ACT IV.

SCENE I.--_An Antechamber of_ CASSANDRA'S _Lodging_.

_Enter_ PTOLEMY, SOSIBIUS, CŒNUS, _and_ CASSANDRA.

_Sosib._ So, so,--it works; now, mistress, sit you fast. [_Aside._

_Ptol._ Humph, whores and catamites!

Were those his words?

_Cœn._ Upon my life they were.

_Ptol._ Whom should he mean by those unmannered terms?

Cassandra, can you guess?

_Cas._ 'Twas kindly asked.

_Ptol._ A foul-mouthed villain.

_Sosib._ So I should have thought,

But that this lady knows him good and grateful.

_Cœn._ Madam, I stand suspected without cause;

And, but I fear revenge from this great man,

I could say more.

_Cas._ I thought he was concerned.

_Sosib._ Who, I?

_Cas._ Speak boldly, Grecian, I protect thee.

_Cœn._ Cleanthes then was present, and he added----

_Enter_ CLEANTHES.

But he appears in time to hear his charge.

_Sosib._ My dear, dear son! [_Aside._

I fear thy lavish tongue has ruined thee;

What can I do to save thee?

_Cas._ Well, proceed.

_Cœn._ Can you deny, my lord, that you were present,

When Cleomenes taxed the court, and king,

With brutal vices?

_Clean._ I remember somewhat

Of certain horses which he could not buy,

And saw thee go away dissatisfied;

Which to prevent, I meant to purchase them:

The rest I heard not, nor believe he spoke.

_Cas._ Cleanthes added farther; that thou saidst,--

_Ptol._ And we would know, ere tortures force it from thee.

_Sosib._ Now comes the fatal stroke. [_Aside._

_Cœn._ He added farther,----

_Clean._ No, thou addest it all;

And I demand the combat.

_Ptol._ Let him speak.

_Sosib._ Think first, Cleanthes! Think before you hazard

Your life and honour in this bold appeal:

Somewhat you might have said, nay more, you ought,

Since I commanded you to be a spy

On Cleomenes' acts and close designs.

_Clean._ The good old liar would preserve my life,

And I must steer his course. [_Aside._

I think----I farther added,---- [_To the King._

_Ptol._ 'Tis forgiven;

So wholly pardoned, that I will not hear it;

Good spies are useful, and must be encouraged.

But what must next be done with Cleomenes?

_Sosib._ Dispatch him, as the source of all your fears.

Observe the mounting billows of the main,

Blown by the winds into a raging storm;

Brush off those winds, and the high waves return

Into their quiet first created calm:--

Such is the rage of busy blustering crowds,

Fomented by the ambition of the great:

Cut off the causes, and the effect will cease;

And all the moving madness fall to peace.

_Ptol._ Let him be seized, in order to his death;

I am in haste, you know it, for my progress.

A thousand pleasures wait me at Canopus,

And this poor trifling business of one life

Encumbers all.--Cassandra, are you ready?

We will be seen like Isis and Osiris,

Drawn in one chariot, for admiring eyes

To worship as we pass.

_Cas._ A word in private;--Cœnus, attend without. [_Exit._

[CASSANDRA _leads the King to a corner of the Stage_; _Sosibius_

_takes his Son to the other_.

_Sosib._ [_To Clean._] Now I am twice your father, by preserving

The life I gave you, which your folly hazarded.

Break off all friendship with that Spartan king,

Or never see me more: His fate's resolved,

Nor can you stem the tide; avoid his ruins;

Reply not, but obey.

_Clean._ I know my duty. [_Bowing._

_Sosib._ Thou overjoyest me: Follow, we'll talk farther.

[_Exeunt_ SOSIB. _and_ CLEAN.

_Cas._ What think you of Sosibius and his son?

_Ptol._ As of two creatures zealous for my service.

_Cas._ Oh heavens! that I should love this king so well!

But that I doat--What can I see in him,

But dull good nature and simplicity?

Well, well! my little dear, I find the gods

Have given me here no business of my own,

But made me just your drudge, to love and save you.

_Ptol._ 'Protest I thought them honest; are they not?

_Cas._ Ye gods! why did you make this man your image?

And made him but an image?--You'll forgive me;

I love you so, that I am forced to rail.

You saw no close conveyance of the game

Betwixt the crafty sire and cunning son;

How slily one invented an excuse,

And t'other took it up as dexterously!

_Ptol._ Why, sure Cleanthes was his father's spy?

_Cas._ Yes, over you; but not on Cleomenes.

I fear you are betrayed, and the gods blind you,

To make your ruin sure.

_Ptol._ As how, Cassandra?

_Cas._ When you are absent----

_Ptol._ Well!

_Cas._ 'Tis in their power----

_Ptol._ To murder Cleomenes----

_Cas._ If they please;

Or else to set him free, and join with Magas.

_Ptol._ I will not to Canopus.

_Cas._ Yes, you must.

_Ptol._ But how shall I be safe, and take this journey?

_Cas._ Leave that to me.

_Ptol._ But you must go along.

_Cas._ No; I must stay here, in order to your safety,

To watch the growth of danger, and prevent it.

This cruel absence I must undergo,

Or else I love you not.

_Ptol._ Since I must go,

I'll cheat them of a day, and come before

My time, for love of thee.

_Cas._ To sum up all,--

For we are both in haste,--

Intrust your royal signet in my hands.

_Ptol._ Joined with Sosibius.

_Cas._ Would you trust a statesman

Before your own dear heart? You love him better,

You naughty man, in faith you do; and, now I think on't,

I will not have your signet: By this kiss,

And this, and this, I will not.

_Ptol._ By all three, thou shalt.

[_Gives her the Signet from his Finger._

But kill this Cleomenes quickly, he's dangerous.

_Cas._ He's in safe hands with me.

_Ptol._ One more embrace.

_Cas._ There, take it, and now go.

Thus, for your good, I thrust you from my arms.

_Ptol._ Farewell, my love. [_Exit_ PTOLEMY.

_Cas._ Farewell----I hope for ever.--

Now, Cleomenes, I will sound thy soul,

For life and death depend upon thy choice;

But for that easy wretch, him I comtemn.

Hard state of lovers, subject to our laws!

Fools we must have, or else we cannot sway;

For none but fools will womankind obey.

If they prove stubborn, and resist our will,

We exercise our power, and use them ill.

The passive slave, that whines, adores, and dies,

Sometimes we pity, but we still despise:

But when we doat, the self-same fate we prove,

Fools at the best, but double fools in love.

We rage at first with ill-dissembled scorn;

Then, falling from our height, more basely mourn;

And man, the insulting tyrant, takes his turn,

Leaves us to weep for our neglected charms,

And hugs another mistress in his arms;

And, that which humbles our proud sex the most,

Of all our slighted favours makes his boast.

[_Exit_ CASSANDRA.

_Enter_ CLEOMENES.

_Cleom._ Her words, her every look, confess she loves me;

And therefore she detains these hostages,

As pawns of my return to her and Egypt.

Thus far 'tis plain and obvious:--But the picture;

That Helen: There's the riddle of her love.

For, what I see, or only think I see,

Is like a glimpse of moonshine, streaked with red,--

A shuffled, sullen, and uncertain light,

That dances through the clouds, and shuts again:

Then 'ware a rising tempest on the main.

_Enter_ CASSANDRA.

_Cas._ I would, but cannot speak.

The shame that should to womankind belong,

Flown from my bosom, hovers on my tongue. [_Aside._

_Cleom._ 'Tis rarely seen, that gods from heaven descend,

But for some kind, some charitable end.

And yet your troubled looks ill news import,

Stops, or delays; but that's no news at court:

There's somewhat which your pity would disguise.

_Cas._ Would you could read that somewhat in my eyes!

But, as you are a Spartan and a king,

Undaunted hear whatever news I bring.

The favourite hates you; Cœnus has betrayed

The bitter truths, that our loose court upbraid.

Your friend was set upon you for a spy,

And on his witness you are doomed to die.

_Cleom._ I have been plunged already twice in woes,

And the third time above the waves I rose.

Still I have strength to steer me into port,

And shun the secret quick-sands of the court.

But when my friend, who should expecting stand

On the bare beach, to lend his helping hand;

When he defends the unhospitable shore,

And drives me thence, I sink for evermore.

But 'tis impossible, his faith is tried;

The man, who had defamed him thus, had lied.

_Cas._ Well! I forgive your blunt Laconic way;

It shall be seen, it shall this very day,

Who would preserve your life, and who betray.

The king incensed, the favourite your foe,

Yet on the same conditions you may go;

Your wife, your son, your mother left behind.

What think you now?

_Cleom._ 'Tis to be wonderous kind.

_Cas._ Suppose I add a farther bounty yet.

_Cleom._ It could but make your favours over weight.

_Cas._ What if I went myself to waft you o'er,

And left you when I saw you safe ashore?

For I should leave you, if you thought it fit,

Not to do more, than honour would permit.

Can I do less, to show you I am kind,

To comfort you for those you left behind?

_Cleom._ The world would think you kinder than you ought.

_Cas._ Why should I care what base Egyptians thought?

_Cleom._ Immoderate gifts oppress me, not relieve;

Nor dare I take what ruins you to give.

_Cas._ Leave me to judge of that; I could prescribe

An easy way of giving back my bribe.

Why would you force me farther than my part?

Look on my eyes, and you may read my heart.

[_Looks on her as by stealth._

Oh, there you met me with a guilty glance!

Now 'tis too late to plead your ignorance.

_Cleom._ I am so much below, and you above,

What can I say?

_Cas._ But one kind word,--I love.

_Cleom._ As far as gratitude that love can pay.

_Cas._ Oh, stop not there; for that's but half the way!

Would you to one poor narrow word confine

Your passion, when I put no bounds to mine?

_Cleom._ Cleora!

_Cas._ Now you speak too soon; forbear!

Nothing can please me, that begins with her.

