_Alph._ Cruel Victoria! would you go from hence,

And leave a desolate, despairing prince?

Is this the freedom you demand from me?

Are these the vows, and this the constancy?

Put off the mask; for I too well perceive

Whom you resolve to love, and whom to leave.

Go, teach me at my own expence, to find

What change a day can make in womankind.

_Vict._ Think not a day, nor all my life, can make

Victoria's heart her steadfast love forsake.

I plighted you my faith; and I renew

My vows once more, to love but only you.

_Alph._ You vowed no time our fortune should divide;

And well 'twas kept, like all your vows beside,

When e'en this hour you went to be a bride.

_Vict._ I went; but was securely first prepared;

For this was my redemption, or my guard.

[_Pulls out a Dagger._

Let this your causeless jealousy remove;

And learn no more to doubt Victoria's love.

_Alph._ That fatal proof I never did desire.

_Vict._ And yet a proof more fatal you require,

Which would with infamy my name pursue;

To fly my father, and to follow you.

_Alph._ Your love you forfeit, if you go away.

_Vict._ I forfeit my obedience, if I stay.

_Alph._ You may transfer your duty, and be mine.

_Vict._ Yes, when my father shall his claim resign;

For, when the nuptial knot our love assures,

All, that was his before, is, after, yours.

_Alph._ Then, when you vowed your love, you falsely swore.

_Vict._ I love you much, but love my honour more.

_Alph._ You hate my rival, yet you take the way

To make you his inevitable prey.

_Vict._ Beasts fear not more to be the hunters' spoil.

_Alph._ Then, sure, you would not run into the toil.

How ill your actions with your words agree!

_Vict._ This friend is still at hand to set me free.

[_Holding up the Dagger._

_Alph._ Let me not live to see that fatal hour!

Rather return into your father's power;

Rather return into his arms again,

For whom your lost Alphonso you disdain.

If one must die, to set your honour free,

You have already cast the lot on me.

Death is the only way to clear my fame,

Which must be branded with a coward's name,

If basely I resign Victoria's charms,

And tamely give you to my rival's arms.

_Vict._ To give me to my father is no crime.

_Alph._ 'Tis still the same; your father gives you him.

Ungrateful woman!

_Vict._ More ungrateful man!

More than I ought I give, and all I can;

But if my duty I prefer to you,

Be satisfied with all that love can do.

_Alph._ Not satisfied; but yet your will shall be

Like fate's inviolable law to me.

Since my unhappy stars will have it so,

Depart from hence, and leave your father's foe.

Go then; but quickly go; for, while you stay,

As on a rack I find myself decay,

And every moment looks a part of me away.

_Vict._ I wish I with my duty could dispense;

Heaven knows how loth I am to part from hence.

So, from the seal is softened wax disjoined;

So, from the mother plant, the tender rind.

But take the latest pledge that love can give;

Have courage, and for your Victoria live.

[_She offers him her hand, he kisses it. Exit_ VICTORIA, _he

looking after her_.

_Enter_ RAMIREZ, _attended by_ CARLOS; RAMIREZ _embraces_ ALPHONSO.

_Ram._ Prop of my age, and pattern of my youth,

But such as far excels the original,

Ten thousand blessings on thee for this deed!

_Alph._ Heaven and my fate speak other language to me.

No blessings, none, but millions of their curses,

Like burning glasses, with contracted beams,

Are pointed on my head.

_Ram._ What words are these, on this auspicious day?

_Alph._ Oh, fly me, fly me, sir;

Lest the contagion of my woes

Pollute my father's joys; Victoria's gone,

And with her went Alphonso's life and soul.

_Ram._ You had her in your power, and were too easy.

_Alph._ Or, rather, she too cruel.

Her duty forced her hence, in scorn of love.

_Ram._ You must resume your arms,

And force her father's will, to make her yours.

Why, like a woman, stand you thus complaining,

Born to the strength, and courage of a man?

Rouse up your spirits to a just revenge,

Like lightning wasteful, and like thunder loud.

Rivers of blood shall run about the town,

For which you were so lavish of your own.

Garcia shall die, and by his death remove

The cause of jealousy, and injured love;

The king himself, the ungrateful king, shall fall;

Of all our ills the curst original.

_Alph._ Beseech you, sir, no more.

_Ram._ Your reason, son?

_Alph._ For you have given my soul so large a swing,

That it bounds back again with double force,

Only because you carried it too far.

You've set an image of so vast destruction

Before my sight, that reason shuns the approach,

And dares not view the fearful precipice.

_Ram._ Is vengeance, which is said so sweet a morsel,

That heaven reserves it for its proper taste,

Is it so soon disrelished?

_Alph._ What have the people done, the sheep of princes,

That they should perish for the shepherd's fault?

They bring their yearly wool, to clothe their owners;

And yet, when bare themselves, are culled for slaughter.

Should I do this, what could the wolf do more,

Than what the master did?

_Ram._ Then Garcia, must he 'scape?

_Alph._ 'Tis true, I had him at my mercy once;

I should have killed him then, or, once forgiven,

Should spare him now.

_Ram._ [_Aside._] His noble soul relents.

_Alph._ But then I give Victoria to his arms;

And make my own destruction my own act.

That fires my blood again--yet if she loves him,

Is killing him she loves, the way to gain her?

No, let him live--but Veramond shall die;

Who, when he was my father as he thought,

When I deserved his love, then hated me.

_Ram._ Oh, now the tempest drives another way. [_Aside._

_Alph._ No more deliberation,--there it goes;

I'll kill him first, to satisfy my vengeance,

And then, to atone her anger, kill myself.

[_Seems going hastily._

_Ram._ Hold, hold, Alphonso! heaven, and earth, and I,

Who have a father's title to your life,

Forbid that parricide.

_Alph._ Would you refuse a madman leave to sleep?

'Tis sleep must cure me, and that sleep is death.

_Ram._ A madman must be cooled, to make him sleep.

I have prepared a gentle opiate for you;

One moment's patience, and I will infuse it.

You see me dispossessed of all my state?

_Alph._ Yes, to my grief; and, to enhance that grief,

'Tis to my sword my father owes his ruin.

_Ram._ And 'tis that only sword that can restore me.

It must, and ought; you owe it to your duty.

_Alph._ Duty was what Victoria urged to me:

I hate that fatal word, because she used it,

And, for a cruel father, left her love.

_Ram._ Could she do that for Veramond, a tyrant,

Which you refuse to me?

The conquering troops of Arragon are yours;

You are their life, their idol, and their soul.

Conduct me home, and, with their aid, restore me;

And, that once done, we shall not need to treat:

For Veramond himself will send, and sue

For that alliance, which his pride now scorns.

