrest!
_Cort_. Call them not so, when once with odds opprest;
Nor are they foes my clemency defends,
Until they have refused the name of friends:
Draw up our Spaniards by themselves, then fire
Our guns on all, who do not strait retire.
[_To_ VASQ.
_Ind_. O mercy, mercy! at thy feet we fall,
[_Indians kneeling_.
Before thy roaring Gods destroy us all:
See, we retreat without the least reply;
Keep thy Gods silent! if they speak we die.
[_The Taxallans retire_.
_Mont_. The fierce Taxatlans lay their weapons down,
Some miracle in our relief is shewn.
_Guy_. These bearded men in shape and colour be
Like those I saw come floating on the sea.
[MONT. _kneels to_ CORT.
_Mont_. Patron of Mexico, and God of wars,
Son of the sun, and brother of the stars--
_Cort_. Great monarch, your devotion you misplace.
_Mont_. Thy actions shew thee born of heavenly race.
If then thou art that cruel God, whose eyes
Delight in blood, and human sacrifice,
Thy dreadful altars I with slaves will store,
And feed thy nostrils with hot reeking gore;
Or if that mild and gentle God thou be,
Who dost mankind below with pity see,
With breath of incense I will glad thy heart;
But if, like us, of mortal seed thou art,
Presents of choicest fowls, and fruits I'll bring,
And in my realms thou shalt be more than king.
_Cort_. Monarch of empires, and deserving more
Than the sun sees upon your western shore;
Like you a man, and hither led by fame,
Not by constraint, but by my choice, I came;
Ambassador of peace, if peace you chuse,
Or herald of a war, if you refuse.
_Mont_. Whence, or from whom, dost thou these offers bring?
_Cort_. From Charles the Fifth, the world's most potent king.
_Mont_. Some petty prince, and one of little fame,
For to this hour I never heard his name:
The two great empires of the world I know,
That of Peru, and this of Mexico;
And since the earth none larger does afford,
This Charles is some poor tributary lord.
_Cort_. You speak of that small part of earth you know;
But betwixt us and you wide oceans flow,
And watry desarts of so vast extent,
That passing hither four full moons we spent.
_Mont_. But say, what news, what offers dost thou bring
From so remote, and so unknown a king?
[_While_ VASQUEZ _speaks_, CORTEZ _spies the ladies
and goes to them, entertaining_ CYDARIA _with
courtship in dumb shew_.
_Vasq_. Spain's mighty monarch, to whom heaven thinks fit,
That all the nations of the earth submit,
In gracious clemency, does condescend
On these conditions to become your friend.
First, that of him you shall your sceptre hold;
Next, you present him with your useless gold:
Last, that you leave those idols you implore,
And one true deity with him adore.
_Mont_. You speak your prince a mighty emperor,
But his demands have spoke him proud and poor;
He proudly at my free-born sceptre flies,
Yet poorly begs a metal I despise.
Gold thou mayest take, whatever thou canst find,
Save what for sacred uses is designed:
But, by what right pretends your king to be
The sovereign lord of all the world and me?
_Piz_. The sovereign priest--
Who represents on earth the power of heaven,
Has this your empire to our monarch given.
_Mont_. Ill does he represent the powers above,
Who nourishes debate, not preaches love;
Besides, what greater folly can be shewn?
He gives another what is not his own.
_Vasq_. His power must needs unquestioned be below,
For he in heaven an empire can bestow.
_Mont_. Empires in heaven he with more ease may give,
And you, perhaps, would with less thanks receive;
But heaven has need of no such viceroy here,
Itself bestows the crowns that monarchs wear.
_Piz_. You wrong his power, as you mistake our end,
Who came thus far religion to extend.
_Mont_. He, who religion truly understands,
Knows its extent must be in men, not lands.
_Odm_. But who are those that truth must propagate
Within the confines of my father's state?
_Vasq_. Religious men, who hither must be sent
As awful guides of heavenly government;
To teach you penance, fasts, and abstinence,
To punish bodies for the soul's offence.
_Mont_. Cheaply you sin, and punish crimes with ease,
Not as the offended, but the offenders please;
First injure heaven, and, when its wrath is due,
Yourselves prescribe it how to punish you.
_Odm_. What numbers of these holy men must come?
_Piz_. You shall not want, each village shall have some;
Who, though the royal dignity they own,
Are equal to it, and depend on none.
_Guy_. Depend on none! you treat them sure in state,
For 'tis their plenty does their pride create.
_Mont_. Those ghostly kings would parcel out my power,
And all the fatness of my land devour.
That monarch sits not safely on his throne
Who bears, within, a power that shocks his own.
They teach obedience to imperial sway,
But think it sin if they themselves obey.
_Vasq_. It seems, then, our religion you accuse,
And peaceful homage to our king refuse.
_Mont_. Your Gods I slight not, but will keep my own;
My crown is absolute, and holds of none.
I cannot in a base subjection live,
Nor suffer you to take, though I would give.
_Cort_. Is this your answer, sir?
_Mont_.--This, as a prince,
Bound to my people's and my crown's defence,
I must return; but, as a man, by you
Redeemed from death, all gratitude is due.
_Cort_. It was an act my honour bound me to:
But what I did, were I again to do,
I could not do it on my honour's score,
For love would now oblige me to do more.
Is no way left that we may yet agree?
Must I have war, yet have no enemy?
_Vasq_. He has refused all terms of peace to take.
_Mont_. Since we must fight, hear, heavens, what prayers I make!
First, to preserve this ancient state and me,
But if your doom the fall of both decree,
Grant only he, who has such honour shewn,
When I am dust, may fill my empty throne!
_Cort_. To make me happier than that wish can do,
Lies not in all your Gods to grant, but you;
Let this fair princess but one minute stay,
A look from her will your obligements pay.
[_Exeunt_ MONTEZUMA, ODMAR, GUYOMAR, ORBELLAN, ALMERIA, and
ALIBECH.
_Mont_. to _Cyd_. Your duty in your quick return be shewn.--
Stay you, and wait my daughter to the town.
[_To his guards_.
[CYDARIA _is going, but turns and looks back upon_ CORTEZ, _who
is looking on her all this while_.
_Cyd_. My father's gone, and yet I cannot go;
Sure I have something lost or left behind!
[_Aside_.
_Cort_. Like travellers who wander in the snow,
I on her beauty gaze 'till I am blind.