_Cleom._ I must begin, where nature, void of art,

Directs my tongue,--with her, who rules my heart.

_Cas._ Let us together sail before the wind,

And leave that dull domestic drudge behind.

_Cleom._ What! to expose her helpless innocence

To the wild fury of an injured prince?

_Cas._ A vain surmise; their talents would agree. }

The gods have made your noble mind for me, }

And her insipid soul for Ptolemy: }

A heavy lump of earth, without desire;

A heap of ashes, that o'erlays your fire.

_Cleom._ Virtue you must allow her, though a foe.

_Cas._ No more than what I would to ice and snow.

Yet those have seeds of heat; her shivering blood

Makes her, at best, but impotently good.

But neither I can save you, if you stay,

Nor save myself unless I go away;

For, if I stay behind, and set you free,

The fury of the king would fall on me.

_Cleom._ Then, to prevent your fate, I must not go;

Death is my choice, since heaven will have it so.

_Cas._ Heaven would preserve your life, and so would I;

But you are obstinately bent to die.

_Cleom._ Some men are made of such a leaky mould,

That their filled vessels can no fortune hold:

Poured in, it sinks away, and leaves them dry;

Of that unsusceptible make am I.

Yet think not, fair one, I your charms despise;

My heart's insensible, but not my eyes:

Respect and gratitude are all my store,

And those I give; my love was given before.

_Cas._ Thus break false merchants, with an honest show;

Rich to themselves, but bankrupts where they owe.

_Cleom._ If at this awful distance I remain,

Better be too devout, than too profane.

_Cas._ Flattery! such alms the priesthood give the poor;

They bless, and send them empty from the door.

Know you, that Death stands ready at the gate,

That I forbid him, and suspend your fate?

The king's short absence leaves me absolute;

When he returns, the inevitable ill

Is past my power, and may be past my will.

Unhappy man! prevent thy destiny;

Speak one kind word, to save thy life and me.

_Cleom._ Be answered, and expect no more reply.

_Cas._ Disdain has swelled him up, and choked his breath;

Sullen, and dumb, and obstinate to death.

No signs of pity in his face appear;

Look, if the ungrateful creature shed one tear!

Crammed with his pride, he leaves no room within

For sighs to issue out, or love to enter in.--

[_He turns away._

What! dost thou turn thy face in my despite?

Am I a toad? a monster to thy sight?

Farewell, fond pity, then: As thou from me,

So thy good fortune turns her face from thee.

Left, scorned, and loathed, and all without relief,

Revenge succeeds to love, and rage to grief.

Tempests and whirlwinds through my bosom move, }

Heave up, and madly mount my soul above }

The reach of pity, or the bounds of love.-- }

Approach, and seize the traitor.

_Enter Guards._

_Cleom._ Now I can speak: thy kindness kept me dumb,

For that I could not answer. The false Syren,

No longer hiding her uncomely parts,

Struts on the waves, and shews the brute below.

_Cas._ Stop that foul mouth! Behold this royal signet,

The warrant of his death. [_Guards go to seize him._

_Cleom._ Stand back, ye slaves, [_He draws his Sword._

And put me not to stain a Spartan sword

With base Egyptian blood.

[_He advances upon them; they retire, with signs of fear._

_Cas._ Fall on!--Behold a noble beast at bay,

And the vile huntsmen shrink!--More aid: Who waits?--

_Enter_ CLEANTHES.

Now, sir, what brings you here?

_Clean._ My zeal to serve you.

_Cas._ That shall be tried; disarm him.

_Clean._ Cleomenes,

Deliver me your sword.

_Cleom._ How's this, Cleanthes?

_Clean._ It must be so.

_Cleom._ Is this a friend's advice,

To give me up defenceless to a crowd,

Whom, armed, I could resist?

_Clean._ Must he die, madam,

Or be reserved for further punishment,

At Ptolemy's return?

_Cas._ Why ask you that?

_Clean._ Because his destiny, for aught I find,

Depends on you. Think first, and then command.

_Cas._ Know then, that his last thread is on the distaff,

And I can cut it now.

_Clean._ And are resolved?

_Cas._ I only said I can, and I can save.--

Disarm, and hurt him not.

_Clean._ Once more, your sword.

_Cleom._ Stand off those villains;--though I fear them not,

Yet cowards are offensive to my sight;

Nor shall they see me do an act, that looks

Below the courage of a Spartan king.

_Cas._ Cleanthes, may I trust your faith?

_Clean._ You may.

_Cas._ Be gone, and wait my call. [_Exeunt Guards._

_Cleom._ Cleanthes! Still my friend; for such I hold thee,

Though this bad woman says thou art my spy;

I cannot give a greater proof than this,

That I believe her not: [_Gives him his Sword._

If thou art false,

'Tis in thy power to show it safely, now;

And compass that by treason, which, in arms,

Nor thou, nor any man alive, can force.

Remember still, I gave it to a friend;

For life and death are equal in themselves;

That, which would cast the balance, is thy falsehood,

To make my death more wretched.

_Clean._ Then you may think me that, which you call false;

But duty to my father--

_Cleom._ Say no more!

I would not curse thee, for thou wert my friend.

I think thee still as honest as thou couldst;

Impenetrably good; but, like Achilles,

Thou hadst a soft Egyptian heel undipt,

And that has made thee mortal.

_Cas._ Cleanthes, thou hast well approved thy faith;

And, as this palace is thy government,

On utmost peril of thy life secure him.--

One farther word-- [_Whispers._

[_Exit_ CLEAN. _looking concernedly on_ CLEOM.

_Cleom._ So guilty as thou art, and canst thou look

On him thou hast betrayed?--Go, take thy hire,

Which thou hast dearly purchased, and be great.

_Cas._ For you, brave sir, as you have given my hopes

But air to feed on, air shall be your food;

No bread shall enter these forbidden doors.

Thin, hungry diet, I confess; but still

The liker Spartan fare. Keen appetites,

And quick digestion, wait on you and yours.

_Cleom._ O mix not innocence and guilt together!

What love have they refused, or how offended?

Be just, though you are cruel; or, be kind,

And punish me alone.

_Cas._ There nature works;

Then there I'll stab thee in thy tender part.

[_Shrieks of Women within._

_Cleom._ What dismal cries are those?

_Cas._ Nothing; a trifling sum of misery,

New-added to the foot of thy account:

Thy wife is seized by force, and borne away.--

Farewell; I dare not trust thy vengeance further. [_Exit._

[_Running to the Door, he is stopt by Guards with drawn Swords._

_Cleom._ Cleora!--There stands death, but no Cleora;

I would find both together.

_Enter_ CRATESICLEA, CLEONIDAS, _and_ PANTHEUS _with Blood on his Hands_.

_Crat._ Oh king of Sparta!

_Cleom._ Peace, mother, peace;

I have had news from hell before you,--

Cleora's gone to death. Is there a door,

A casement, or a rift within these walls,

That can let loose my body to her rescue?

_Panth._ All closed; nothing but heaven above is open.

_Cleom._ Nay, that's closed too; the gods are deaf to prayers!

Hush then; the irrevocable doom's gone forth,

And prayers lag after, but can ne'er o'ertake.--

Let us talk forward of our woes to come.

_Crat._ Cleanthes! (Oh, could you suspect his faith?)

'Twas he, that headed those, who forced her hence.

_Cleom._ Pantheus bleeds!

_Panth._ A scratch, a feeble dart,

At distance thrown by an Egyptian hand.

_Crat._ You heard me not; Cleanthes is----

_Cleom._ He was----no more, good mother;

He tore a piece of me away, and still

The void place aches within me.--O, my boy,

I have bad news to tell thee.

_Cleon._ None so bad,

As that I am a boy. Cleanthes scorned me;

And, when I drove a thrust, home as I could,

To reach his traitor heart, he put it by,

And cried, as in derision,--Spare the stripling.

Oh that insulting word! I would have swopped

Youth for old age, and all my life behind,

To have been then a momentary man.

_Cleom._ Alas! thy manhood, like a forward spring,

Before it comes to bear the promised fruit,

Is blighted in the bud. Never, my boy,

Canst thou fetch manhood up, with thy short steps,

While, with long strides, the giant stalks before thee.

_Cleon._ Am I to die before I am a man?

_Cleom._ Yes, thou must die with me, and I with her,

Who gave me life; and our poor infant too, within,

Must die before it knows what dying means.

Three different dates of nature, one would think;

But fate has crammed us all into one lease,

And that even now expiring.

_Panth._ Yet we live.

_Cleom._ No, even now we die; death is within us,

And keeps our life; for nourishment is life,

And we have fed our last; hunger feeds death.

_Crat._ A lingering doom, but four days hence the same;

And we can shorten those, turn days to hours,

And hours to moments; death is in our call.

_Panth._ The sooner, then, the better.

_Cleon._ So say I.

_Panth._ While we have spirits left to meet him boldly.

_Cleon._ I'll hold my breath,

And keep my soul a prisoner in my body;

There let it creep and wander in the dark,

Till, tired to find no outlet, it retreats

Into my Spartan heart, and there lies pleased;

So, we two are provided.--Sir, your choice? [_To_ CLEOM.

_Cleom._ Not this dispatch, for we may die at leisure.

This famine has a sharp and meagre face:

'Tis death in an undress of skin and bone;

Where age and youth, their land-mark ta'en away,

Look all one common furrow.

_Crat._ Yet you chuse it,

To please our foes; that, when they view our skeletons,

And find them all alike, they may cry out,--

Look how these dull obedient Spartans died,

Just as we wished, as we prescribed their death,

And durst not take a nobler, nearer way!

_Cleom._ Not so; but that we durst not tempt the gods,

To break their images without their leave.

The moment ere Cassandra came, I had

A note without a name, the hand unknown,

That bade me not despair, but still hope well.

Then die not yet;

For heaven has means to free us; if not me,

Yet these, and you. I am the hunted stag,

Whose life may ransom yours.