_Alph._ Long ere that time, Victoria will be Garcia's:

Her father will not lose one moment's space,

To gratify his vengeance with my ruin,

If I would force him, this must be the time;

Which, since I now refuse, 'tis lost forever.--

Hear then, and take it as my last resolve:

Lead you the troops; you need not fear their faith,

The guilt of their rebellion makes them yours.

With them, and with your own, restore yourself.

_Ram._ Then what becomes of you?

_Alph._ No matter what.

Provide yourself of some more worthy heir,

For I am lost, beyond redemption lost.

Farewell the joys of empire, from this moment!

Farewell the honours of the dusty field!

Here I lay down this instrument of death,

[_Ungirds his Sword, and lays it down._

And may it gird some happier soldier's side;

For nothing, it could gain, can countervail

To me, the loss of my Victoria's love.

Your blessing, and farewell! [_Kneels._

_Ram._ Alas! I fear some fatal resolution

Is harboured in your soul: If thus you leave me,

My mind forebodes, we never more shall meet.

_Alph._ Give not so black an omen to this parting,

For we may meet again, if heaven thinks fit:

A beam of comfort, like the moon through clouds,

Gilds the brown horror, and directs my way.--

Blast not my purpose, by refusing leave,

Nor ask the means; but know, I will not die,

Till I have proved the extremest remedy.

And if, unarmed, I go to tempt my fate,

Think my despair is from Victoria's hate. [_Exit_ ALPHONSO.

_Ram._ I might have used the power heaven gives to parents,

And hindered his departure;

But somewhat of divine controuled my tongue:

For heroes' souls, irregular to us,

Yet move like planets in their proper sphere;

Performing even course,

In paths uneven to beholders' eyes.-- [_Pauses a little._

[_To_ CARLOS.] His words, mysterious as they were, imported

Some desperate design, which I must watch,

And therefore dare not lead the forces far;

But, camped without the town, at some small distance

To expect the issue, and prevent his death.

_Carl._ Sir, what orders give you? for you are now our general.

_Ram._ Follow, and you shall know. [_Exit_ RAMIREZ.

_Carl._ Follow! whither? No plunder, when the town was fairly taken!

there's a hopeful general to follow. The son and father are both gone

away, without providing for me, who betrayed the city to them; a fine

encouragement for virtue! Well, these monarchs make no more of us

soldiers, when their turn is served, than we make of our old battered

horses. To put us off for stallions, is the best that can become of us;

and those indeed are my present circumstances. Dalinda will none, and

Sancho is just mounting, if I get not between, and thrust him off; for

which purpose I have insinuated to him that I have left Dalinda for his

sake, and am upon another scent.----Yonder he comes: this, and another

lie which I have ready coined, will go near to spoil his market.

_Enter_ SANCHO.

_San._ Well, Carlos, the hurly burly's quite over. I met Ramirez

marching off the army; and just afterwards appeared a fellow in a

fool's coat, on horseback with three trumpets. Herod, I think they

called him; some such Jewish name.

_Carl._ A herald at arms you mean.

_San._ It may be so; but I should have taken him for some pardonner,

for he scattered indulgences, by handfuls, to the people; but only they

paid nothing for them.

_Carl._ But did he proclaim nothing?

_San._ Oh, yes; and now I remember, he began his speech with, O yes,

too: he proclaimed a general pardon to all rebels, of which number, you

know, you and I, Carlos, were two ring-leaders.

_Carl._ Then farewell Ramirez; even trudge on by yourself, for there

is an end of my expedition. I will lay down my arms like a dutiful

subject, and submit to his majesty, when I can rebel no longer.

_San._ Very good; and try the other touch for Dalinda, will you?

_Carl._ You know I have quitted her for your sake, and now am

altogether for--let me see, what lady am I for?

_San._ Pump, pump, Carlos, for that's to be invented yet.

_Carl._ Only out of my head a little:--'tis the dead Count's sister;

a great fortune since her brother died, but somewhat homely: she has

already made some advances to me, or else I lie.

_San._ And will you say _To have and to hold_, with an ugly woman?

_Carl._ Yes, and _For better for worse_,--that is, for virgin, or

for whore; as you will, Sancho, who are listing yourself into the

honourable company of cuckolds.

_San._ What, a hero as I am, to be a cuckold?

_Carl._ Do not disdain your calling; Julius Cæsar was one before you.

The Count has had her by her own confession; so she's a nobleman's

dowager, for your comfort.

_San._ Pugh, she denied it afterwards; that was but a copy of her

countenance.

_Carl._ What if it prove a copy of the Conde's countenance? do you

think she had not a bastard by him?

_San._ That was only a plot betwixt us, to cheat her father.

_Carl._ Did her father know nothing of it?

_San._ Not a syllable.

_Carl._ Then, when he believed you to be the Count, how came he to

charge you with enjoying her?

_San._ That is something to the purpose;--but now I think on't, 'tis

nothing neither; 'tis but asking her the question, and I know she'll

satisfy me.

_Carl._ And you are resolved to take her word?

_San._ Rather than yours; for you may have a mind to have a lick at the

honey-pot yourself.

_Carl._ Farewell; you know I have other business upon the stocks.

[_Seems going out._

_San._ Stay, Carlos; I am afraid you know something more of this bawdy

business than you confess.

_Carl._ Fecks, not I.

_San._ Fecks! what a sneaking oath is that for a man of honour? swear

me bloodily like a soldier, if you would be believed.

_Carl._ Without swearing, I believe her honest; therefore make sure of

her immediately.

_San._ That is, take a rival's counsel, and make sure of being an

antedated cuckold.

_Carl._ If you won't believe me, I cannot help it. But marry Dalinda,

and be happy; for I may prevent you, if you make not haste.

_San._ Thou hast cheated me so often, that I cannot credit one syllable

thou sayest.

_Carl._ [_Going out._] Then take your fortune.--

[CARLOS _pulls out his handkerchief to wipe his face, and drops a

letter._

Yonder comes Dalinda; I know her by her trip. I'll

watch their greeting. [_Exit._

_San._ The rogue's malicious, and would have me marry her in spite;

besides he is off and on at so devilish a rate, a man knows not where

to have him. Well, I am resolved, in the first place, not to follow

the rogue's counsel. I will not marry her, because he advised me to

it;--and yet I will marry her, because he counselled me not to marry

her.--Hey-day! I will marry her, and I will not marry her! what's the

meaning of this, friend Sancho? That's taking the rogue's advice one

way or t'other. [_Sees the letter and takes it up._] What, has he dropt

a letter! To whom is it directed? to Don Carlos D'Ybarra;--that is

himself. [_Mutters, as reading to himself._

_Dalinda's fair, and a fortune; but marry her not; for to my knowledge_

(pox confound him for his knowledge) _she has had a_----(What a----Mr

Friend? why--) _a bastard, by the late Conde_: (Ay, I thought as much.)