[_Aside_.
_Cyd_. Thick breath, quick pulse, and heaving of my heart,
All signs of some unwonted change appear:
I find myself unwilling to depart,
And yet I know not why I would be here.
Stranger, you raise such torments in my breast,
That when I go, (if I must go again)
I'll tell my father you have robbed my rest,
And to him of your injuries complain.
_Cort_. Unknown, I swear, those wrongs were which I wrought,
But my complaints will much more just appear,
Who from another world my freedom brought,
And to your conquering eyes have lost it here.
_Cyd_. Where is that other world, from whence you came?
_Cort_. Beyond the ocean, far from hence it lies.
_Cyd_. Your other world, I fear, is then the same,
That souls must go to when the body dies.
But what's the cause that keeps you here with me,
That I may know what keeps me here with you?
_Cort_. Mine is a love which must perpetual be,
If you can be so just as I am true.
_Enter_ ORBELLAN.
_Orb_. Your father wonders much at your delay.
_Cyd_. So great a wonder for so small a stay!
_Orb_. He has commanded you with me to go.
_Cyd_. Has he not sent to bring the stranger too?
_Orb_. If he to-morrow dares in fight appear,
His high-placed love perhaps may cost him dear.
_Cort_. Dares!--that word was never spoke to Spaniard yet,
But forfeited his life, who gave him it;
Haste quickly with thy pledge of safety hence,
Thy guilt's protected by her innocence.
_Cyd_. Sure in some fatal hour my love was born,
So soon o'ercast with absence in the morn!
_Cort_. Turn hence those pointed glories of your eyes;
For if more charms beneath those circles rise,
So weak my virtue, they so strong appear,
I shall turn ravisher to keep you here.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT II.
SCENE I.--_The Magician's Cave_.
_Enter_ MONTEZUMA, _and High-Priest_.
_Mont_. Not that I fear the utmost fate can do,
Come I the event of doubtful war to know;
For life and death are things indifferent;
Each to be chose as either brings content:
My motive from a nobler cause does spring,
Love rules my heart, and is your monarch's king;
I more desire to know Almeria's mind,
Than all that heaven has for my state designed.
_High Pr_. By powerful charms, which nothing can withstand,
I'll force the Gods to tell what you demand.
CHARM.
Thou moon, that aidest us with thy magic might,
And ye small stars, the scattered seeds of light,
Dart your pale beams into this gloomy place,
That the sad powers of the infernal race
May read above what's hid from human eyes,
And in your walks see empires fall and rise.
And ye, immortal souls, who once were men,
And now, resolved to elements again,
Who wait for mortal frames in depths below,
And did before what we are doomed to do;
Once, twice, and thrice, I wave my sacred wand,
Ascend, ascend, ascend at my command.
[_An earthy spirit rises_.
_Spir_. In vain, O mortal men, your prayers implore
The aid of powers below, which want it more:
A God more strong, who all the Gods commands,
Drives us to exile from our native lands;
The air swarms thick with wandering deities,
Which drowsily, like humming beetles, rise
From our loved earth, where peacefully we slept,
And, far from heaven, a long possession kept.
The frighted satyrs, that in woods delight,
Now into plains with pricked-up ears take flight;
And scudding thence, while they their horn-feet ply,
About their sires the little silvans cry.
A nation loving gold must rule this place,
Our temples ruin, and our rites deface:
To them, O king, is thy lost sceptre given.
Now mourn thy fatal search, for since wise heaven
More ill than good to mortals does dispense,
It is not safe to have too quick a sense.
[_Descends_.
_Mont_. Mourn they, who think repining can remove
The firm decrees of those, who rule above;
The brave are safe within, who still dare die:
Whene'er I fall, I'll scorn my destiny.
Doom as they please my empire not to stand,
I'll grasp my sceptre with my dying hand.
_High Pr_. Those earthy spirits black and envious are;
I'll call up other Gods, of form more fair:
Who visions dress in pleasing colour still,
Set all the good to shew, and hide the ill.
Kalib, ascend, my fair-spoke servant rise,
And sooth my heart with pleasing prophesies.
KALIB ascends all in white, in shape of a woman,
and sings.
_Kal_. _I looked and saw within the book of fate,
Where, many days did lowr,
When lo one happy hour
Leapt up, and smiled to save thy sinking state;
A day shall come when in thy power
Thy cruel foes shall be;
Then shall thy land be free,
And thou in peace shalt reign.
But take, O take that opportunity,
Which, once refused, will never come again._
[Descends.
_Mont_. I shall deserve my fate, if I refuse
That happy hour which heaven allots to use:
But of my crown thou too much care dost take;
That which I value more, my love's at stake.
_High Pr_. Arise, ye subtle spirits, that can spy,
When love is entered in a female's eye;
You, that can read it in the midst of doubt,
And in the midst of frowns can find it out;
You, that can search those many cornered minds,
Where women's crooked fancy turns and winds;
You, that can love explore, and truth impart,
Where both lie deepest hid in woman's heart,
Arise--
[_The ghosts of_ TRAXALLA _and_ ACACIS _arise; they stand
still, and point at_ MONTEZUMA.
_High Pr_. I did not for these ghastly visions send;
Their sudden coming does some ill portend.
Begone,--begone,--they will not disappear!
My soul is seized with an unusual fear.
_Mont_. Point on, point on, and see whom you can fright.
Shame and confusion seize these shades of night!
Ye thin and empty forms, am I your sport?
[_They smile_.
If you were flesh--
You know you durst not use me in this sort.
[_The ghost of the Indian Queen rises betwixt the
ghosts, with a dagger in her breast_.
_Mont_. Ha!
I feel my hair grow stiff, my eye-balls roll!
This is the only form could shake my soul.
_Ghost_. The hopes of thy successful love resign;
Know, Montezuma, thou art only mine;
For those, who here on earth their passion shew
By death for love, receive their right below.
Why dost thou then delay my longing arms?
Have cares, and age, and mortal life such charms?
The moon grows sickly at the sight of day,
And early cocks have summoned me away:
Yet I'll appoint a meeting place below,
For there fierce winds o'er dusky vallies blow,
Whose every puff bears empty shades away,
Which guidless in those dark dominions stray.
Just at the entrance of the fields below,
Thou shalt behold a tall black poplar grow;
Safe in its hollow trunk I will attend,
And seize thy spirit when thou dost descend.