_Crat._ No more of that:

I find your distant drift,--to die alone;

An unkind accusation of us all,

As if we durst not die; I'll not survive you.

_Panth._ Nor I.

_Cleon._ Nor I.

_Cleom._ But hear my reasons.--

_Enter_ CLEORA, _in a black Veil_.

Ha, what shadow's this! this, that can glide through walls,

Or pass its subtile limbs through bolts and bars!

Black, too! like what it represents, our fate.

_Cleor._ Too true a shadow I, and you the substance.

[_Lifts up her Veil._

_Omnes._ Cleora!

_Cleom._ Thus let me grow again to thee,

Too close for fate to sever!

Or let death find me in these dear, dear arms;

And, looking on thee, spare my better part,

And take me willing hence.

_Crat._ What! are you dreaming, son, with eyes cast upwards,

Like a mad prophet in an ecstacy?

_Cleom._ Musing on what we saw.

Just such is death,

With a black veil, covering a beauteous face.

Feared afar off

By erring nature; a mistaken phantom;

A harmless, lambent fire. She kisses cold;

But kind, and soft, and sweet, as my Cleora.

Oh, could we know

What joys she brings, at least, what rest from grief;

How should we press into her friendly arms,

And be pleased not to be, or to be happy!

_Crat._ Look, what we have forgot! The joy to see

Cleora here, has kept us from enquiring,

By what strange means she entered.

_Cleom._ Small joy, heaven knows, to be adopted here,

Into the meagre family of famine!

The house of hunger! therefore asked I not;

So am I pleased to have her company,

And so displeased to have it but in death.

_Cleor._ I know not how, or why, my surly gaoler,

Hard as his irons, and insolent as power

When put in vulgar hands, Cleanthes gone,

Put off the brute; and with a gloomy smile,

That showed a sullen lothness to be kind,

Screened me within this veil, then led me forth;

And, using to the guards Cassandra's name,

Made that my passport: every door flew ope,

To admit my entrance; and then clapt behind me,

To bar my going back.

_Cleom._ Some new resolve.

Cassandra plots, and then refines on malice;

Plays with revenge. With rage she snatched you hence,

And renders you with scorn: I thought to show you,

How easy 'twas to die, by my example,

And hansel fate before you; but thy presence

Has changed my mind, to drag this lingering life,

To share thy sorrows, and assist thy weakness.--

Come in, my friends, and let us practise death;

Stroke the grim lion, till he grow familiar.--

Cleora, thou and I, as lovers should,

Will hand in hand to the dark mansions go,

Where life no more can cheat us into woe;

That, sucking in each other's latest breath,

We may transfuse our souls, and put the change on death.

[_Exeunt._

ACT V.--SCENE I.

_Enter_ CASSANDRA _and_ SOSIBIUS.

_Sosib._ And what have you determined?

_Cas._ He shall die.

_Sosib._ A wholesome resolution. Have you fixed

The time?

_Cas._ He daily dies, by hours and moments;

All vital nourishment but air is wanting.

Three rising days and two descending nights

Have changed the face of heaven by turns,

But brought no kind vicissitude to him;

His state is still the same, with hunger pinched,

Waiting the slow approaches of his death;

Which, halting onwards, as his life goes back,

Still gains upon his ground.

_Sosib._ But ere fate reach him,

The mercy of the king may interpose.

You have the signet?

_Cas._ Yes, in your despite.

_Sosib._ Be not displeased,--suppose he should escape?

_Cas._ Suppose he should have wings: impossible!

_Sosib._ Yet, keepers have been bribed. To whom can Ptolemy

Impute that crime, but you?

_Cas._ He may; but let him if he dares.--

Come, statesman, do not shuffle in your pace;

You would expose me to the people's hatred,

By hurrying on this act of violence:

You know a little thing provokes the crowd

Against a mistress; she's the public mark:

Therefore content yourself; I will be safe,

Nor shall the prisoner die a speedier death,

Than what my doom decreed; unless the king

Reverse his orders, by my messenger.

_Sosib._ May I presume to ask you, whom you sent?

_Cas._ Thy son, unknown to thee; for so I charged him;

And this the promised hour of his return.--Nay, wonder not;

I chose him with design, that, whatsoe'er

The king ordains, you both should share the event,

And stand or fall with me. Ponder on that, and leave me!

_Sosib._ [_Aside._] What can she mean? She neither kills, nor saves.

[_Exit_ SOSIBIUS.

_Cas._ Now tell me, heart, now answer for thyself!

What wilt thou do, and what dost thou desire?--

His life? No, he's ungrateful; or, his death?

I tremble at that word.--What then? His love!--

His love! my heart. What! by restraint and famine?

Are these the means to compass thy design?--

Revenge! My hand's so soft, his heart so hard,

The blow recoils, and hurts me while I strike.

Like the mad viper, scourged into a rage,

I shoot into myself my fatal sting.

_Enter Mariner._

_Mar._ The ship is ready, when you please to sail,

And waits but your command: The wind stands fair.

_Cas._ Be secret, and attend my farther pleasure.--

[_Gives him a Purse, and exit Mariner._

So; this was time well managed: In three days

To hire a vessel, put my wealth on board,

Send off the observing son, and fool the father.--

See him I will, to sound his last resolves,

If love can soften him, or fear can bow.

If both should fail, the ungrateful wretch shall find

Rage has no bounds in slighted womankind. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_A Prison._

_Enter_ CLEOMENES.

_Cleom._ No food, and this the third arising sun!

But what have I to do with telling suns,

And measuring time, that runs no more for me?

Yet sure the gods are good: I would think so,

If they would give me leave;

But virtue in distress, and vice in triumph,

Make atheists of mankind.--

_Enter_ CRATESICLEA.

What comfort, mother?

_Crat._ A soul, not conscious to itself of ill,

Undaunted courage, and a master mind;

No comfort else but death,

Who, like a lazy master, stands aloof,

And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine.

_Cleom._ All I would ask of heaven,

Is, but to die alone, a single ruin;

But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you,

With my own hunger pinched, but pierced with yours!

_Crat._ Grieve not for me.

_Cleom._ What! not for you, my mother?

I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods,

For giving me so good, so kind a parent;

And this is my return, to cause her death.

_Crat._ Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault.

_Enter_ CLEORA.

_Cleom._ What! my Cleora?

I stretched my bounds as far as I could go,

To shun the sight of what I cannot help;

A flower withering on the stalk, for want

Of nourishment from earth, and showers from heaven,

All I can give thee is but rain of eyes. [_Wiping his Eyes._

_Cleor._ Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep;

My eyes grow dim, and, stiffened up with drought,

Can hardly roll, and walk their feeble round.

Indeed I am faint.

_Crat._ And so am I, heaven knows! However, [_Aside._

In pity of them both, I keep it secret;

Nor shall he see me fall. [_Exit_ CRAT.

_Cleom._ How does your helpless infant?

_Cleor._ It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment;

And I have none to give from these dry cisterns,

Which, unsupplied themselves, can yield no more.

It pulled, and pulled but now, but nothing came:

At last it drew so hard, that the blood followed;

And that red milk I found upon its lips,

Which made me swoon with fear.

_Cleom._ Go in and rest thee,

And hush the child asleep.-- [_Exit_ CLEORA.

Look down, ye gods!

Look, Hercules, thou author of my race,

And jog thy father, Jove, that he may look

On his neglected work of humankind!

Tell him, I do not curse him; but devotion

Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer.--

What! another increase of grief?

_Enter_ CLEONIDAS.

_Cleon._ O father!

_Cleom._ Why dost thou call me by so kind a name?

A father! that implies presiding care;

Cheerful to give; willing himself to want

Whate'er thy needs require.

_Cleon._ A little food!

Have you none, father? One poor hungry morsel;

Or give me leave to die, as I desired;

For, without your consent, heaven knows, I dare not.

_Cleom._ I pr'ythee stay a little:--I am loth

To say hard things of heaven!

_Cleon._ But what if heaven

Will do hard things, must not hard things be said?

You've often told me, that the souls of kings

Are made above the rest of human race;

Have they not fortunes fitted for those souls?

Did ever king die starved?

_Cleom._ I know not that;

Yet still be firm in this,--The gods are good,

Though thou and I may perish.

_Cleon._ Indeed, I know not,

That ever I offended heaven in thought;

I always said my prayers.

_Cleom._ Thou didst thy duty.

_Cleon._ And yet you lost the battle, when I prayed.

_Cleom._ 'Twas in the Fates I should: but hold thee there;

The rest is all unfathomable depth.

This we well know, that, if there be a bliss

Beyond this present life, 'tis purchased here,

And virtue is its price.

_Cleon._ But are you sure

Our souls shall be immortal?

_Cleom._ Why that question?

_Cleon._ Because I find, that, now my body starves,

My soul decays. I think not as I did;

My head goes round; and now you swim before me.

Methinks my soul is like a flame unfed

With oil, that dances up and down the lamp,

But must expire ere long.

_Cleom._ I pr'ythee try to hold it, while thou canst.

_Cleon._ I would obey you,

As I have always done, but I am faint;

And when you please to let me die, I'll thank you.

_Cleom._ Thou shall have food; I promise thee, thou shalt.

_Cleon._ Then you shall promise to have food for yourself too;

For, if you have it not, I would refuse to eat;

Nay, I would chuse to die, that you might feed on me.

_Cleom._ Mark, heaven, his filial love!

And if a family of such as these

Must perish thus, your model is destroyed,

By which you made good men.

_Enter_ PANTHEUS, _hastily_.

_Panth._ Be cheerful, sir, the gods have sent us food.

_Cleom._ They tried me of the longest; but by whom?

_Panth._ Go in and see.

_Cleon._ Good father, do not stay to ask, but go.

_Cleom._ Go thou; thy youth calls fiercer than my age.

_Cleon._ But then make haste, and come to take your part:

Hunger may make me impious, to eat all,

And leave you last to starve. [_Exit_ CLEONIDAS.