_But his sister Leonora is in love with you._

Damn it, I will read no more: it agrees with what he first told me; and

therefore it must be all orthodox. Here she comes, too, just in the

nick of my revenge; but I shall be very laconic with her.

_Enter_ DALINDA.

_Dal._ Now, servant.

_San._ Now, cockatrice.

_Dal._ You're pretty familiar----

_San._ So have you been----

_Dal._ With your mistress.

_San._ With the Conde, of whoring memory.

_Dal._ A fine salutation!

_San._ A final parting.

_Dal._ What's the meaning of this? will you come in?

_San._ Will you go in?

_Dal._ Come, look upon me. [_She makes the_ doux yeux _to him_.

_San._ I have no eyes.

_Dal._ Then I must take you by the hand. [_She offers, and he pulls

back._

_San._ I have no hands neither.

_Dal._ How's this? I have been but too kind----

_San._ Yes, to the Conde.

_Dal._ Pugh, that was a jest, you know.

_San._ 'Tis turned to earnest.

_Dal._ You know 'twas of my conception.

_San._ And of your bringing forth too.

_Dal._ What did I bring forth?

_San._ A bastard.

_Dal._ O impudent!

_San._ Woman.

_Dal._ What proof have you of that scandal?

_San._ This, with a pox t'ye. [_Throws her the letter._

Patience, oh ye gods! [_Exit._

[_She takes up the note, and, as she is reading it, re-enter_

CARLOS.

_Carl._ Much good may do you with your note, madam; now I think I am

revenged at full: your cully has forsaken you.

_Dal._ Well, I did not expect this from you, cousin Carlos.

_Carl._ What did you take me for? King Log in Æsop's Fables, for you to

insult me, and play at leap-frog over me? Did not you forsake me for a

fool?

_Dal._ But was not this a terrible revenge of yours? must you needs

shew him the letter, which has ruined my reputation, and lost my

fortune? Am I the first frail creature, that had the misfortune of two

great bellies, and yet afterwards was decently married, and passed for

a virgin?

_Carl._ Nay, do not aggravate the matter: consult your note, and you

will find but one bastard charged upon you; you see I was not for

laying loaders.

_Dal._ A great courtesy, to bate me one, as if that was not enough to

do my business.

_Carl._ Well, suppose I should discover this contrivance of mine, and

set all right again?

_Dal._ [_Aside._] Contrivance! oh heaven! I have undone myself, by

confessing all too soon.

_Carl._ If I should prove you innocent, you would prove ungrateful?

_Dal._ No, you know I always loved you.

_Carl._ You have shown it most abundantly, in choosing Sancho.

_Dal._ You speak more truly than you think. I have shewn it; for, since

I must confess the truth to you, I am no fortune: my father, though

he bears it high, to put me off, has mortgaged his estate: we keep

servants for shew; and when we should pay their wages, pick a quarrel

with their service, and turn them off pennyless. There is neither

sheet nor shirt in the whole family; the lodging-rooms are furnished

with loam; and bare mattresses are the beds. The dining-room plays

the hypocrite for all the house; for all the furniture is there. When

strangers dine with us, we eat before the servants, and then they

fast; but when we dine alone, 'tis all a muss[59]: they scramble for

victuals, before 'tis served up, and then we fast.

_Carl._ The spirit of famine comes upon me, at the very description of

it.

_Dal._ Now, since neither you nor I have fortunes, what should we do

together, unless we should turn canibals, and eat up one another? But

if you would make up this foul business, and help me to that rich fool

Sancho, I say no more, but----

_Carl._ But thou wouldst be kind to me? speak out, for I dare not trust

thee, thou art such a woman.

_Dal._ You should----

_Carl._ What should I?

_Dal._ Why, you should----

_Carl._ Well, well, I will believe thee, though my heart misgives me

plaguily. And therefore, in the first place, I beg your pardon for the

scandal I have laid upon you. In the next, I restore your virginity and

take away your bastard.

_Dal._ And you'll tell Sancho 'twas a forged letter?

_Carl._ No doubt on't; for I wrote it to myself; and out of revenge

invented the whole story.

_Dal._ But suppose, dear cousin, that Sancho should not believe all

this to be your invention; and should still suspect the letter to be

true?

_Carl._ I can easily convince him, by writing the same hand again, in

which that letter was indited.

_Dal._ That's an excellent expedient; but do it now; for a woman can

never be cleared too soon.

_Carl._ But when you are cleared, you will forget your promise to me----

_Dal._ But if I am not cleared, I cannot marry him; nor be put in a way

to keep my promise. Come, I'll hold my hand; write upon it, I always

carry pen and ink about me.

_Carl._ Let me seal my affection first. [_Kisses her hand._] Now, what

should I write?

_Dal._ Only these words at the bottom of the note, in the same

character:--_This letter was wholly forged by me, Carlos_. [He kneels

and writes.

_Carl._ There 'tis.----

[_Gives it her, she puts it in her pocket._

But now tell me truly, what made you confess a couple of bastards? have

you indeed been dabbling?

_Dal._ Who, I confess it! Oh thou impudent fellow! I only soothed thee

up in thy villainy, to make thee betray thy own plot. I confessed

seemingly, to make thee confess really. Heaven and thy own conscience

know I did. [_Seems to weep._

_Carl._ But when you're married, you'll remember your promise?

_Dal._ What promise?

_Carl._ That I should----

_Dal._ Should what?

_Carl._ Must I tell you?

_Dal._ No, I'll tell you; I said you should,--and so you shall,--be

cozened in your expectation.

_Carl._ I foreboded this, and yet was fool enough to trust thee. Give

me back my letter.

_Dal._ What, deliver up my evidence, that's the testimony of my virtue,

and thy wickedness?

_Carl._ I'll search your petticoat.

_Dal._ Dare but touch my petticoat, and I'll cry out a rape against

thee.

_Carl._ Oh thou Eve of Genesis! thou wouldst have tempted the serpent,

if thou hadst been there.

_Dal._ The next news you hear is of my wedding; be patient, and you

shall be invited to the dinner.

_Carl._ I say no more; but I'll go home and indite iambics: thou shalt

not want for an epithalamium; I'll do thy business in verse.

[_Exit._

_Dal._ My comfort is, I have done your business in prose already.