[_Descends_.
_Mont_. I'll seize thee there, thou messenger of fate.--
Would my short life had yet a shorter date!
I'm weary of this flesh which holds us here,
And dastards manly souls with hope and fear;
These heats and colds still in our breast make war,
Agues and fevers all our passions are. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
CYDARIA _and_ ALIBECH, _betwixt the two armies_.
_Alib_. Blessings will crown your name, if you prevent
That blood, which in this battle will be spent;
Nor need you fear so just a suit to move,
Which both becomes your duty and your love.
_Cyd_. But think you he will come? their camp is near,
And he already knows I wait him here.
_Alib_. You are too young your power to understand,
Lovers take wing upon the least command;
Already he is here.
_Enter_ CORTEZ _and_ VASQUEZ _to them_.
_Cort_. Methinks, like two black storms on either hand,
Our Spanish army and your Indians stand;
This only space betwixt the clouds is clear,
Where you, like day, broke loose from both appear.
_Cyd_. Those closing skies might still continue bright,
But who can help it, if you'll make it night?
The Gods have given you power of life and death,
Like them to save, or ruin, with a breath.
_Cort_. That power they to your father did dispose,
'Twas in his choice to make us friends or foes.
_Alib_. Injurious strength would rapine still excuse,
By offering terms the weaker must refuse;
And such as these your hard conditions are,
You threaten peace, and you invite a war.
_Cort_. If for myself to conquer here I came,
You might perhaps my actions justly blame:
Now I am sent, and am not to dispute
My prince's orders, but to execute.
_Alib_. He, who his prince so blindly does obey,
To keep his faith his virtue throws away.
_Cort_. Monarchs may err; but should each private
breast
Judge their ill acts, they would dispute their best.
_Cyd_. Then all your care is for your prince, I see;
Your truth to him out-weighs your love to me:
You may so cruel to deny me prove,
But never after that pretend to love.
_Cort_. Command my life, and I will soon obey;
To save my honour I my blood will pay.
_Cyd_. What is this honour which does love controul?
_Cort_. A raging fit of virtue in the soul;
A painful burden which great minds must bear,
Obtained with danger, and possest with fear.
_Cyd_. Lay down that burden if it painful grow;
You'll find, without it, love will lighter go.
_Cort_. Honour, once lost, is never to be found.
_Alib_. Perhaps he looks to have both passions crowned;
First dye his honour in a purple flood,
Then court the daughter in the father's blood.
_Cort_. The edge of war I'll from the battle take,
And spare her father's subjects for her sake.
_Cyd_. I cannot love you less when I'm refused.
But I can die to be unkindly used;
Where shall a maid's distracted heart find rest.
If she can miss it in her lover's breast?
_Cort_. I till to-morrow will the fight delay;
Remember you have conquered me to-day.
_Alib_. This grant destroys all you have urged before;
Honour could not give this, or can give more.
Our women in the foremost ranks appear;
March to the fight, and meet your mistress there:
Into the thickest squadrons she must run,
Kill her, and see what honour will be won.
_Cyd_. I must he in the battle, but I'll go
With empty quiver, and unbended bow;
Not draw an arrow in this fatal strife,
For fear its point should reach your noble life.
_Enter_ PIZARRO.
_Cort_. No more: your kindness wounds me to the death:
Honour, be gone! what art thou but a breath?
I'll live, proud of my infamy and shame,
Graced with no triumph but a lover's name;
Men can but say, love did his reason blind,
And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.--
Draw off my men; the war's already done.
_Piz_. Your orders come too late, the fight's begun;
The enemy gives on, with fury led,
And fierce Orbellan combats at their head.
_Cort_. He justly fears, a peace with me would
prove
Of ill concernment to his haughty love;
Retire, fair excellence! I go to meet
New honour, but to lay it at your feet.
[_Exeunt_ CORTEZ, VASQUEZ, _and_ PIZARRO.]
_Enter_ ODMAR _and_ GUTOMAR, _to_ ALIBECH _and_
CYDARIA.
_Odm_. Now, madam, since a danger does appear
Worthy my courage, though below my fear;
Give leave to him, who may in battle die,
Before his death, to ask his destiny.
_Guy_. He cannot die, whom you command to live;
Before the fight, you can the conquest give;
Speak, where you'll place it?
_Alib_. Briefly, then, to both,
One I in secret love, the other loathe;
But where I hate, my hate I will not show,
And he, I love, my love shall never know;
True worth shall gain me, that it may be said,
Desert, not fancy, once a woman led.
He who, in fight, his courage shall oppose,
With most success, against his country's foes,
From me shall all that recompence receive,
That valour merits, or that love can give.
'Tis true, my hopes and fears are all for one,
But hopes and fears are to myself alone.
Let him not shun the danger of the strife;
I but his love, his country claims his life.
_Odm_. All obstacles my courage shall remove.
_Guy_. Fall on, fall on.
_Odm_. For liberty!
_Guy_. For love!
[_Exeunt, the women following_.
SCENE III.--_Changes to the Indian country_.
_Enter_ Montezuma, _attended by the Indians_.
_Mont_. Charge, charge! their ground the faint Taxallans yield!
Bold in close ambush, base in open field.
The envious devil did my fortune wrong:--
Thus fought, thus conquered I, when I was young.
[_Exit_.
_Alarm. Enter CORTEZ bloody_.
_Cort_. Furies pursue these false Taxallans' flight;
Dare they be friends to us, and dare not fight?
What friends can cowards be, what hopes appear
Of help from such, who, where they hate, show fear!
_Enter_ PIZARRO _and_ VASQUEZ.
_Piz_. The field grows thin; and those, that now remain,
Appear but like the shadows of the slain.
_Vasq_. The fierce old king is vanished from the place,
And, in a cloud of dust, pursues the chase.
_Cort_. Their eager chase disordered does appear,
Command our horse to charge them in the rear:
[_To_ PIZARRO.
You to our old Castilian foot retire, [_To_ VASQ.
Who yet stand firm, and at their backs give fire.
[_Exeunt severally._
SCENE IV.
_Enter_ ODMAR _and_ GUTOMAR, _meeting each other in the
battle_.
_Odm_. Where hast thou been, since first the fight began,
Thou less than woman in the shape of man?
_Guy_. Where I have done what may thy envy move,
Things worthy of my birth, and of my love.