_Panth._ Sir, will you go?

_Cleom._ I know not; I am half seas o'er to death;

And, since I must die once, I would be loth

To make a double work of what's half finished;

Unless I could be sure the gods would still

Renew these miracles.[44]--Who brought this food?

_Panth._ He's here that can resolve you. [_Exit_ PANTHEUS.

_Enter_ CLEANTHES, _with a Sword in his Hand_.

_Cleom._ How darest thou come again within my sight?

Thou art,--but 'tis no matter what thou art.

I'll not consider thee so far to think

Thee worth reproach.--Away, away, Egyptian!

That's all the name that's left thee.

_Clean._ Such I appear indeed.

_Cleom._ Why then for once, that which thou seem'st, thou art.--

Begone!

_Clean._ Oh I have been too long away!

_Cleom._ Too soon thou art returned,

To triumph o'er my fate.

_Clean._ Forgive me, that I seemed your foe.

_Cleom._ Forgive me, heaven, for thinking thee my friend.--

No more; 'tis loss of time to talk.

_Clean._ Indeed it is,

When hunger calls so loud for sustenance.

But whether friend or foe, 'tis food I bring.

_Cleom._ 'Tis poison; and my mother, and my wife,

And my poor famished boy, are eating death.

Thou would'st not have me think, that thou repent'st?

_Clean._ Heaven knows, I do not!

_Cleom._ Well said, man! Go on; and be not bashful,

To own the merits of thy wickedness.

_Clean._ What need has innocence of a repentance?

_Cleom._ Shuffling again! Pr'ythee, be of a piece.

A little steadiness becomes a villain.

_Clean._ Oh, friend!--for yet I dare to call you so;

Which, if I were a villain, sure I durst not,--

Hear me, or kill me!

_Cleom._ So, by heaven, I would,

For thy profaning friendship's holy name;

But, for thou see'st no justice hanging here,

On this bare side, thou talk'st secure of vengeance.

_Clean._ Then, if you had a sword, my death's resolved?

_Cleom._ Thy conscience answers thee.

_Clean._ Without more evidence than bare surmise;

At most, appearance of a crime unproved;

And, while unproved, uncertain.

_Cleom._ Traitor, no more! 'tis fulsome.

_Clean._ Take the sword. [_Throws it to him._

_Cleom._ I thank thee; draw thy own. [_Takes it up._

_Clean._ No; take that too. [_Draws his, and offers it._

_Cleom._ Fool! would'st thou die without defence?

_Clean._ I would not:

But you forbade me to defend myself,

Then, when you would not hear me.

_Cleom._ Can falsehood have a better argument,

Than force for its defence? Trust to that topic,

And bear thee like a man.

_Clean._ I think, I do.

_Cleom._ What kind of man is that, who dares not fight?

_Clean._ The man, who dares not when his honour calls,

Is what you mean, but what I never was;

For honour never summons without reason.

Force is the law of brutes: the dumb creation,

Where words and reason want, appeal to might.

I thought a king, and, what you boast, a Spartan,

Might have known this, without the Egyptian's telling.

_Cleom._ Come, come; thou dar'st not fight.

_Clean._ By heaven, I dare!

But first my honour must be justified,

If you dare be my judge;

For, in this crude and indigested quarrel,

If I should fall unheard, you kill your friend,

The man, who loved you best, and holds you dearest;

And should you perish in the unjust attempt,

The sword, that slew you, should revenge your death;

For I should soon o'ertake you in the way,

To quit myself before you reached the shades,

And told your tale to Minos.

_Cleom._ Then I must hear; but swear, swear first, I charge thee,

That, when I have pronounced, thou wilt no more

Prolong thy prattle with some new excuse;

And pr'ythee cut it short, because I faint,

And long to kill thee first--Oh, I am going!

A rising vapour rumbles in my brains,

I hear my words far off:--stand, stand, thou traitor,

And swim not thus before me;--'tis too late;

[_Puts the Point upon the Ground, once or twice; leans on it, and

staggers._

And I fall unrevenged.-- [_Offers to run at him, and is falling._

_Clean._ What ho, Pantheus!

[_Runs to him, and takes him in his arms._

The best of men is dying in my arms,

And I want power to save him.

_Enter_ PANTHEUS.

_Panth._ O heavens! what means this direful object?

_Clean._ Ask not, with unassisting pity; bow him forward.

Rub his numbed temples, while I wipe the sweat

From his cold clammy face.

_Panth._ His mounting heart

Bounces against my hands, as if it would

Thrust off his manly soul.

_Clean._ Wrench ope his mouth,

While I infuse these sovereign drops, whose power

Will soon recall his wandered sense--

[_He instills somewhat out of a Vial into his Mouth._

He stirs,

And stretches now, and seems to essay his limbs.

_Cleom._ Where am I? [_Standing a while; they support him._

_Clean._ In his arms, who died with you,

And, now you live, revives.

_Cleom._ Art thou Pantheus?

_Panth._ Believe your eyes, I am.

_Cleom._ Speak then, and truly, (for I trust not him,)

Who brought me back to life?

_Panth._ Who, but he, who was left single with you,

Who caught you, falling, in his faithful arms;

And, not alone sufficient to restore you,

Called loud for my assistance.

I found him, propping you with trembling hands;

His eyes so hagard, I could scarce distinguish

Who was the living friend, and who the dead.

_Cleom._ All this, Cleanthes! This, what this Cleanthes?

_Panth._ Yes, your Cleanthes.

_Clean._ Your suspected friend,

Much wronged, but ever faithful.

_Cleom._ Art thou sure

I live? Or am I in the regions of the dead,

And hear the fables there, myself a fable?

_Panth._ Go in, and see your chearful family

Eating his bread, brought in their last distress;

And, with a good mistaking piety,

First blessing him, then heaven.

_Cleom._ When I hear this, I have no need of food;

I am restored without it.

_Clean._ Then, now hear me;

How I was forced into this seeming falsehood,

To save myself, the only means remaining

To save the man I love beyond myself,

And gain a needful credit with Cassandra:

And yet even then deceived, and sent far off

For three long days, unknowing of your wants,

Not thinking she, who loved, could use you thus.

By famishment to----

_Cleom._ O, no more! no more!

For now I understand, ere thou canst speak it half:

To thee I owed the seizing of my sword,

Lest I should fall by odds; my wife's return,

All, all to thee; and thou art more than all.

Canst thou forgive me? Canst thou, my Cleanthes?

Can I deserve thus to grow here once more? [_Embracing him._

Let me embrace myself quite into thee.

_Clean._ Come, come as fiercely as thou wilt, I meet thee;

[_Embraces_ CLEOM.

I close within thee, and am thou again.

_Panth._ Why, this is as it should be.

_Cleom._ I could not thus have taken to the death

Another's falsehood, but thine, only thine;

For infinitely, infinitely loving,

'Twas a wide gap thou mad'st within my bosom,

And as my soul rent from me.

_Clean._ But thy hunger!

This violent transport of my reconcilement

Makes me forget thy wants; when I embraced thee,

Thy spungy body dwindled in my arms,

And, like a ghost, fled from me.

_Cleom._ I could eat-- [_Going in._

Now my first appetite of love is served;

And that was much the keenest: Let us in,

For life looks lovely now, and worth preserving.

_Clean._ Not that way, friend;

It leads you to the women, and the boy.

_Cleom._ And why must I avoid those tender blessings?

_Clean._ Even such because they are, you must avoid them.

For I must tell you, friend, you have but time

To snatch a hasty morsel, and away:

Nothing of manhood must be clogged, or softened,

With womanish sighs and tears, and kind adieus,

And those ill-timed remorses of good nature,

When your whole soul is needful.

_Panth._ You tell us wonders!

_Clean._ At the king's return,

Which daily we expect, your death's resolved.

This hour's your own; take it, and tempt your fortune

Some few brave friends I hope to add;

If not, all Egypt's numbered in myself.

_Cleom._ I'm all on fire.--Now for a lucky pull

At fate's last lottery!

I long to see the colour, white or black:

That's the gods' work; and if I fall their shame,

Let them ne'er think of making heroes more,

If cowards must prevail.

_Panth._ The fewer hands,

The fewer partners in the share of honour.

_Cleom._ Come, my Pantheus;--lead, my best Cleanthes!

We three to all the world.

_Clean._ Magas, and liberty, let be the word:

Magas is loved, and liberty desired.

A short refection waits at the lieutenant's,

That honest friend, who sent you back your wife.

We'll drink a bowl of wine, and pour the rest,

Not to the dog Anubis, but to Jove,

The freer and avenger. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CRATESICLEA, CLEORA, CLEONIDAS.

_Cleor._ Gone, and without taking leave!

_Crat._ The better.

He bated me the forms, and you the fondness.

_Cleon._ Pantheus, too, and he, who brought the food,

The brave Egyptian, vanished altogether.

_Cleor._ Oh, my foreboding soul! he's gone to death!

And that Cleanthes, whom thou call'st the brave,

Has basely trained him to his destruction!

_Crat._ Suspect him not; when fate was in his power,

And by a method so secure as famine,

To save us then, shows he had little need

To trick my son to death.

I have a better prospect of the event.

_Cleor._ Dear mother! comfort me, and tell your thoughts;

For I see nothing but a gathering tempest,

Horror on horror, to the end of heaven!

_Crat._ No, no; you are not of a soul to bear

The mighty good and ill, that meet midway,

As from two goals; and which comes first upon us,

Fate only knows.

_Cleon._ Then speak to me, for I can stand the shock;

Like a young plant, that fastens in a storm,

And deeper drives the root.

_Crat._ Thy soul's too strong; thy body yet too weak,

To bear the crush. Be still, and wait thy doom.

[_A cry within_: Liberty, liberty! Magas, Magas!

To arms for Magas, and for liberty!

_Cleon._ What noble sound was that, so smart and vigorous,

A soul in every word?