The wittiest men are all but women's tools;

'Tis our prerogative, to make them fools.

For one sweet look, the rich, the beaux, the braves,

And all mankind, run headlong to be slaves.

Ours is the harvest which those Indians mow;

They plough the deep, but we reap what they sow. [_Exit._

ACT V.

SCENE I.--_Lopez's House._

_Enter_ SANCHO, LOPEZ, DALINDA. CARLOS _meeting them_.

_Carl._ Give you joy, Mr Bridegroom and Mrs Bride; you

see I have accepted your invitation.

_San._ And thou art welcome, as a witness of my triumph.

_Carl._ I could tell tales that would spoil your appetite, both to your

dinner and your bride.--You think you are married to a vast fortune.

_Dal._ A better, perhaps, than you imagine.

_Lop._ For, if Sancho looks into his writings, he'll find that my

estate was mortgaged to his father.

_San._ Then would I had looked into my writings, before I had looked so

far into your daughter.

_Dal._ My father's fortune will be yours at last; and I have but

redeemed it for you.

_San._ I'm sure I'm married without redemption!

_Carl._ You must take the good and the bad together; he that keeps a

tame cat must be content to be scratched a little.

_Dal._ The count's sister, I hope, has claws for you too.

_Carl._ That was invented only in hopes of you, Dalinda; though now I

thank my stars that I have missed you: for two wits without fortunes

would be like two millstones without corn betwixt them; they would only

grind upon one another, and make a terrible noise, but no meal would

follow.

_Enter a Nurse, leading a Boy and Girl._

_Nurse._ Madam, here are two poor orphans, that, hearing you are

married, come to dine with you.

_Dal._ [_Aside._] My two bastards! I am undone: what shall I do with

them?

_Lop._ [_Aside._] The devil take my damned grand-children for their

unseasonable visit.

_San._ Welcome, welcome: They're come a mumming[60] to grace my

wedding, I'll warrant you.

_Carl._ I begin to suspect they come to sup and lodge, as well as dine

here.

_Lop._ [_To Nurse._] There's two pistoles for you; take them away, and

bring them again to-morrow morning.

_Nurse._ Thank your honour.--Come away, children; but first I must

deliver a note to this gentleman.--Don Carlos, I am sure you remember

me. [_Gives him a Note._

_Carl._ Did not you wait on Donna Leonora, the Conde's sister?

_Nurse._ Have you forgotten Ynez, the faithful trustee of your

affection? Read your letter; there's better news than you deserve.

[CARLOS _reads his Letter to himself_.

_Dal._ [_To Nurse._] Steal away, dear nurse, while he's reading, and

there's more money for you:--fear not, you shall be duly paid; for I am

married to one who can provide for them.

_Nurse._ [_To her._] Well, I'll keep your credit; but remember. [_Exit

Nurse, with the Children._

_Carl._ [_After Reading._] Poor loving creature, she is e'en too

constant; I could never have expected this from her.--Look you here,

you shall see I have no reason to envy your fortune, Sancho.--[_Looks

about him._] How now, what's become of the nurse and the two children?

_Dal._ They would have been but too troublesome guests, and are gone

away.

_Carl._ By your favour, I shall make bold to call them back again.

[_Exit_ CARLOS.

_Dal._ [_To_ LOP.] Oh barbarous villain! he'll discover all.

_Lop._ The best on't is, you're already married.

_Dal._ But we have not consummated. I could have so wheedled Mr

Bridegroom to-night, that ere to-morrow morning he should have forgiven

me.

_Re-enter_ CARLOS, _with Nurse and Children_.

_Carl._ Come, nurse, no more mincing matters; your lady's orders in my

letter must be obeyed: I must find a father and mother for the children

in this company.

_San._ Whose pretty children are these, Carlos, that you are to provide

for?

_Carl._ E'en your bride's, Sancho, at your service.-- Children, do your

duty to your mother.

_Children._ [_Kneeling._] Mamma, your blessing.

_San._ Hey day, what's here to do? Are these the issue of your body,

Madam Bride?

_Carl._ Yes; and they are now your children by the mother's side. The

late Conde presents his service to you, with these two pledges of his

affection to your wife.

_San._ Is it even thus, Dalinda?

_Lop._ Christian patience, son-in-law.

_San._ Christian patience! I say pagan fury. This is enough to make me

turn Jew again, like my father of Hebrew memory.

_Carl._ You may make your assault, colonel, without danger; the breach

is already made to your hands.

_San._ Ay, the devil take him that stormed it first!

_Carl._ Speak well of the dead.

_Dal._ [_Kneeling._] And forgive the living!

_San._ Oh Dalinda! no more Dalinda, but Dalilah the Philistine! Could

you find none but me to practise on?

_Carl._ Sooner upon you than upon any man; for nature has put a

superscription upon a fool's face, and all cheats are directed thither.

_Lop._ There's no recalling what's past and done.

_San._ You never said a truer word, father-in-law; 'tis done, indeed,

to my sorrow.

_Carl._ If you could undo it, Sancho, it were something; but, since you

cannot, your only remedy is to do it again.

_San._ That's true; but the memory of that damned Conde is enough to

turn one's stomach to her. Do you remember what a devilish hunch back

he had, when you and I played him?

_Carl._ For that reason you may be sure she'll loath the thought of him.

_San._ Do you think so, Carlos?

_Dal._ How can I do otherwise, when I have in my arms so handsome, so

sweet, and so charming a cavalier as you?

_San._ Well, I am--I know not howish; she has a delicious tongue of her

own, and I begin to mollify.

_Carl._ Do, Sancho: Faith, you've held it out too long, in conscience,

for so slight a quarrel; this is nothing among great ladies, man. How

many fathers have I known, that have given their blessings to other

men's children? Come, bless them, bless them, honest daddy--Kneel down,

children.

_Children._ [_Kneeling._] Your blessing, papa.

[_Children cry._

_San._ It goes against the grain to give it them.

_Carl._ For shame, Sancho, take them up; you'll break their pretty

hearts else: 'twould grieve a man's soul to see them weep thus.

_San._ Ay, they learnt that trick of their mother; but I cannot be

obdurate, the fault was none of theirs, I'm sure. [_Crying._] Heaven

e'en bless you, and I'll provide for you; nay, and it shall go hard but

I'll get you some more play-fellows, if your mother be as fruitful as

she used to be.

_Lop._ Why this is as it should be.

_Dal._ Heaven reward you; and I'll study obedience to you.

_San._ They say, children are great blessings; if they are, I have two

great blessings ready gotten to my hands.

_Carl._ For your comfort, marriage, they say, is holy.