_Odm_. Two bold Taxallans with one dart I slew,
And left it sticking ere my sword I drew.
_Guy_. I sought not honour on so base a train,
Such cowards by our women may be slain;
I felled along a man of bearded face,
His limbs all covered with a shining case:
So wondrous hard, and so secure of wound,
It made my sword, though edged with flint, re-bound.
_Odm_. I killed a double man; the one half lay
Upon the ground, the other ran away.
[_Guns go off within.
Enter_ Montezuma, _out of breath, with him_ Alibech, _and an
Indian_.
_Mont_. All is lost!--
Our foes with lightning and with thunder fight;
My men in vain shun death by shameful flight:
For deaths invisible come winged with fire,
They hear a dreadful noise, and strait expire.
Take, gods! that soul, ye did in spite create,
And made it great, to be unfortunate:
Ill fate for me unjustly you provide,
Great souls are sparks of your own heavenly pride:
That lust of power we from your godheads have,
You're bound to please those appetites you gave.
_Enter_ Vasquez _and_ Pizarro, _with Spaniards._
_Vasq_. Pizarro, I have hunted hard to-day,
Into our toils, the noblest of the prey;
Seize on the king, and him your prisoner make,
While I, in kind revenge, my taker take.
[Pizarro, _with two, goes to attack the king_. Vasquez, _with
another, to seize_ Alibech.
_Guy_. Their danger is alike;--whom shall I free?
_Odm_. I'll follow love!
_Guy_. I'll follow piety!
[Odmar _retreats from_ Vasquez, _with_ Alibech, _off the
stage_; Guyomar _fights for his father_.
_Guy_. Fly, sir! while I give back that life you gave;
Mine is well lost, if I your life can save.
[Montezuma _fights off_; Guyomar, _making his retreat, stays_.
_Guy_. Tis more than man can do to scape them all;
Stay, let me see where noblest I may fall.
[_He runs at_ Vasquez, _is seized behind and taken_.
_Vasq_. Conduct him off,
And give command, he strictly guarded be.
_Guy_. In vain are guards, death sets the valiant free.
[_Exit_ Guyomar, _with guards_.
_Vasq_. A glorious day! and bravely was it fought;
Great fame our general in great dangers sought;
From his strong arm I saw his rival run,
And, in a crowd, the unequal combat shun.
_Enter_ Cortez _leading_ Cydaria, _who seems crying and
begging of him_.
_Cort_. Man's force is fruitless, and your gods would fail
To save the city, but your tears prevail;
I'll of my fortune no advantage make,
Those terms, they had once given, they still may take.
_Cyd_. Heaven has of right all victory designed,
Where boundless power dwells in a will confined;
Your Spanish honour does the world excel.
_Cort_. Our greatest honour is in loving well.
_Cyd_. Strange ways you practise there, to win a heart;
Here love is nature, but with you 'tis art.
_Cort_. Love is with us as natural as here,
But fettered up with customs more severe.
In tedious courtship we declare our pain,
And, ere we kindness find, first meet disdain.
_Cyd_. If women love, they needless pains endure;
Their pride and folly but delay their cure.
_Cort_. What you miscall their folly, is their care;
They know how fickle common lovers are:
Their oaths and vows are cautiously believed,
For few there are but have been once deceived.
_Cyd_. But if they are not trusted when they vow,
What other marks of passion can they show?
_Cort_. With feasts, and music, all that brings delight,
Men treat their ears, their palates, and their sight.
_Cyd_. Your gallants, sure, have little eloquence,
Failing to move the soul, they court the sense:
With pomp, and trains, and in a crowd they woo,
When true felicity is but in two;
But can such toys your women's passions move?
This is but noise and tumult, 'tis not love.
_Cort_. I have no reason, madam, to excuse
Those ways of gallantry, I did not use;
My love was true, and on a nobler score.
_Cyd_. Your love, alas! then have you loved before?
_Cort_. 'Tis true I loved, but she is dead, she's dead;
And I should think with her all beauty fled,
Did not her fair resemblance live in you,
And, by that image, my first flames renew.
_Cyd_. Ah! happy beauty, whosoe'er thou art!
Though dead, thou keep'st possession of his heart;
Thou makest me jealous to the last degree,
And art my rival in his memory:
Within his memory! ah, more than so,
Thou livest and triumph'st o'er Cydaria too.
_Cort_. What strange disquiet has uncalmed your breast,
Inhuman fair, to rob the dead of rest!--
Poor heart! she slumbers in her silent tomb;
Let her possess in peace that narrow room.
_Cyd_. Poor heart!--he pities and bewails her death!--
Some god, much hated soul, restore thy breath,
That I may kill thee; but, some ease 'twill be,
I'll kill myself for but resembling thee.
_Cort_. I dread your anger, your disquiet fear,
But blows, from hands so soft, who would not bear?
So kind a passion why should I remove?
Since jealousy but shows how well we love.
Yet jealousy so strange I never knew;
Can she, who loves me not, disquiet you?
For in the grave no passions fill the breast,
'Tis all we gain by death, to be at rest.
_Cyd_. That she no longer loves, brings no relief;
Your love to her still lives, and that's my grief.
_Cort_. The object of desire once ta'en away,
'Tis then not love, but pity, which we pay.
_Cyd_. 'Tis such a pity I should never have,
When I must lie forgotten in the grave;
I meant to have obliged you, when I died,
That, after me, you should love none beside.--
But you are false already.
_Cort_. If untrue,
By heaven! my falsehood is to her, not you.
_Cyd_. Observe, sweet heaven, how falsely he does swear!--
You said, you loved me for resembling her.
_Cort_. That love was in me by resemblance bred,
But shows you cheared my sorrows for the dead.
_Cyd_. You still repeat the greatness of your grief.
_Cort_. If that was great, how great was the relief!
_Cyd_. The first love still the strongest we account.
_Cort_. That seems more strong which could the first surmount:
But if you still continue thus unkind,
Whom I love best, you, by my death, shall find.
_Cyd_. If you should die, my death shall yours pursue;
But yet I am not satisfied you're true.
_Cort_. Hear me, ye gods! and punish him you hear,
If aught within the world I hold so dear.
_Cyd_. You would deceive the gods and me; she's dead,
And is not in the world, whose love I dread.--
Name not the world; say, nothing is so dear.
_Cort_. Then nothing is,--let that secure your fear.