_Crat._ Why, that was it,

I thought was doing; but I durst not tell,

Till now it shows itself.

The work's begun, my boy; the work's begun;

There was thy father in that warlike shout,

Stemming the tide of Egypt.

_Cleor._ O comfort me, my husband's mother! say,

My lord may live and conquer!

_Crat._ Possibly;

But still make sure of death; trust we to that,

As to our last reserve.

_Cleor._ Alas! I dare not die.

_Crat._ Come, come, you dare:

Do not belye your courage.

_Cleor._ Heaven help me, I have none.

_Crat._ Then dare you be a slave to base Egyptians?

For that must be, if you outlive your husband.

_Cleor._ I think, I durst, to save myself from death.

_Crat._ Then, as a slave, you durst be ravished too?

_Cleor._ The Gods forbid!

_Crat._ The Gods cannot forbid it

By any way but death.

_Cleor._ Then I dare die.

_Crat._ I told you so; you did not know your virtue.

Poor trembling thing, I'll warm thee in my bosom,

And make thee take death kindly.

[_Another Shout within_--Liberty and Magas!

_Cleon._ What must become of me?

_Crat._ More trouble yet about this paltry being?

For shame, no more such qualms!

_Cleon._ No more such vile mistakes! I would die warm,

And not in women's company, but men's.

Whether some god inspires me to this act,

Or fate inevitably calls me on,

I will not, cannot stay:

But, as a generous, unfleshed hound, that hears

From far the hunters' horn and chearful cry,

So will I haste; and, by the music led,

Come up with death or honour. [_Exit._

_Cleor._ Stop him, dear mother; he may comfort us,

But cannot help his father.

_Crat._ The hero's blood is not to be controuled;

Even in a child 'tis madly masterful.

But wait we patient with our petty stakes,

Which on those greater gamesters must depend;

For, as they throw, our little lots must follow,

Like sweepings of their heap.

[CRAT. _and_ CLEORA _go in. Trumpets; a Shout within_--Liberty,

Liberty, and Magas!

_Enter_ CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, PANTHEUS, _followed by some few Egyptians_.

_Cleom._ What, is this populous city turned a desert?

The cry of "Liberty" runs on before us,

And yet none appears!

By Hercules, we drive them through their town:

They dare not stay to welcome their deliverers.

_Clean._ The cowards are afraid of what they wish;

And, could they be their own, they would be ours.

_Cleom._ They're gone; we talk to houses and to walls.

_Panth._ Not so; I see some peeping from their doors.--

What are you? friends, or foes?

_Four Egyptians appear, peeping from the opposite Entrances of the Stage._

_1 Egypt._ Friends, friends; all honest men,

And hearty to the cause.

_Clean._ Explain what cause; and give the general cry.

_1 and 2 Egypt._ Liberty and Magas.

_Cleom._ [_In their Tone._] Liberty and Magas!

The cowards whisper liberty so softly,

As if they were afraid the gods would hear it,

And take them at their word.

_1 Egypt._ No, friend: We vulgar never fear the gods; but we whisper,

for fear our o'erthwart neighbours should hear us cry, Liberty, and

betray us to the government.

_Clean._ Of what side are you there? [_To the opposite Egyptian._

_3 Egypt._ That's according as you succeed: of your side hitherto.

_Panth._ If you are men, come join with us.

_4 Egypt._ You are too few for us to join with you; but

get the greater party of your side, and we'll be sure

to help the common cry.

_Cleom._ Dare you do nothing to assert your freedom?

_3 Egypt._ Yes,--we'll pray devoutly for you.

_Clean._ The brave pray with their swords; that's a man's part.

_4 Egypt._ Praying with our swords, the law calls fighting; and

fighting is bloodshed; and bloodshed is hanging; and hanging is the

part of a dog, and not of a man, in my opinion.

_1 Egypt._ Every one for himself. [_Egyptian Trumpets within._

The government is a coming.

[_They shrink back in a Fright, and clap the Doors._

_Clean._ Run! couch, you cowards, to your tyrant lords.

A dog you worship, and partake his nature;

A race of speaking spaniels.

_Panth._ Let them go; we'll do our work without them.

_Clean._ The comfort is, our foes are like our friends;

Holiday heroes, drawn out once a month,

At public charge, to eat, and to be drunk;

Mere mouths of war.

_Enter_ SOSIBIUS _and_ CŒNUS, _at the Head of many Egyptians:

They, who spoke before, bolt out of their Doors, and join with

them_.

_Sosib._ 'Twas what I always feared,--even when I saved thee,--

To find thee thus engaged among my foes:

But yet, submit; and I can yet forgive thee.

Consider,--for 'tis all I've time to say,--

Thou fight'st against thy father.

_Clean._ Against my father's cause, but not my father:

If you would needs become yourself a slave,

And get me such, I must redeem us both,

And will, or perish in the brave attempt.

_Sosib._ Withdraw thyself from ruin, I command thee.

_Clean._ Command I cannot; but I beg you, sir,

Engage not for an arbitrary power,

That odious weight upon a free-born soul.

_Sosib._ This is too much.--Fall on, but spare my son.

_Enter_ CASSANDRA, _attended_.

_Cas._ Sosibius, hold! Withdraw your men to distance.

You know this signet: Obey your king in me. [_Shews the Signet._

_Sosib._ Never more gladly; though my son's a rebel,

Yet nature works to save him.

_Cas._ Then rather than he should untimely fall,

[CŒNUS _draws off_ SOSIBIUS'S _Men_.

I would forgive the rest, and offer life

Even to that fugitive, if he please to treat.

_Cleom._ Be short; and, if you can, for once, sincere.

_Cas._ What can you hope from this unequal fight,

Where numbers rise from every foe you kill,

And grow from their defeat?

_Cleom._ We come resolved;

And to die killing, is a kind of conquest.

_Cas._ But are not life and freedom worth accepting,

When offered; and, with such conditions too,

As make them both more pleasing? Your friend's safety,

Your son, your mother, and that only she

Who loves you best, for your companion home:--

You know what she I mean. [_Aside to him._

_Cleom._ No private parley; [_Stepping back._

Spartans do all in public.

_Clean._ We know your reasons for these secret whispers;

And to your infamy--

_Cleom._ [_Aside to him._] Peace, peace, my friend.

No injuries from women can provoke

A man of honour to expose their fame.--

Madam, we understand each other well:

My son, my mother, and my wife restored,

'Tis peace; if not, 'tis war.

_Sosib._ A fair proposal: Be it peace.

_Cas._ No, fool! 'tis war.--Know, heavy hero, know,

I gained this time for my secure revenge;

To seize thy wife and mother: and, to stab thee

On both sides of thy heart, they're gone to die,

To make thy death more painful. Farewell, traitor!

And thank thyself, not me. [_Ex._ CAS. _and_ SOSIB.

_Cleom._ Revenge, revenge,

And speedy death, or conquest!--Hold, Cleanthes!

_Enter_ CLEONICAS.

Poor boy!

By heaven, I'm pleased to see thee safe this moment,

Though I expect the next to lose thee.--Guard him,

Cleanthes: Set him safe behind the front.

_Clean._ Come, sir, you are now my charge.

_Cleon._ The gods forbid

That I should seek this danger, and not share it.--

[_To_ CLEON.] Forgive me, sir, that once I disobey you,

To prove myself your son; living, or dying,

I'll not be less than man.

_Cleom._ Oh! I could chide thee;

But there's no time for love and anger both.

Fight by my side; and heaven protect thy courage.

[CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, CLEONIDAS, _and their Party go off the

Stage, to fight the Egyptians. Trumpets, Drums, Shouts, and

Clashings within._

_Re-enter both Parties; the Egyptians first, driven by_ CLEOMENES;

PANTHEUS _ready to kill_ SOSIBIUS, _as having him down:_ CLEANTHES

_runs to him and interposes_.

_Clean._ Pantheus, hold; or turn thy sword on me.

_Panth._ [_To_ SOSIB.] Rise, sir; and thank your son.

_Clean._ [_To_ PANTH.] Pursue the foes: I have no joy of conquest,

Till I have set my father safe.

_Sosib._ The gods reward thy pious care.

[CLEANTHES _leads off his Father; while_ PANTHEUS _follows_

CLEOMENES: _The Egyptians are driven to the bottom of the

Stage: They make a wheeling Fight; still retiring before_ _the

Spartans:_ CLEOMENES _advances eagerly after the Egyptians, and,

with_ PANTHEUS, _drives them off_: CLEONIDAS _is left behind: So

is_ CŒNUS, _who had skulked_.

_Cœnus._ This was well watched: The boy is left unguarded.

[_Thrusts at_ CLEON. _behind_.

_Cleon._ Oh! I am slain by treason!

Revenge me, royal father.

_Re-enter_ CLEOMENES.

_Cleom._ 'Twas sure his voice:-- [_Sees him on the ground._

Too sure!--Pity and rage

Distract my soul: But rage will first be served.

[_Runs at_ CŒNUS, _and kills him_.

There's justice for myself, and for my son!--

Look up, sweet boy,

And tell me that thou livest.

_Cleon._ Fain I would live,

To comfort you! I bleed, and am ashamed

To say I faint, and call myself your son.--

O traitor Cœnus! What's become of him?

_Cleom._ Look, there he lies.

_Cleon._ I am glad on't:--

Forgive me, heaven: I hope 'tis no offence

To say I am glad, because he killed me basely.--

Still I grow fainter: Hold me, hold me, father.

_Cleom._ Chear up, and thou shalt live.

_Cleon._ No; I am just dying.

_Cleom._ What shall I lose?

_Cleon._ A boy; that's all. I might have lived to manhood;

But once I must have died.

_Cleom._ But not before thy father.

_Cleon._ Nay, then you envy me, that I'm first happy.

I go; and, when you come, pray find me out,

And own me for your son! [_Dies._

_Cleom._ There went his soul!--Fate, thou hast done thy worst,

And all thou canst henceforth is but mean slaughter,

The gleanings of this harvest.