_San._ Ay, and so is martyrdom, as they say; but both of them are good

for just nothing, but to make an end of a man's life.

_Lop._ Cheer up, son-in-law: your children are very towardly, you see

they can ask blessing already.

_Dal._ If he does not like them, he may get the next himself.

_Carl._ I will not trouble the company with reading my letter from the

dead count's sister; 'tis enough to tell you, that I loved her once,

and forsook her, because she was then no fortune. But she has been

kinder to me than I deserve; and has offered me her brother's estate in

dowry with her.

_Dal._ Which I hope you will accept.

_Carl._ Yes, and release you of a certain promise to me, without

explaining.--She only recommended to me her brother's children by

Dalinda: and I think I have taken a decent care in providing them a

rich father.

_San._ I always loved a harlot, and, now I have one of my own, I'll

e'en take up with her; for my youth is going, and my days of whoring,

I mean emphatical whoring, are almost over. But for once, we'll have a

frolick; come, offspring, can either of you two dance?

_1 Child._ Yes, forsooth, father, and my sister can sing too, like an

angel.

_San._ Then foot it featly; that you may say hereafter you remember

when your mother was first married, and danced at her wedding.

_Carl._ Hold a little;--you may remember too, Madam Bride, that I

promised you an epithalamium. 'Twas meant a satire; but fortune has

turned it to a jest. I have given it to the musicians, and brought them

along with me; strike up, gentlemen.

[_The Dance is first, then the Song, the last Words of which are

sung while the Company is going out, and the Musick plays before

them._

SONG.

BY MR CONGREVE.

I.

_How happy's the husband, whose wife has been tried!

Not damned to the bed of an ignorant bride!

Secure of what's left, he ne'er misses the rest,

But where there's enough, supposes a feast;

So, foreknowing the cheat,

He escapes the deceit,

And, in spite of the curse, resolves to be blest._

II.

_If children are blessings, his comfort's the more,

Whose spouse has been known to be fruitful before;

And the boy that she brings ready made to his hand,

May stand him instead, for an heir to his land,

Should his own prove a sot,

When he's lawfully got,

As whene'er 'tis so, if he don't I'll be hanged._

SONG

FOR A GIRL.

I.

_Young I am, and yet unskilled

How to make a lover yield:

How to keep, or how to gain,

When to love, and when to feign._

II.

_Take me, take me, some of you,

While I yet am young and true;

Ere I can my soul disguise,

Heave my breasts, and roll my eyes._

III.

_Stay not till I learn the way,

How to lie, and to betray:

He that has me first is blest,

For I may deceive the rest._

IV.

_Could I find a blooming youth,

Full of love, and full of truth,

Brisk, and of a jaunty mien,

I should long to be fifteen._ [Exeunt.

_A Royal Chamber is discovered by drawing the former Scene_;

VERAMOND, GARCIA, XIMENA, VICTORIA CELIDEA, _with a full Train of

Courtiers and Guards: amongst the Crowd_, RAMIREZ _disguised with

some of his Party_.

_Vera._ [_To_ VICT.] No more delays, but go.

_Xim._ This is inhuman,

To press her to a marriage made by force.

At least allow yourself and her this day,

That each of you may think, and one may change.

_Vera._ You mean, the times or accidents may change,

And leave her for Alphonso.

_Xim._ Your enemies are but without your gates,

And soon they may return: Forbear for fear.

_Vera._ The sooner then

I must prevent the effect of their return.

What now remains, but to complete my vows,

And sacrifice to vengeance!

_Xim._ Your own daughter!

_Vera._ Even her, myself, and all the world together.

_Vict._ Can you refuse me one poor day to live?

_Vera._ Obey me, and be blest; if not, accurst.

A father's curse has wings, remember that;

Through this world and the next it will pursue thee,

And sink thee down for ever.

_Vict._ 'Tis enough,

I know how far a daughter owes obedience;

But duty has a bound like other empires:

It reaches but to life, for all beyond it

Is the dominion of another world,

Where you have no command.--

For you, Don Garcia,

You know the power a mistress ought to have;

But, since you will be master, take your hour,

The next is mine.

_Gar._ I grant the debt of service which I owe you;

But 'tis a sum too vast to pay at sight.

If now you call it in, I must be bankrupt

To all my future bliss.

_Vict._ I find by you,

The laws of love are like the laws of heaven;

All know, but few will keep them.--To the temple,

Where I myself am victim.

_Enter_ ALPHONSO, _unarmed; all seem amazed_.

_ Alph._ Stay, Veramond.

_Vera._ Alphonso here! then all my hopes are blasted;

The town is his, and I once more a slave. [_Aside._

_Alph._ Dismiss thy fears, and tremble not, old man;

I neither come with purpose, nor with power,

To avenge my wrongs, but single, and unarmed.

This head is necessary to thy peace,

And to Victoria's violated vows,

Who, while I live, can never be Don Garcia's.

Take then this odious life; securely take it,

And glut thy vengeance with Alphonso's blood.

Behold the man, who forced thee in thy strength,

In thy imperial town made thee a captive.

Now give thy fury scope; revenge the affront,

And show more pity not to spare my life,

Than I, in sparing thine.

_Xim._ [_To_ CEL.] Oh boundless courage, or extreme despair!

_Cel._ [_To her._] I tremble for the event; see, the king reddens.

The fear which seized him at Alphonso's sight,

And left his face forsaken of his blood,

Is vanished now;

And a new tide returns upon his cheeks,

And rage and vengeance sparkle in his eyes.

_Vera._ [_Aside._] All things are hushed; no noise is in the streets,

Nor shouts of soldiers, nor the cries of matrons,

To speak a town in plunder.--Then I take

A traitor's counsel once, and thou shalt die. [_To_ _Alph._

Condemned by thy own sentence, go to death;

Nor shall thy seeming generosity,

And feigned assurance, save thee: 'tis despair,

To see thy frustrate hopes, that brought thee hither,

To meet my just revenge.

_Alph._ Yes, I will die, because I chuse to die;

Which had I not desired, I had not come

Unarmed, unguarded, and alone, to tempt

Thy known ingratitude, and barbarous hate.

Boast not the advantage which thou hold'st of me,

But know thyself for what thou art,--no more

Than the mean minister of my despair.

_Vera._ Whether to heaven's justice, or thy choice,

I owe this happy hour of sweet revenge,

I'll not be wanting to the wished occasion.

_Vict._ You shall not die alone, my dear Alphonso,

Though much I blame this desperate enterprize.

You should have staid, to see

The event of what I promised to perform;

For, had I been so base to be another's,

That baseness might have cured your ill-placed love.