_Cyd_. 'Tis time must wear it off, but I must go.
Can you your constancy in absence show?
_Cort_. Misdoubt my constancy, and do not try,
But stay, and keep me ever in your eye.
_Cyd_. If as a prisoner I were here, you might
Have then insisted on a conqueror's right,
And staid me here; but now my love would be
The effect of force, and I would give it free.
_Cort_. To doubt your virtue, or your love, were sin!
Call for the captive prince, and bring him in.
_Enter_ Guyomar, _bound and sad_.
You look, sir, as your fate you could not bear:
[_To_ Guy.
Are Spanish fetters, then, so hard to wear?
Fortune's unjust, she ruins oft the brave,
And him, who should be victor, makes the slave.
_Guy_. Son of the sun! my fetters cannot be
But glorious for me, since put on by thee;
The ills of love, not those of fate, I fear;
These can I brave, but those I cannot bear:
My rival brother, while I'm held in chains,
In freedom reaps the fruit of all my pains.
_Cort_. Let it be never said that he, whose breast
Is filled with love, should break a lover's rest.--
Haste! lose no time!--your sister sets you free:--
And tell the king, my generous enemy,
I offer still those terms he had before,
Only ask leave his daughter to adore.
_Guy_. Brother, (that name my breast shall ever own,
[_He embraces him_.
The name of foe be but in battles known;)
For some few days all hostile acts forbear,
That, if the king consents, it seem not fear:
His heart, is noble, and great souls must be
Most sought and courted in adversity.--
Three days, I hope, the wished success will tell.
_Cyd_. Till that long time,--
_Cort_. Till that long time, farewell.
[_Exeunt severally_.
ACT III.
SCENE I.--_A Chamber Royal_.
_Enter_ ODMAR _and_ ALIBECH.
_Odm_. The gods, fair Alibech, had so decreed,
Nor could my valour against fate succeed;
Yet though our army brought not conquest home,
I did not from the fight inglorious come:
If, as a victor, you the brave regard,
Successless courage, then, may hope reward;
And I, returning safe, may justly boast,
To win the prize which my dear brother lost.
_Enter_ GUYOMAR _behind him_.
_Guy_. No, no, thy brother lives! and lives to be
A witness, both against himself and thee;
Though both in safety are returned again,
I blush to ask her love for vanquished men.
_Odm_. Brother, I'll not dispute but you are brave;
Yet I was free, and you, it seems, a slave.
_Guy_. Odmar, 'tis true that I was captive led;
As publicly 'tis known, as that you fled:
But of two shames, if she must one partake,
I think the choice will not be hard to make.
_Odm_. Freedom and bondage in her choice remain;
Darest thou expect she will put on thy chain?
_Guy_. No, no, fair Alibech, give him the crown,
My brother is returned with high renown:
He thinks by flight his mistress must be won,
And claims the prize, because he best did run.
_Alib_. Your chains were glorious, and your flight was wise,
But neither have o'ercome your enemies:
My secret wishes would my choice decide,
But open justice bends to neither side.
_Odm_. Justice already does my right approve,
If him, who loves you most, you most should love.
My brother poorly from your aid withdrew,
But I my father left, to succour you.
_Guy_. Her country she did to herself prefer,
Him who fought best, not who defended her;
Since she her interest, for the nation's, waved,
Then I, who saved the king, the nation saved.
You, aiding her, your country did betray;
I, aiding him, did her commands obey.
_Odm_. Name it no more; in love there is a time
When dull obedience is the greatest crime.
She to her country's use resigned your sword,
And you, kind lover, took her at her word;
You did your duty to your love prefer,
Seek your reward from duty, not from her.
_Guy_. In acting what my duty did require,
'Twas hard for me to quit my own desire;
That fought for her, which, when I did subdue,
'Twas much the easier task I left to you.
_Alib_. Odmar a more than common love has shown,
And Guyomar's was greater, or was none;
Which I should chuse, some god direct my breast.
The certain good, or the uncertain best.--
I cannot chuse,--you both dispute in vain,--
Time and your future acts must make it plain;
First raise the siege, and set your country free,
I, not the judge, but the reward, will be.
_To them, Enter_ MONTEZUMA, _talking with_ ALMERIA
_and_ ORBELLAN.
_Mont_. Madam, I think, with reason, I extol
The virtue of the Spanish general;
When all the gods our ruin have foretold,
Yet generously he does his arms withhold,
And, offering peace, the first conditions make.
_Alm_. When peace is offered, 'tis too late to take;
For one poor loss, to stoop to terms like those!--
Were we o'ercome, what could they worse impose?
Go, go, with homage your proud victors meet!
Go, lie like dogs beneath your masters' feet!
Go, and beget them slaves to dig their mines,
And groan for gold, which now in temples shines!
Your shameful story shall record of me,
The men all crouched, and left a woman free!
_Guy_. Had I not fought, or durst not fight again,
I my suspected counsel should refrain;
For I wish peace, and any terms prefer,
Before the last extremities of war.
We but exasperate those we cannot harm,
And fighting gains us but to die more warm:
If that be cowardice, which dares not see
The insolent effects of victory,
The rape of matrons, and their childrens cries,--
Then I am fearful, let the brave advise.
_Odm_. Keen cutting swords, and engines killing far,
Have prosperously begun a doubtful war:
But now our foes with less advantage fight,
Their strength decreases with our Indians' fright.
_Mont_. This noble vote does with my wish comply,--
I am for war.
_Alm_. And so am I.
_Orb_. And I.
_Mont_. Then send to break the truce, and I'll take care
To chear the soldiers, and for fight prepare.
[_Exeunt_ MONT. ODM. GUY. _and_ ALIB.
_Alm_. to _Orb_. 'Tis now the hour which all to rest allow,
And sleep sits heavy upon every brow;
In this dark silence softly leave the town,
[GUYOMAR _returns, and hears them_.
And to the general's tent,--'tis quickly known,--
Direct your steps: You may despatch him: strait,
Drowned in his sleep, and easy for his fate:
Besides, the truce will make the guards more slack.
_Orb_. Courage, which leads me on, will bring me back.--
But I more fear the baseness of the thing:
Remorse, you know, bears a perpetual sting.
_Alm_. For mean remorse no room the valiant find,
Repentance is the virtue of weak minds;
For want of judgment keeps them doubtful still,
They may repent of good, who can of ill;
But daring courage makes ill actions good,
'Tis foolish pity spares a rival's blood;
You shall about it strait.