_Enter_ PANTHEUS.

_Panth._ Sir, you're well found. Our enemies are fled:

I left our men pursuing, and made haste

To bring this joyful news.

_Cleom._ Look there, and, if thou darest, now give me joy.

_Panth._ Enough: you've stopped my mouth.--What? Cœnus killed?

I ask no questions then of who killed who;

The bodies tell their story as they lie.

Haste, and revenge!

_Cleom._ Where are our enemies?

_Panth._ Sculking, dispersed in garrets, and in cellars.

_Enter_ CLEANTHES.

_Cleom._ Not worth the seeking. Are these fit to atone

For Cleomenes' mother, son, and wife?

But what the gods have left us, we must take.

_Clean._ 'Tis all in vain: we have no further work.

The people will not be dragged out to freedom;

They bar their doors against it. Nay, the prisoners

Even guard their chains, as their inheritance,

And man their very dungeons for their masters,

Lest godlike liberty, the common foe,

Should enter in, and they be judged hereafter

Accomplices of freedom.

_Panth._ Then we may sheath our swords.

_Clean._ We may, Pantheus;

But, as brave men should, each in his bosom;

That only way is left us to die free.

_Cleom._ All's lost for which I once desired to live.

_Panth._ Come to our business then. Be speedy, sir,

And give the word; I'll be the first, to charge

The grim foe, death.

_Cleom._ Fortune, thou hast reduced me very low,

To do the drudgery of fate myself.

What! not one brave Egyptian! not one worthy

To do me manly right in single combat!

To fall beneath my fury?--for that's justice:

But then to drag me after:--for, to die,

And yet in death to conquer, is my wish.

_Clean._ Then have your wish: The gods at last are kind,

And have provided you a sword that's worthy

To match your own: 'Tis an Egyptian's too.

_Cleom._ Is there that hidden treasure in thy country?

The gods be praised, for such a foe I want.

_Clean._ Not such a foe, but such a friend am I.

I would fall first, for fear I should survive you,

And pull you after to make sure in death,

To be your undivided friend for ever.

_Cleom._ Then enter we into each other's breasts,

'Tis a sharp passage, yet a kind one too.

But, to prevent the blind mistake of swords,

Lest one drop first, and leave his friend behind,

Both thrust at once, and home, and at our hearts:

Let neither stand on guard, but let our bosoms

Lie open to each other in our death,

As in our life they were.

_Clean._ I seal it thus. [_Kiss and embrace._

_Panth._ And where's my part? You shut me out, like churls,

While you devour the feast of death betwixt you.

_Cleom._ Cheer up thy soul, and thou shalt die, Pantheus,

But in thy turn; there's death enough for all.

But, as I am thy master, wait my leisure,

And honestly compose my limbs to rest,

Then serve thyself.--Now, are you ready, friend?

_Clean._ I am.

_Cleom._ Then this to our next happy meeting.

[_They both push together, then stagger backwards, and fall

together in each other's Arms._

_Clean._ Speak, have I served you to your wish, my friend?

_Cleom._ Yes, friend----thou hast----I have thee in my heart----

Say----art thou sped?

_Clean._ I am,--'tis my last breath.

_Cleom._ And mine----then both are happy. [_Both die._

_Panth._ So, this was well performed, and soon dispatched;

Both sound asleep already,

And farewell both for one short moment.

[_Trumpets sound Victory within._

Those are the foes; our little band is lost

For want of these defenders. I must hasten,

Lest I be forced to live, and led in triumph,

Defrauded of my fate. I've earned it well,

And finished all my task: This is my place,

Just at my master's feet.--Guard him, ye gods,

And save his sacred corpse from public shame.

[_He falls on his Sword, and lies at the foot of_

CLEOMENES.--_Dies._

_Enter_ SOSIBIUS, CASSANDRA, _and Egyptians_.

_Sosib._ 'Twas what my heart foreboded: There he lies,

Extended by the man whom best he loved!

A better friend than son.

_Cas._ What's he, or thou? or Ptolemy? or Egypt?

Or all the world, to Cleomenes lost?

_Sosib._ Then I suspected right. If my revenge

Can ease my sorrow, this the king shall know,

That thou may'st reap the due reward of treason,

And violated love.

_Cas._ Thy worst, old dotard.

I wish to die; but if my mind should change,

So well I know my power, that thou art lost.

_Sosib._ The king's arrival shall decide our fate.--

Mean time, to show how much I honour virtue,

Take up that hero's body, bear it high,

Like the procession of a deity:

Let his armed figure on his tomb be set,

And we, like slaves, lie grovelling at his feet,

Whose glories growing till his latest breath,

Excelled all others, and his own in death. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.

This day, the Poet, bloodily inclined,

Has made me die, full sore against my mind!

Some of you naughty men, I fear, will cry,

Poor rogue! would I might teach thee how to die!

Thanks for your love; but I sincerely say,

I never mean to die, your wicked way.

Well, since it is decreed all flesh must go,

(And I am flesh,--at least for aught you know)

I first declare, I die with pious mind,

In perfect charity with all mankind.

Next for my will:----I have, in my dispose,

Some certain moveables would please you beaux;

As, first, my youth; for, as I have been told,

Some of you modish sparks are devilish old.

My chastity I need not leave among ye;

For, to suspect old fops, were much to wrong ye.

You swear you're sinners; but for all your haste,

Your misses shake their heads, and find you chaste.

I give my courage to those bold commanders,

Who stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders.

I leave my truth (to make his plot more clear)

To Mr Fuller, when he next shall swear[45].

I give my judgment, craving all your mercies,

To those that leave good plays, for damned dull farces.

My small devotion let the gallants share,

That come to ogle us at evening prayer.

I give my person----let me well consider,----

Faith e'en to him that is the fairest bidder;

To some rich hunks, if any be so bold

To say those dreadful words, _To have and hold_.

But stay--to give, and be bequeathing still,

When I'm so poor, is just like Wickham's will:

Like that notorious cheat, vast sums I give,

Only that you may keep me while I live[46].

Buy a good bargain, gallants, while you may;

I'll cost you but your half-a-crown a day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 41: Ægiatis was the first wife of Cleomenes. The reader

will find an account of the modest custom of Sparta here alluded to,

with a curious advantage taken of it by a stranger, in "Les Voyages

D'Antenor."]

[Footnote 42: It is surprising that Dryden has not here availed himself

of the beautiful and affectionate apostrophe of Cleomenes, when he saw

his brother Eucleidas overpowered in the battle of Sellasia: "Thou art

lost, dear brother! lost for ever, thou brave example to our Spartan

youth, and theme of our matrons' songs!"]

[Footnote 43: This very appropriate simile is taken literally from

Plutarch. See the prefixed Life of Cleomenes, p. 239.]

[Footnote 44: This sentiment was used, and absolutely acted upon, by

the famous Hewet, in very similar circumstances to those of Cleomenes.

"Being taken with a suppression of urine," says Smollet, "he resolved,

in imitation of Pomponius Atticus, to take himself off by abstinence;

and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company

to the last, cracked his jokes, conversed freely, and entertained his

guests with music. On the third day of his fast, he found himself

entirely freed of his complaint, but refused taking sustenance. He

said, the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past; and he should

be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship, when he was just entering

the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted, without any marks of

affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity,

as would have done honour to the firmest Stoic of antiquity."--_Note

upon the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker._]

[Footnote 45: William Fuller was an informer, who pretended, about this

time, to make discovery of a formidable plot, by the Jacobites, against

the government. But his luck was not so great as that of his prototype,

Titus Oates; for the House of Commons finding him unable to produce the

witnesses, to whom he referred for support of his tale, on the 24th

February 1691, declared him "a notorious impostor, a cheat, and a false

accuser, having scandalized their Majesties, and their government,

abused this house, and falsely accused several persons of honour and

quality." Fuller was prosecuted by the Attorney General for this

offence, and punished by the pillory; notwithstanding which he did not

profit by Mrs Bracegirdle's legacy, so as to make "his next plot more

clear;" for, in 1702, he was sentenced to the same painful elevation,

for publishing an impudent forgery, concerning the birth of the Prince

of Wales, son to James II.--See State Trials, vol. VI. p. 442; and the

Journals of the House of Commons, for February 1691.]

[Footnote 46: Of Wickham I can learn nothing; but the nature of his

imposture is easily to be gathered from the text.]

LOVE TRIUMPHANT:

OR

NATURE WILL PREVAIL.

A

TRAGI-COMEDY.

----_Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo

Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultrò._ VIRG.

LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

This piece, which concluded our author's labours as a dramatic poet,

was unsuccessful when represented, and affords very little pleasure

when perused. If we except "Amboyna," our author never produced a play,

where the tragic part had less interest, or the comic less humour.

For the faults of "Amboyna," Dryden pleaded the barren nature of the

subject, chosen not with a view to dramatic effect, but to attain a

political purpose, and the hurry of writing upon a temporary theme.

But that he should have failed, in a play avowedly intended to crown

his dramatic labours, where the story was of his own device, and the

composition at his own leisure, can only be imputed to that occasional

flatness, or cessation of the divine influence, as an ancient would

have expressed it, from which men of the highest poetic genius are not

exempted. In despite of all cold reasoning upon this subject, the fact

is irresistible, that our capacity of exerting mental talents, is not

more absolute than that which we possess over our bodily powers. We are

in each case limited by a thousand external and internal circumstances,

which occasion the greatest and most involuntary inequalities, between

our happier and our inferior efforts, of mental abilities or of

corporeal strength. It can only be to the temporary failure of the

poetic inspiration, which, like the wind of heaven, bloweth where it

listeth, and neither to want of labour, nor to impaired talents, that

we are to attribute the inferiority of "Love Triumphant," to almost all

Dryden's other compositions.