But this untimely rashness makes you guilty,

Both of your fate, and mine.

_Alph._ While I believed

My life was precious to my dear Victoria,

I valued and preserved it for her sake:

But when you broke from your deliverer's arms.

To put yourself into a tyrant's power,

I threw a worthless, wretched being from me.

Abandoned first by you.

_Vict._ Oh cruel man!

Where, at what moment did that change begin,

With which you tax my violated vows?

I left your lawless power, to put myself

Into a father's chains, my lawful tyrant.

If this be my upbraided crime, even this,

On that occasion, would I do once more:

But could I, with my honour, safe have staid

In your dear arms, bear witness, heaven and earth,

Nor threats, nor force, nor promises, nor fears,

Should take me from your love.

_Alph._ Oh, I believe you.--

Vanish my fears, and causeless jealousies!

Live, my Victoria, for yourself, not me,

But let the unfortunate Alphonso die;

My death will glut your cruel father's rage.

When I am gone, and his revenge complete,

Pity, perhaps, may seize a parent's mind,

To free you from a hated lover's arms.

_Cel._ [_To_ XIM.] Speak, mother, speak; my father gives you time;

He stands amazed, irresolute, and dumb,

Like the still face of heaven before a storm;--

Speak and arrest the thunder, ere it rolls.

_Xim._ I stand suspected; but you, Celidea,

The favourite of his heart, his darling child,

May speak, and ought: your interest is concerned;

For, if Alphonso die, your hopes are lost.

I see your father's soul, like glowing steel,

Is on the anvil; strike, while yet he's hot:

Turn him, and ply him; set him strait betimes,

Lest he for ever warp.

_Cel._ I fear, and yet would speak; but will he hear me?

_Xim._ For what is all this silence, but to hear?

Bring him but to calm reasoning, and he's gained.

_Cel._ Then heaven inspire my tongue!----

Sir, royal sir!----

He hears me not; he lifts not up his eyes,

But, fixed upon the pavement, looks the way

That points to death.-- [_She pulls him._

Oh hear me, hear me, father!

Have you forgot that dear indulgent name,

Never before in vain pronounced by me?

_Vera._ Ha! who disturbs my thoughts?

_Cel._ [_Kneeling._] 'Tis Celidea.--

Alas, I would relieve you, if I durst:

If ever I offended, even in thought,

Or made not your commands

The bounds of all my wishes and desires,

Bid me be dumb, or else permit me speech.

_Vera._ Oh rise, my only unoffending child,

Who reconciles me to the name of father!

Speak then;--but not for her, and less for him.

_Cel._ Perhaps I would accuse them, not defend;

For both are guilty, dipt in equal crimes,

And are obnoxious to your justice both.

_Vera._ True, Celidea; thou confirm'st my sentence.

'Tis just Alphonso die.

_Xim._ Forgive her, heaven! she aggravates their faults,

And pushes their destruction. [_Aside._

_Cel._ Speak, Alphonso:

Can you deny, when royal Veramond,

Then thought your father, and by you so deemed,

When he required your captive, old Ramirez,

And ordered his confinement; did you well

Then to controul the pleasure of that king,

Under whose just commands you fought and conquered?

_Alph._ I did not well; but heat of boiling youth,

And ill weighed honour, made me disobey.

_Vera._ That cause is gained; for he confesses guilt.--

Proceed, most equitable judge, proceed.

_Cel._ [_To_ ALPH.] Next, I reproach you with a worse rebellion:

The king's first promise, to Don Garcia made,

You dared to oppose; forbade his fair addresses;

Then made a ruffian quarrel with that prince;

And, last, were guilty of incestuous love.

I will not load my sister with consent;

But, in strict virtue, listening to a crime,

And not rejecting, is itself a crime.

_Vict._ Is this a sister's office? peace, for shame!

We loved without transgressing virtue's bounds;

We fixed the limits of our tenderest thoughts;

Came to the verge of honour, and there stopt:

We warmed us by the fire, but were not scorched.

If this be sin, angels might love with less,

And mingle rays of minds less pure than ours.

Our souls enjoyed; but to their holy feasts,

Bodies, on both sides, were forbidden guests.

_Cel._ Now help me, father, or our cause is lost;

For much I fear their love was innocent.

_Vera._ With my own troops Alphonso seized my person,

In my own town, to my perpetual shame.

Pass on to that, and strike the traitor dead.

_Cel._ Yes, proud Alphonso, you were banish'd hence;

Your father was confined, and doomed to death;

The beauty you adored was made another's.

How durst you, then, attempt to avenge your wrongs,

And force your mistress from your rival's arms,

Rather than die contented, as you ought?

_Alph._ Even for those very reasons you allege.

_Xim._ At last I find her drift. [_Aside._

_Vera._ Thou justifiest, and not accusest him.

_Cel._ Patience, good father, and hear out the rest. [_To_ ALPH.

Thought you, because you bravely fought and conquered

For royal Veramond, nay, saved his life,

And set him free when you had conquered him,

Only because he was Victoria's father;

Thought you for such slight services as these,

That he should spare you now? O generous madman,

To give your head to one, who ne'er forgave.

_Vera._ Oh, she stings me. [_Aside._

_Cel._ And you, Don Garcia, witness to this truth:

You were his hated rival, fairly vanquished,

And yet he spared your life.

_Gar._ At your request:

I owe it to you both.

_Cel._ That he dismissed my sister, 'twas her fault;

I charge it not on him, but 'twas his folly:

A capital fool he was, in that last error,

For which he justly stands condemned to death.

Your sentence, royal sir?

_Vera._ That he should live;

Should live triumphant over Veramond,

And should live happy in Victoria's love.--

Oh, I have held as long as nature could;

Convinced in reason, obstinate in will:

I saw the pleader's aim, found her design,

I longed to be o'ercome, and yet resisted.--

What have I done against thee, my Alphonso?

And what hast thou not done for Veramond?

_Xim._ Oh fortunate event!

_Vict._ Oh happy day!

_Alph._ Oh unexpected bliss, and therefore double!

_Vera._ [_To_ ALPH.] Can you forgive me? yes, I know Alphonso can

forgive Victoria's father.

But yet, in pity, pardon not too soon;

Punish my pride a while,

And make me linger for so great a good,

Lest ecstasy of joy prevent this blessing,

And you, instead of pardon, give me death.

[_He offers to kneel to_ ALPHONSO: ALPHONSO _takes him up, and

kneels himself_.

_Alph._ Oh, let me raise my father from the ground!

_Vera._ [_Rising._] 'Tis your peculiar virtue, my Alphonso,

Always to raise me up.