[_Exeunt_ ALM. _and_ ORB.
_Guy_. Would they betray
His sleeping virtue, by so mean a way!--
And yet this Spaniard is our nation's foe,--
I wish him dead,--but cannot wish it so;--
Either my country never must be freed,
Or I consenting to so black a deed.--
Would chance had never led my steps this way!
Now if he dies, I murder him, not they;--
Something must be resolved ere 'tis too late;--
He gave me freedom, I'll prevent his fate.
[_Exit_.
SCENE II.--_A Camp_.
_Enter CORTEZ alone, in a night-gown_.
_Cort_. All things are hushed, as nature's self lay dead;
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head;
The little birds, in dreams, their songs repeat,
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat.
Even lust and envy sleep; yet love denies
Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes.--
Three days I promised to attend my doom,
And two long days and nights are yet to come:--
'Tis sure the noise of some tumultuous fight,
[_Noise within_.
They break the truce, and sally out by night.
_Enter_ ORBELLAN, _flying in the dark, his sword
drawn_.
_Orb_. Betrayed! pursued! O, whither shall I fly?
See, see! the just reward of treachery!--
I'm sure among the tents, but know not where;
Even night wants darkness to secure my fear.
[_Comes near_ CORTEZ, _who hears him_.
_Cort_. Stand! who goes there?
_Orb_. Alas, what shall I say?--
[_Aside_.
A poor Taxallan that mistook his way,
And wanders in the terrors of the night.
_Cort_. Soldier, thou seem'st afraid; whence comes thy fright?
_Orb_. The insolence of Spaniards caused my fear,
Who in the dark pursued me entering here.
_Cort_. Their crimes shall meet immediate punishment,
But stay thou safe within the general's tent.
_Orb_. Still worse and worse.
_Cort_. Fear not, but follow me;
Upon my life I'll set thee safe and free.
[CORTEZ _leads him in, and returns.
To him_ VASQUEZ, PIZARRO, _and Spaniards with Torches_.
_Vasq_. O sir, thank heaven, and your brave Indian friend,
That you are safe; Orbellan did intend
This night to kill you sleeping in your tent:
But Guyomar his trusty slave has sent,
Who, following close his silent steps by night,
Till in our camp they both approached the light,
Cried-_Seize the traitor, seize the murtherer_!
The cruel villain fled I know not where;
But far he is not, for he this way bent.
_Piz_. The enraged soldiers seek, from tent to tent,
With lighted torches, and in love to you,
With bloody vows his hated life pursue.
_Vasq_. This messenger does, since he came, relate,
That the old king, after a long debate,
By his imperious mistress blindly led,
Has given Cydaria to Orbellan's bed.
_Cort_. Vasquez, the trusty slave with you retain;
Retire a while, I'll call you back again.
[_Exeunt_ VASQ. _and_ PIZ.
CORTEZ _at his tent door_.
Indian, come forth; your enemies are gone,
And I, who saved you from them, here alone.
_Enter ORBELLAN, holding his face aside_.
You hide your face, as you were still afraid:
Dare you not look on him, who gave you aid?
_Orb_. Moon, slip behind some cloud, some tempest, rise,
And blow out all the stars that light the skies,
To shrowd my shame!
_Cort_. In vain you turn aside,
And hide your face; your name you cannot hide:
I know my rival and his black design.
_Orb_. Forgive it, as my passion's fault, not mine.
_Cort_. In your excuse your love does little say;
You might, howe'er, have took a fairer way.
_Orb_. 'Tis true, my passion small defence can make;
Yet you must spare me for your honour's sake,
That was engaged to set me safe and free.
_Cort_. 'Twas to a stranger, not an enemy:
Nor is it prudence to prolong thy breath,
When all my hopes depend upon thy death;
Yet none shall tax me with base perjury:
Something I'll do, both for myself and thee;
With vowed revenge my soldiers search each tent,
If thou art seen, none can thy death prevent;
Follow my steps with silence and with haste.
SCENE III.
_They go out, the Scene changes to the Indian Country, they
return_.
_Cort_. Now you are safe, you have my outguards past.
_Orb_. Then here I take my leave.
_Cort_. Orbellan, no;
When you return, you to Cydaria go:
I'll send a message.
_Orb_. Let it be exprest;
I am in haste.
_Cort_. I'll write it in your breast.
[_Draws_.
_Orb_. What means my rival?
_Cort_. Either fight or die,
I'll not strain honour to a point too high;
I saved your life, and keep it if you can,
Cydaria shall be for the bravest man;
On equal terms you shall your fortune try,
Take this, and lay your flint-edged weapon by;
[_Gives him a sword_.
I'll arm you for my glory, and pursue
No palm, but what's to manly virtue due.
Fame, with my conquest, shall my courage tell.
This you shall gain, by placing love so well.
_Orb_. Fighting with you, ungrateful I appear.
_Cort_. Under that shadow, thou would'st hide thy fear:
Thou would'st possess thy love at thy return,
And in her arms my easy virtue scorn.
_Orb_. Since we must fight, no longer let's delay;
The moon shines clear, and makes a paler day.
[_They fight_, ORBELLAN_ is wounded in the hand,
his sword falls out of it_.
_Cort_. To courage, even of foes, there's pity due;
It was not I, but fortune, vanquished you:
[_Throws his sword again_.
Thank me with that, and so dispute the prize,
As if you fought before Cydaria's eyes.
_Orb_. I would not poorly such a gift requite;
You gave me not this sword to yield, but fight:
[_He strives to hold it, but cannot_.
But see, where yours has forced its bloody way;
My wounded hand my heart does ill obey.
_Cort_. Unlucky honour, that controul'st my will?
Why have I vanquished, since I must not kill?
Fate sees thy life lodged in a brittle glass,
And looks it through, but to it cannot pass.
_Orb_. All I can do is frankly to confess,--
I wish I could, but cannot, love her less:
To swear I would resign her, were but vain,
Love would recal that perjured breath again;
And in my wretched case, 'twill be more just,
Not to have promised, than deceive your trust.
Know, if I live once more to see the town,
In bright Cydaria's arms my love I'll crown.