The plot is unhappily chosen. For, as we have had already occasion to

notice, stories turning, or appearing to turn, upon incestuous passion,

have seldom been successful upon the modern stage[47]. Davies, in his

"Dramatic Miscellanies," attributes Garrick's renouncing his intention

of reviving the admirable old play of "King and no King," to the ardent

passion which Arbaces conceives for his supposed sister; and which that

excellent judge suspected would not be tolerated in our age. "Phædra

and Hippolitus," though most powerfully supported, both by actors and

admirers, failed for the same reason; and, according to Davies, even

the various excellencies of "Don Sebastian" were unable to expiate

the disgust, excited by the unpleasing discovery of his relation

to Almeyda. While "Love Triumphant" labours under this capital and

disagreeable defect, little ingenuity can be discovered in the story,

abstracted from that consideration. The king of Castile suffers his

sole and only offspring to remain in the court of a rival and hostile

monarch, and even to head armies against him, supposing himself the son

of his enemy. The virtuous Queen of Arragon cultivates and encourages

a passion, having all the moral guilt of an incestuous attachment,

between her own daughter and her supposed son. The tyrant Veramond is

the only person who acts upon rational principles through the piece. He

refuses the liberty of a rival king to the petulant demand of Alphonso;

and not very unreasonably proposes to separate his son and daughter,

before worse consequences arose from their infamous and impudently

avowed passion. But by this very natural conduct, he gains the hatred

of his wife, his children, and his subjects:

_Miranda canit, sed non credenda, poeta._

After so many and such violent stretches of probability, the author

does not deign to wind up the plot, otherwise than by a sudden change

in the temper and resolutions of Veramond, a conclusion which he

himself admits in general to be grossly inartificial, and which in the

present case is peculiarly infelicitous. The ruling passion of Veramond

seems to be a hatred of his rival Ramirez, and a sort of instinctive

antipathy to Alphonso, even when he believes him to be his own son,

just arrived from conquest in his behalf. This hatred and aversion

was not likely to be abated, by the objects of them turning out to be

father and son; nor much soothed, by the circumstance of their making

him prisoner in his own metropolis. Yet, in this situation, moved by a

few soft speeches from Celidea, who had taken a fancy to the intended

husband of her sister, the tyrant of Arragon alters his whole family

arrangements, and habits of mind; and takes his hated foes into his

family and bosom, merely that the play may be concluded. The author

of these inconsistencies can hardly escape the censure of Aristotle,

against which he has pleaded in the preface.

With regard to the poetry of "Love Triumphant," it is somewhat

remarkable, that, in the most laboured scenes of this last effort of

his tragic muse, Dryden has had recourse to his discarded mistress,

Rhyme. As this could hardly arise from an alteration of his final

opinion, it may have been owing to a consciousness, that there was

some deficiency in the piece, which the harmony of numbers might veil,

though it could not supply. The turn of the dialogue, also, is quite in

our poet's early manner. The lovers, in the first scene of the second

act, burning with a horrible passion, which they felt it death to

conceal, and infamy and mortal sin to avow, communicate their feelings

to each other in alternate couplets, like two contending Arcadians.

Their horror evaporates in antithesis, and their passion in quaint

prettinesses. Witness the speech of Alphonso:

_Alph._ Oh raging, impious, and yet hopeless fire!

Not daring to possess what I desire;

Condemn'd to suffer what I cannot bear;

Tortur'd with love, and furious with despair.

Of all the pains which wretched mortals prove,

The fewest remedies belong to love:

But ours has none; for if we should enjoy,

Our fatal cure must both of us destroy.

Oh dear Victoria, cause of all my pain!

Oh dear Victoria, whom I would not gain!

Victoria, for whose sake I would survive:

Victoria, for whose sake I dare not live.

If the tragic part of "Love Triumphant" have little merit, the comic

has even less. The absurdity of the two gallants disguising themselves,

in hopes to pass for the deceased Conde upon a mistress, who had

borne him two children, is too gross for a puppet-show, or pantomime;

and there is nothing in the dialogue to attone for the flatness, and

extravagance of the plot. It may, however, be remarked, that Sancho,

a tawdry and conceited coxcomb, the son of a Jewish usurer, and

favoured by the father of his mistress, only for his wealth, has some

resemblance in manners and genealogy to a much more pleasant character,

that of Isaac in the "Duenna."

It is impossible to dismiss a performance of Dryden, without some

tribute of praise. The verse, where it is employed, possesses, as

usual, all the dignity which numbers can give to language; and the

Song upon Jealousy, as well as that in the character of a Girl, have

superior merit.

The play was received as ill as might be; so at least we are informed

by a curious letter, preserved by Mr Malone, dated 22d March 1693-4,

in which the writer, after chuckling over the failure of the "Double

Dealer," and the absolute damnation of "Love Triumphant," concludes,

that the success of Southerne's "Fatal Marriage" will encourage the

minor poets, "and vex huffing Dryden, and Congreve, to madness[48]."

Dryden himself, it may be noticed, says nothing in the preface

concerning the reception of the piece: all authorities, however, state

it to have been unfavourable; and thus, as Dr Johnson has remarked,

this great poet opened and closed his theatrical career with bad

success; a fact, which may secure the inexperienced author from

despondence, and teach him who has gained reputation, how little he

ought to presume on its stability.

"Love Triumphant" was first acted and published in 1693-4.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 47: See Introduction to Oedipus, vol. VI. p. 121.]

[Footnote 48: "The second play is Mr Dryden's, called "Love Triumphant,

or Nature will prevail." It is a tragi-comedy; but, in my opinion, one

of the worst he ever writ, if not the very worst: the comical part

descends beneath the style and show of a Bartholomew-Fair droll. It was

damned by the universal cry of the town, _nemine contradicente_ but the

conceited poet. He says in his prologue, that this is the last the town

must expect from him; he had done himself a kindness, had he taken his

leave before."]

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JAMES,

EARL OF SALISBURY, &c.[49]

MY LORD,

This poem, being the last which I intend for the theatre, ought to

have the same provision made for it, which old men make for their

youngest child, which is commonly a favourite. They, who were born

before it, carry away the patrimony by right of eldership; this is

to make its fortune in the world, and since I can do little for it,

natural affection calls upon me to put it out, at least, into the best

service which I can procure for it; and, as it is the usual practice

of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family,

and their endeavour to fix their young darling, where he may be both

well educated and supported;[50] I have herein also followed the custom

of the world, and am satisfied in my judgment, that I could not have

made a more worthy choice. It is true, I am not vain enough to think

that anything of mine can in any measure be worthy of your lordship's

patronage; and yet I should be ashamed to leave the stage, without some

acknowledgment of your former favours, which I have more than once

experienced. Besides the honour of my wife's relation to your noble

house,[51] to which my sons may plead some title, though I cannot;

you have been pleased to take a particular notice of me, even in this

lowness of my fortunes, to which I have voluntarily reduced myself;

and of which I have no reason to be ashamed. This condescension,

my lord, is not only becoming of your antient family, but of your

personal character in the world; and, if I value myself the more for

your indulgence to me, and your opinion of me, it is because any thing

which you like, ought to be considered as something in itself; and

therefore I must not undervalue my present labours, because I have

presumed to make you my patron. A man may be just to himself, though he

ought not to be partial; and I dare affirm, that the several manners

which I have given to the persons of this drama, are truly drawn from

nature, all perfectly distinguished from each other; that the fable is

not injudiciously contrived; that the turns of fortune are not managed

unartfully; and that the last revolution is happily enough invented.

Aristotle, I acknowledge, has declared, that the catastrophe which is

made from the change of will, is not of the first order of beauty; but

it may reasonably be alledged, in defence of this play, as well as of

the "Cinna," (which I take to be the very best of Corneille's,) that

the philosopher, who made the rule, copied all the laws, which he gave

for the theatre, from the authorities and examples of the Greek poets,

which he had read; and from their poverty of invention, he could get

nothing but mean conclusions of wretched tales: where the mind of the

chief actor was, for the most part, changed without art or preparation;

only because the poet could not otherwise end his play. Had it been

possible for Aristotle to have seen the "Cinna," I am confident he

would have altered his opinion; and concluded, that a simple change of

will might be managed with so much judgment, as to render it the most

agreeable, as well as the most surprising part of the whole fable;

let Dacier, and all the rest of the modern critics, who are too much

bigotted to the ancients, contend ever so much to the contrary. I was

afraid that I had been the inventor of a new sort of designing, when,

in my third act, I make a discovery of my Alphonso's true parentage.

If it were so, what wonder had it been, that dramatic poetry, though a

limited art, yet might be capable of receiving some innovations for

the better? But afterwards I casually found, that Menander and Terence,

in the "Heautontimoroumenos," had been before me; and made the same

kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities;--that

of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins

at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place

is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene

was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of

the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious

friend, Mr Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place

was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example

of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not

far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not

allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an

audience to suppose themselves, sometimes to be in a field, sometimes

in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed,

so many absurdities in their supposition, as in ours; but it is an

original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in

any other place, than in the very theatre in which they sit; which is

neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business,

but that of the representation. For my action it is evidently double;

and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I

dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority;

for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is

to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better

linked in interests than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should

often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to

the English genius. We love variety more than any other nation; and

so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is

obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public

vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a

more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether

the purpose of an epistle dedicatory; yet it is expected, that somewhat

should be said, even here, in relation to criticism; at least in

vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronize a

poem, which is wholly unworthy of your protection. Though, after all, I

doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who

was combing his peruke,[52] and setting his cravat before his mistress;

and being asked by her, when he intended to begin his court, replied,

"He had been doing it all this while." Yet thus it happens, my lord,

that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is

the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the

most ungrateful to all hearers. For which reason, I, who have nothing

to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it;

especially since I have so large a field before me, as your inborn

goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of

fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to

your friends; besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your

brotherly love to your relations. _Notus in fratres animo paterno_, was

the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it

is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here,

my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence to stop short, and to cast

under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow

the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the

world should make a bad use of it.[53] To enjoy our own quiet, without

disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for

the rest, to live chearfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your

illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in

the best manner. It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness

or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to

yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the

honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,

MY LORD,

Your lordship's

most obedient and

most humbly devoted servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 49: James, the fourth Earl of Salisbury, was strongly

attached to the religion and cause of his former master, James II.,

a reason, doubtless, for Dryden inscribing to him his last dramatic

offspring. There was also a connection betwixt our poet's lady and the

Earl, which is alluded to in the dedication. The Earl succeeded to the

title in 1683.]