_Alph._ Here let me grow, till I obtain your grace.

My life has been one universal crime;

And you, like heaven, accepting short repentance,

Forgive my length of sins.

_Vera._ [_Raising him._] Let us forget from whence offence began.

But since, to save my shame, thou wilt be guilty,

Impute thy hate for me to sure instinct,

That showed thee thy true father in my foe;

Now grafted on my stock, be son to both.--

[_Turning to_ GAR.] To you, Don Garcia, next----

_Gar._ Before you speak,

Permit me, sir, to assume some little merit

In this day's happiness; your promise made

Victoria mine----

_Alph._ What then?

_Gar._ Nay, hear me out.

He kept his royal word; he gave her me:

I lost her, when I fell beneath your sword;

Or, if I have a title, I resign it,

And make her yours.

_Alph._ I take her, as your gift.

_Gar._ [_To_ VER.] Make me but blest in Celidea's love;

She saved my life, and hers it is for ever.

'Tis pity she, who gained another's cause,

Should lose her own.

_Vera._ [_Presenting_ CEL.] She's yours.

_Cel._ My joys are full.

_Vict._ And mine o'erflow.

_Alph._ And mine are all a soul can bear, and live.

_Vera._ Then seek we out Ramirez,

To make him partner of this happy day,

That gives him back his crown and his Alphonso.

_Ram._ Behold me here, unsought, with some few friends.

[_Taking off his vizard._

Resolved to save my son, or perish with him,

Thus far I traced, and followed him unknown;

And here have waited, with a beating heart,

To see this blest event.

_Vera._ Just like the winding up of some design,

Well-formed, upon the crowded theatre;

Where all concerned surprisingly are pleased,

And what they wish see done. Lead to the temple:

Let thanks be paid; and heaven be praised no less

For private union, than for public peace. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY DALINDA.

Now, in good manners, nothing should be said

Against this play, because the poet's dead[61].

The prologue told us of a moral here:

Would I could find it! but the devil knows where.

If in my part it lies, I fear he means

To warn us of the sparks behind our scenes.

For, if you'll take it on Dalinda's word,

'Tis a hard chapter to refuse a lord.

The poet might pretend this moral too,--

That when a wit and fool together woo,

The damsel (not to break an antient rule)

Should leave the wit, and take the wealthy fool.

This he might mean: but there's a truth behind, }

And, since it touches none of all our kind }

But masks and misses, 'faith, I'll speak my mind. }

What if he taught our sex more cautious carriage,

And not to be too coming before marriage;

For fear of my misfortune in the play,

A kid brought home upon the wedding day?

I fear there are few Sancho's in the pit,

So good as to forgive, and to forget;

That will, like him, restore us into favour,

And take us after on our good behaviour.

Few, when they find the money-bag is rent,

Will take it for good payment on content.

But in the telling, there the difference is,

Sometimes they find it more than they could wish.

Therefore be warned, you misses and you masks,

Look to your hits, nor give the first that asks.

Tears, sighs, and oaths, no truth of passion prove;

True settlement, alone, declares true love.

For him that weds a puss, who kept her first,

I say but little, but I doubt the worst.

The wife, that was a cat, may mind her house, }

And prove an honest, and a careful spouse; }

But 'faith I would not trust her with a mouse. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 56: Alluding to the vulgar proverb, "One who is born under a

three-penny planet will never be worth a groat."]

[Footnote 57: There would probably occur to the audience of the period,

some recollection of the manner in which King James had been treated by

Sunderland.]

[Footnote 58: Meaning, that the courtiers, although their eyes be

as fatal as those of basilisks, are not subject to the fate of that

fabulous serpent, which died if a man beheld it first.]

[Footnote 59: Our author uses the same old word, for a scramble, in the

prologue to "The Widow Ranter."

Bauble and cap no sooner are thrown down,

But there's a _muss_ of more than half the town.

It occurs frequently in old authors, and particularly in the well known

passage in "Anthony and Cleopatra."

----Of late, when I cried ho!

Like boys unto a _muss_, kings would start forth,

And cry, your will?]

[Footnote 60: This old English word, for a Christmas masquerading

frolic, is still used in some parts of England.]

[Footnote 61: See the lines in the prologue,

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

And what he has, he leaves this noble age.]

PROLOGUE, SONG,

SECULAR MASQUE, & EPILOGUE,

WRITTEN FOR

_THE PILGRIM_.

REVIVED FOR DRYDEN'S BENEFIT, IN 1700.

Our Author's connection with the Theatre only ended with his life.

The pieces, which follow, have reference to the performance of "The

Pilgrim," a play of Beaumont and Fletcher, which was revived in 1700.

Vanburgh, a lively comic writer, who seems to have looked up to Dryden

with that veneration which was his due, added some light touches of

humour, to adapt this play to the taste of the age. The aged poet

himself furnished a Prologue and Epilogue, a Song, and Secular Masque;

and, with these additions, the piece was performed for the benefit of

Dryden. It seems dubious, whether the kind intentions of Vanburgh and

the players actually took effect in favour of our author himself, or

in that of his son. It is certain, that, if he did not die before the

representation, he did not survive it many weeks, as the play[62] was

not published till after his death.

But his lamp burned bright to the close. The Prologue and Epilogue,

written within a few weeks of his death, equal any thing of the kind

which he ever produced. He combats his two enemies, Blackmore and

Collier, with his usual spirit; but with manliness concedes, that they

had attacked him in one vulnerable and indefensible particular, where

he lay open, less from any peculiar depravity in his own taste, than

from compliance with the general licence of the age.

Cibber informs us, that Sir John Vanburgh, who cast the parts, being

pleased with the young actor's moderation, in contenting himself with

those of the Stuttering Cook, and Mad Englishman, assigned him also

the creditable task of speaking the Epilogue, which, as it was so much

above the ordinary strain, highly gratified his vanity. Dryden himself,

on hearing Cibber recite it, made him the further compliment of

trusting him with the Prologue also; an honourable distinction, which

drew upon him the jealousy of the other actors, and the indignation

of Wilkes in particular. This revival of "The Pilgrim" was also

remarkable, as affording Mrs Oldfield, who had been about a year or

more a mute on the stage, an opportunity of attracting public attention

in the character of Alinda, which suited the want of confidence natural

to her inexperience, and in which she afforded that promise of future

excellence, which was afterwards so amply fulfilled.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 62: Mr Malone supposes the play to have been acted on the

25th March, 1700; Dryden died on the 1st of May following. The play was

advertised for publication in the London Gazette of 17th June, 1700.