_Cort_. In spite of that, I give thee liberty,
And with thy person leave thy honour free;
But to thy wishes move a speedy pace,
Or death will soon o'ertake thee in the chase.--
To arms, to arms; fate shows my love the way,
I'll force the city on thy nuptial day.
[_Exeunt severally_.
SCENE IV.--Mexico.
_Enter_ MONTEZUMA, ODMAR, GUYOMAR, ALMERIA.
_Mont_. It moves my wonder, that in two days space,
This early famine spreads so swift a pace.
_Odm_. 'Tis, sir, the general cry; nor seems it strange,
The face of plenty should so swiftly change:
This city never felt a siege before,
But from the lake received its daily store;
Which now shut up, and millions crowded here,
Famine will soon in multitudes appear.
_Mont_. The more the number, still the greater shame.
_Alm_. What if some one should seek immortal fame,
By ending of the siege at one brave blow?
_Mont_. That were too happy!
_Alm_. Yet it may be so.
What if the Spanish general should be slain?
_Guy_. Just heavens I hope, does otherwise ordain.
[_Aside_.
_Mont_. If slain by treason, I lament his death.
_Enter_ ORBELLAN, _and whispers his sister_.
_Odm_. Orbellan seems in haste, and out of breath.
_Mont_. Orbellan, welcome; you are early here,
A bridegroom's haste does in your looks appear.
[ALMERIA _aside to her brother_.
_Alm_. Betrayed! no, 'twas thy cowardice and fear;
He had not 'scaped with life, had I been there:
But since so ill you act a brave design,
Keep close your shame;--fate makes the next turn mine.
_Enter_ ALIBECH _and_ CYDARIA.
_Alib_. O sir, if ever pity touched your breast,
Let it be now to your own blood exprest:
In tears your beauteous daughter drowns her sight,
Silent as dews that fall in dead of night.
_Cyd_. To your commands I strict obedience owe,
And my last act of it I come to show:
I want the heart to die before your eyes,
But grief will finish that which fear denies.
_Alm_. Your will should by your father's precept move.
_Cyd_. When he was young, he taught me truth in love.
_Alm_. He found more love than he deserved, 'tis true,
And that, it seems, is lucky too to you;
Your father's folly took a headstrong course,
But I'll rule yours, and teach you love by force.
_Enter Messenger_.
_Mess_. Arm, arm, O king! the enemy comes on,
A sharp assault already is begun;
Their murdering guns play fiercely on the walls.
_Odm_. Now, rival, let us run where honour calls.
_Guy_. I have discharged what gratitude did owe,
And the brave Spaniard is again my foe.
[_Exeunt_ ODMAR _and_ GUYOMAR.
_Mont_. Our walls are high, and multitudes defend:
Their vain attempt must in their ruin end;
The nuptials with my presence shall be graced.
_Alib_. At least but stay 'till the assault be past.
_Alm_. Sister, in vain you urge him to delay,
The king has promised, and he shall obey.
_Enter second Messenger_.
_2 Mess_. From several parts the enemy's repelled,
One only quarter to the assault does yield.
_Enter third Messenger_.
_3 Mess_. Some foes are entered, but they are so few,
They only death, not victory, pursue.
_Orb_. Hark, hark, they shout!
From virtue's rules I do too meanly swerve,
I, by my courage, will your love deserve.
[_Exit_.
_Mont_. Here, in the heart of all the town, I'll stay;
And timely succour, where it wants, convey.
_A noise within. Enter_ ORBELLAN, _Indians driven
in_, CORTEZ _after them, and one or two Spaniards_.
_Cort_. He's found, he's found! degenerate coward, stay:
Night saved thee once, thou shalt not scape by day.
[_Kills_ ORBELLAN.
_Orb_. O, I am killed--
[_Dies_.
_Enter_ GUYOMAR _and_ ODMAR.
_Guy_. Yield, generous stranger, and preserve your life;
Why chuse you death in this unequal strife?
[_He is beset_.
[ALMERIA _and_ ALIBECH _fall on_ ORBELLAN'S _body_.
_Cort_. What nobler fate could any lover meet?
I fall revenged, and at my mistress' feet.
[_They fall on him, and bear him down_, GUYOMAR _takes his sword_.
_Alib_. He's past recovery; my dear brother's slain,
Fate's hand was in it, and my care is vain.
_Alm_. In weak complaints you vainly waste your breath:
They are not tears that can revenge his death.
Despatch the villain strait.
_Cort_. The villain's dead.
_Alm_. Give me a sword, and let me take his head.
_Mont_. Though, madam, for your brother's loss I grieve,
Yet let me beg--
_Alm_. His murderer may live?
_Cyd_. 'Twas his misfortune, and the chance of war.
_Cort_. It was my purpose, and I killed him fair:
How could you so unjust and cruel prove,
To call that chance, which was the act of love?
_Cyd_. I called it any thing to save your life:
Would he were living still, and I his wife!
That wish was once my greatest misery:
But 'tis a greater to behold you die.
_Alm_. Either command his death upon the place,
Or never more behold Almeria's face.
_Guy_. You by his valour once from death were freed:
Can you forget so generous a deed?
[_To_ MONTEZUMA.
_Mont_. How gratitude and love divide my breast!
Both ways alike my soul is robbed of rest.
But--let him die--Can I his sentence give?
Ungrateful, must he die, by whom I live?
But can I then Almeria's tears deny?
Should any live whom she commands to die?
_Guy_. Approach who dares: He yielded on my word;
And, as my prisoner, I restore his sword.
[_Gives his sword_.
His life concerns the safety of the state,
And I'll preserve it for a calm debate.
_Mont_. Dar'st thou rebel, false and degenerate boy?
That being, which I gave, I thus destroy.
[_Offers to kill him_, ODMAR _steps between_.
_Odm_. My brother's blood I cannot see you spill,
Since he prevents you but from doing ill.
He is my rival, but his death would be
For him too glorious, and too base for me.
_Guy_. Thou shalt not conquer in this noble strife:
Alas, I meant not to defend my life:
Strike, sir, you never pierced a breast more true;
'Tis the last wound I e'er can take for you.
You see I live but to dispute your will;
Kill me, and then you may my prisoner kill.
_Cort_. You shall not, generous youths, contend for me:
It is enough that I your honour see:
But that your duty may no blemish take,
I will myself your father's captive make:
[_Gives his sword to_ MONTEZUMA.
When he dares strike, I am prepared to fall:
The Spaniards will revenge their general.