[Footnote 50: It was an ancient custom derived from the days of

chivalry, but which long survived them, that, as formerly the future

knight had to go through a preliminary course of education, as page and

squire to some person of rank and valour; so the pages of the quality,

so late as the Revolution, were the sons of gentlemen, and in no way

derogated from their birth by accepting that menial situation. This is

often alluded to in the old plays. In the "New Inn" for example, when

Lovel asks of the Host his son for a page, we have an account of the

decay of the institution from its original purposes and respectability.

_Lovel._ Call you that desperate, which by a line

Of institution from our ancestors

Hath been derived down to us, and received

In a succession, for the noblest way

Of breeding up our youth in letters, arms,

Fair mien, discourses, civil exercise,

And all the blazon of a gentleman?

Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence,

To move his body gracefuller? to speak

His language purer? or tune his mind

And manners more to the harmony of nature,

Than in these nurseries of nobility?----

_Host._ Aye, that was when the nurseries self was noble,

And only virtue made it, not the market,

That titles were not vented at the drum

Or common outcry: Goodness gave the greatness,

And greatness worship: Every house became

An academy of honour, and those parts

We see departed in the practice now

Quite from the institution.

_Lovel._ Why do you say so,

Or think so enviously? do they not still

Learn there the centaur's skill, the art of Thrace,

To ride? or Pollux' mystery, to fence?

The Pyrrhick gesture, both to dance and spring

In armour? to be active for the wars?

To study figures, numbers, and proportions,

May yield them great in counsel? and the arts,

Grave Nestor and the wise Ulysses practised,

To make their English sweet upon their tongue,

As reverend Chaucer says?

_Host._ Sir, you mistake.--

To play Sir Pandarus my copy hath it,

And carry messages to Madam Cresside;

Instead of backing the brave steed o' mornings,

To mount the chamber-maid, and, for a leap

O' the vaulting horse, to ply the vaulting house;

For exercise of arms, a bale of dice,

Or two or three packs of cards, to shew the cheat,

And nimbleness of hand; mistake a cloak

From my lord's back, and pawn it; ease his pockets

Of a superfluous watch; or geld a jewel

Of an odd stone or so; twinge two or three buttons

From off my lady's gown. These are the arts,

Or seven liberal deadly sciences

Of pagery, or rather paganism,

As the tides run; to which if he apply him,

He may perhaps take a degree at Tyburn

A year the earlier; come to read a lecture

Upon Aquinas at St Thomas a watering's,

And so go forth a laureat in hemp circle.

_New Inn._ Act I. Scene 3d.]

[Footnote 51: The second earl of Salisbury married an aunt of Lady

Elizabeth Dryden; his son, lord Cranbourne, was grandfather of James,

the fourth earl; and therein consisted the relationship between

Dryden's sons, and the family of his patron, to which it is somewhat

difficult, in modern days, to give an exact name.]

[Footnote 52: This attitude and employment, however inconsistent

with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air

frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play

by Killigrew, called the "Parson's Wedding," we have this direction:

"Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their

heads, and talk." Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the

Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II.

Straight every man who thinks himself a wit,

Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,

With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face.

The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have

remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time.]

[Footnote 53: Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this

virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's

secret attachment to the exiled monarch.]

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.

As when some treasurer lays down the stick,

Warrants are signed for ready money thick,

And many desperate debentures paid,

Which never had been, had his lordship staid:

So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage,

Intends to gratify the present age.

One warrant shall be signed for every man;

All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can:

Provided still, this warrant be not shown,

And you be wits but to yourselves alone;[54]

Provided too, you rail at one another,

For there's no one wit, will allow a brother;

Provided also, that you spare this story,

Damn all the plays that e'er shall come before ye.

If one by chance prove good in half a score,

Let that one pay for all, and damn it more.

For if a good one 'scape among the crew, }

And you continue judging as you do, }

Every bad play will hope for damning too. }

You might damn this, if it were worth your pains; }

Here's nothing you will like; no fustian scenes, }

And nothing too of--you know what he means. }

No double _entendres_, which you sparks allow,

To make the ladies look they know not how;

Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together,

Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather.

But here's a story, which no books relate,

Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate.

The fable has a moral too, if sought; }

But let that go; for, upon second thought, }

He fears but few come hither to be taught. }

Yet if you will be profited, you may;

And he would bribe you too, to like his play.

He dies, at least to us, and to the stage,

And what he has, he leaves this noble age.

He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing,

The whole estate, which he has got by writing.

The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise; }

They'll find it something, the testator says; }

For half their love is made from scraps of plays. }

To his worst foes, he leaves his honesty,

That they may thrive upon't as much as he.

He leaves his manners to the roaring boys,

Who come in drunk, and fill the house with noise.

He leaves to the dire critics of his wit,

His silence and contempt of all they writ.

To Shakespear's critic, he bequeaths the curse,

To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;[55]

A precious reader, in poetic schools,

Who by his own examples damns his rules.

Last, for the fair, he wishes you may be,

From your dull critics, the lampooners, free.

Though he pretends no legacy to leave you,

An old man may at least good wishes give you.

Your beauty names the play; and may it prove

To each, an omen of triumphant love!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 54: This seems to be an allusion to the pretended dukedom of

Marine, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Noble Gentleman," which had been

revived in 1688, by Tom D'urfey, under the title of the "Three Dukes of

Dunstable."

_Gent._ Hark you, sir, the king doth know you are a duke.

_Mar._ No! does he?

_Gent._ Yes, and is content you shall be; but with this caution,

That none know't but yourself; for, if you do,

He'll take't away by act of parliament.

_Mar_. There is my hand, and, whilst I live or breathe,

No living wight shall know I am a duke,]

[Footnote 55: I do not know if any individual is here levelled

at. Shakespeare has had his critics in all ages, who, like the

inexpert tinker, have generally made two holes in patching one. In

the end of the seventeenth century, his plays were usually acted

in a sophisticated state, as altered by Tate, D'Avenant, Crowne,

Ravenscroft, and others. The last, in the preface to his alteration

of "Titus Andronicus," has the impudence to say, "That if the reader

will compare the old play with his copy, he will find that none in all

that author's works ever received greater alterations or additions, the

language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most

of the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased."]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

VERAMOND, _King of Arragon_.

ALPHONSO, _his supposed Son_.

GARCIA, _King of Navarre_.

RAMIREZ, _King of Castile_.

SANCHO, }

CARLOS, } _Two Colonels_.

LOPEZ, _an old Courtier_.

XIMENA, _Queen of Arragon_.

VICTORIA, _eldest daughter to the King and Queen_,

CELIDEA, _her Sister_.

DALINDA, _Daughter to_ LOPEZ.

_A Nurse with two Children._

SCENE,--_Saragossa in Spain_.

LOVE TRIUMPHANT;

OR,

NATURE WILL PREVAIL.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_A Presence-chamber._

_At the drawing up of the Curtain_, VERAMOND, _King of Arragon,

appears_; XIMENA, _the Queen, by him_; VICTORIA, _their eldest

Daughter, on the right Hand; and_ CELIDEA, _their younger

Daughter, on the left; Courtiers stand attending in File on each

Side of the stage; The Men on the one Hand, the Ladies on the

other. Amongst the Men_, DON LOPEZ; _amongst the Women_, DALINDA,

_his Daughter_.

_Vera._ Now the long wars betwixt Castile and Arragon

Are ended in the ruin of our foes;

And fierce Ramirez, the Castilian king,

Who tugged for empire with our warlike son,

In single combat taken, adds his laurels

To the young victor's brow: our tender maids,

And trembling children, shall with scorn behold

The haughty captive, who had made his vaunts,

To lay their dwellings level; and with salt

To sow the place, where Saragossa stood.

_Xim._ Processions, prayers, and public thanks to heaven,

Were fit to be decreed.

_Vera._ Your sex is ever foremost in devotion.

But for our brave confederate, young Navarre,

He shall receive the prize reserved within

My breast; and such a one,

His youth and valour have right well deserved.

_Xim._ I hear he comes along with our Alphonso,

And, next our son, did best.

_Vera._ Perhaps as well;

Alphonso's action was indeed more glorious,

To buckle with a king in single fight,

And take him prisoner; but his fiery temper

Still hurries him to daring rash attempts.

_Xim._ Alphonso is impetuous, but he's noble;

He will not take one atom from Navarre

Of what's his right, nor needs he.

_Vera._ If he should----

_Xim._ You take too bad impressions of your son.

_Vera._ No more, Ximena, for I hear their trumpets

Proclaim their entry; and our own their welcome.

[_Trumpets from each side of the Stage._

_Enter_ ALPHONSO _and_ GARCIA, _hand in hand. After them, the

Prisoner, King_ RAMIREZ, _alone; then the two Colonels_, SANCHO

_and_ CARLOS; _after them, other Officers of the Army_. VERAMOND

_advances to meet them; the Queen and the two Princesses follow

him_. ALPHONSO _first kneels to his Father and Mother, and

immediately runs to salute his Sister_ VICTORIA _tenderly; then

slightly salutes_ CELIDEA, _and returns to_ VICTORIA. _In the mean

time_ VERAMOND _embraces Don_ GARCIA, _who afterwards kisses the

Queen's hand_.

_Vera._ The triumphs of this day, auspicious prince,

Proclaim themselves your gift, to us and Arragon;

From you they are derived; to you return;

For what we are, you make us.