_Cyd_. Ah, you too hastily your life resign,
You more would love it, if you valued mine!
_Cort_. Despatch me quickly, I my death forgive;
I shall grow tender else, and wish to live;
Such an infectious face her sorrow wears,
I can bear death, but not Cydaria's tears.
_Alm_. Make haste, make haste, they merit death all three:
They for rebellion, and for murder he.
See, see, my brother's ghost hangs hovering there
O'er his warm blood, that steams into the air;
Revenge, revenge, it cries.
_Mont_. And it shall have;
But two days respite for his life I crave:
If in that space you not more gentle prove,
I'll give a fatal proof how well I love.
'Till when, you, Guyomar, your prisoner take;
Bestow him in the castle on the lake:
In that small time I shall the conquest gain
Of these few sparks of virtue which remain;
Then all, who shall my headlong passion see,
Shall curse my crimes, and yet shall pity me.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.--_A prison_.
_Enter_ ALMERIA _and an Indian; they speak entering_.
_Ind_. A dangerous proof of my respect I show.
_Alm_. Fear not, Prince Guyomar shall never know:
While he is absent let us not delay;
Remember 'tis the king thou dost obey.
_Ind_. See where he sleeps.
[CORTEZ _appears chained and laid asleep_.
_Alm_.--Without, my coming wait;
And, on thy life, secure the prison gate.
[_Exit Indian_.
[_She plucks out a dagger, and approaches him_.
Spaniard, awake: thy fatal hour is come:
Thou shalt not at such ease receive thy doom.
Revenge is sure, though sometimes slowly paced:
Awake, awake, or, sleeping, sleep thy last.
_Cort_. Who names revenge?
_Alm_.--Look up, and thou shalt see.
_Cort_. I cannot fear so fair an enemy.
_Alm_. No aid is nigh, nor canst thou make defence:
Whence can thy courage come?
_Cort_.--From innocence.
_Alm_. From innocence? let that then take thy part.
Still are thy looks assured--have at thy heart!
[_Holds up the dagger_.
I cannot kill thee; sure thou bear'st some charm,
[_Goes back_.
Or some divinity holds back my arm.
Why do I thus delay to make him bleed?
[_Aside_.
Can I want courage for so brave a deed?
I've shook it off; my soul is free from fear.
[_Comes again_.
And I can now strike any where--but here:
His scorn of death, how strangely does it move!
A mind so haughty who could chuse but love!
[_Goes off_.
Plead not a charm, or any god's command,
Alas, it is thy heart that holds thy hand:
In spite of me I love, and see, too late,
My mother's pride must find my mother's fate.
--Thy country's foe, thy brother's murderer,--
For shame, Almeria, such mad thoughts forbear:
It w'onnot be,--if I once more come on,
[_Coming on again_.
I shall mistake the breast, and pierce my own.
[_Comes with her dagger down_.
_Cort_. Does your revenge maliciously forbear
To give me death, 'till 'tis prepared by fear?
If you delay for that, forbear or strike,
Foreseen and sudden death are both alike.
_Alm_. To show my love would but increase his pride:
They have most power, who most their passions hide.
[_Aside_.
Spaniard, I must confess, I did expect
You could not meet your death with such neglect;
I will defer it now, and give you time:
You may repent, and I forget your crime.
_Cort_. Those, who repent, acknowledge they do ill:
I did not unprovoked your brother kill.
_Alm_. Petition me, perhaps I may forgive.
_Cort_. Who begs his life does not deserve to live.
_Alm_. But if 'tis given, you'll not refuse to take?
_Cort_. I can live gladly for Cydaria's sake.
_Alm_. Does she so wholly then possess your mind?
What if you should another lady find,
Equal to her in birth, and far above
In all that can attract, or keep your love,
Would you so doat upon your first desire,
As not to entertain a nobler fire?
_Cort_. I think that person hardly will be found,
With gracious form and equal virtue crowned:
Yet if another could precedence claim,
My fixed desires could find no fairer aim.
_Alm_. Dull ignorance! he cannot yet conceive:
To speak more plain, shame will not give me leave.
[_Aside_.
--Suppose one loved you, whom even kings adore:
[_To him_.
Who, with your life, your freedom would restore,
And add to that the crown of Mexico:
Would you, for her, Cydaria's love forego?
_Cort_. Though she could offer all you can invent,
I could not of my faith, once vowed, repent.
_Alm_. A burning blush has covered all my face;
Why am I forced to publish my disgrace?
What if I love? you know it cannot be,
And yet I blush to put the case--'twere me.
If I could love you with a flame so true,
I could forget what hand my brother slew--
--Make out the rest--I am disordered so,
I know not farther what to say or do:
--But answer me to what you think I meant.
_Cort_. Reason or wit no answer can invent:
Of words confused who can the meaning find?
_Alm_. Disordered words show a distempered mind.
_Cort_. She has obliged me so, that could I chuse,
I would not answer what I must refuse. [_Aside_.
_Alm_. His mind is shook--suppose I loved you, speak,
Would you for me Cydaria's fetters break?
_Cort_. Things, meant in jest, no serious answer need.
_Alm_. But, put the case that it were so indeed.
_Cort_. If it were so,--which but to think were pride,--
My constant love would dangerously be tried:
For since you could a brother's death forgive,
He, whom you save, for you alone should live:
But I, the most unhappy of mankind,
Ere I knew yours, have all my love resigned:
'Tis my own loss I grieve, who have no more:
You go a-begging to a bankrupt's door.
Yet could I change, as sure I never can,
How could you love so infamous a man?
For love, once given from her, and placed in you,
Would leave no ground I ever could be true.
_Alm_. You construed me aright--I was in jest:
And, by that offer, meant to sound your breast;
Which since I find so constant to your love,
Will much my value of your worth improve.
Spaniard, assure yourself you shall not be
Obliged to quit Cydaria for me:
'Tis dangerous though to treat me in this sort,
And to refuse my offers, though in sport. [_Exit_.
_Cort_. In what a strange condition am I left?
More than I wish I have, of all I wish bereft!
In wishing nothing, we enjoy still most;
For even our wish is, in possession, lost:
Restless, we wander to a new desire,
And burn ourselves, by blowing up the fire:
We toss and turn about our feverish will,
When all our ease must come by lying still:
For all the happiness mankind can gain
Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.
[_Goes in, and the scene closes upon him_.