The following is the full title:--

"The Pilgrim, a Comedy, as it is acted at the Theatre-royal in

Drury-lane, written originally by Mr Fletcher, and now very much

altered, with several additions; likewise, a Prologue, Epilogue,

Dialogue, and Masque, written by the late great poet, Mr Dryden, just

before his death, being the last of his works. Printed for Benjamin

Tooke, near the Middle Temple Gate, in Fleet-street. 1700."

In the published copy our author is mentioned as dead:--"_Governor_.

I hope before you go, sir, you'll share with us an entertainment, the

late great poet of our age prepared to celebrate this day." But this,

as Mr Malone observes, was probably an addition, after Dryden's death

had taken place. Gildon, in his "Comparison between the Stages," seems

to say that the play was performed for the benefit of Dryden's _son_;

probably, because in his father's extreme illness, or upon his death,

his son would naturally draw the profits. On the whole, it seems

probable, that Dryden survived the performance of the play; as it is

presumable that "The Secular Masque," being intended to solemnise

the supposed termination of the century, was brought out as soon as

possible in the new year.]

PROLOGUE

TO

THE PILGRIM.

REVIVED FOR OUR AUTHOR'S BENEFIT, ANNO 1700.

How wretched is the fate of those who write!

Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite;

Where, like Tom Dove[63], they stand the common foe,

Lugged by the critic, baited by the beau.

Yet, worse, their brother poets damn the play,

And roar the loudest, though they never pay.

The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,

At every lewd, low character,--That's I.

He, who writes letters to himself, would swear,

The world forgot him, if he was not there.

What should a poet do? 'Tis hard for one }

To pleasure all the fools that would be shown; }

And yet not two in ten will pass the town. }

Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;

More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.

Quack Maurus[64], though he never took degrees

In either of our universities[65],

Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,

Because he played the fool, and writ three books.

But if he would be worth a poet's pen,

He must be more a fool, and write again:

For all the former fustian stuff he wrote

Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot;

His man of Uz, stript of his Hebrew robe,

Is just the proverb, and "As poor as Job."

One would have thought he could no longer jog;

But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.

There though he crept, yet still he kept in sight;

But here he founders in, and sinks downright.

Had he prepared us, and been dull by rule,

Tobit had first been turned to ridicule;

But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,

O'erleaps at once the whole Apocrypha;

Invades the Psalms with rhymes, and leaves no room

For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.

But when, if, after all, this godly gear

Is not so senseless as it would appear,

Our mountebank has laid a deeper train; }

His cant, like Merry Andrew's noble vein, }

Cat-calls the sects to draw them in again. }

At leisure hours in Epic Song he deals,

Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels[66];

Prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule,

But rides triumphant between stool and stool.

Well, let him go,--'tis yet too early day

To get himself a place in farce or play;

We know not by what name we should arraign him,

For no one category can contain him.

A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,

Are load enough to break an ass's back.

At last, grown wanton, he presumed to write, }

Traduced two kings, their kindness to requite; }

One made the Doctor, and one dubbed the Knight.[67] }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 63: The savage amusement of bear-baiting was much in fashion

in England during the seventeenth century. Tom Dove, although equipped

with a name not very expressive of his properties, seems to have been

a bear of great celebrity. Dryden honours him by another notice in the

second Prologue on the Union of the Companies:

They roar so loud, you'd think, behind the stairs,

Tom Dove, and all the brotherhood of bears.]

[Footnote 64: Quack Maurus is the noted Sir Richard Blackmore, who, if

he was not witty himself, was the cause of more wit in others than most

who have favoured the world with their writings. In his Satire against

Wit, he had proposed a sort of mint, in which the works of the witty

should be purified and re-coined:

'Tis true, that, when the coarse and worthless dross

Is purged away, there will be mighty loss:

Even Congreve, Southerne, Manly, Wycherly,

When thus refined, will grievous sufferers be:

Into the melting-pot when Dryden comes,

What horrid stench will rise, what noisome!

How will he shrink when all his lewd allay

And wicked mixture shall be purged away?

In the first edition of the Poem, this lumbering attack upon Dryden

concluded with a compliment:

But what remains will be so pure, 'twill bear

The examination of the most severe.

But Blackmore, when our author had retaliated upon him in the Preface

to the Fables, "finding," says Dr Johnson, "the censure resented,

and the civility disregarded, ungenerously omitted the softer part.

Such variations discover a writer who consults his passions more than

his virtue, and it may be reasonably supposed that Dryden attributes

his enmity to its true cause,"--his attack upon Blackmore's fanatic

patrons in the city. He had also assailed our author in the Preface to

his "Prince Arthur;" which, after a general and bitter complaint of

the profligacy of the stage, contains these personal remarks levelled

against Dryden. "And there are, among these writers, some who think

they might have arisen to the highest dignities in other professions,

had they employed their wit in those ways. 'Tis a mighty dishonour

and reproach to any man, that is capable of being useful to the world

in any liberal or virtuous profession, to lavish out his life and

wit in propagating vice and corruption of manners, and in battering

from the stage the strongest entrenchments and best works of religion

and virtue. Whoever makes this his choice, when the other was in his

power, may he go off the stage unpitied, complaining of _neglect_

and _poverty_, the just punishment of his irreligion and folly."

This reproach, which touched some very tender points, was not to be

tolerated or forgot by Dryden.]

[Footnote 65: Blackmore was a commoner of Edmund Hall, Oxford, where

he remained thirteen years, and took the degree of Master of Arts on

3d June, 1676; but he did not take his medical degrees there, and

appears not to have studied physic regularly, as he was for some time a

school-master; when, according to Col. Coddrington,

By nature formed, by want a pedant made,

Blackmore at first set up the whipping trade;

Next quack commenced, when fierce with pride he swore,

That toothache, gout, and corns, should be no more:

In vain his drugs, as well as birch he plied,

His boys grow blockheads, and his patients died.

Sir Richard Blackmore had his medical diploma from Padua, in Italy; a

learned and eminent University, which, like some in my own country,

is supposed not to be over scrupulous in conferring honours of this

nature.]

[Footnote 66: "Prince Arthur," a heroic poem, in ten books, published

in 1695, was written, the author assures us in his Preface, "by such

catches and starts, and in such occasional uncertain hours, as his

profession afforded, and for the greatest part in coffee-houses, or in

passing up and down the streets."]

[Footnote 67: Who was the first of these well-judging monarchs, is

hard to say. Blackmore may have had some sort of royal licence for the

practice of physic during the reign of Charles or James; but he was not

made physician to the Household till the reign of King William, who

conferred on him, at the same time, the honour of knighthood; for which

that monarch's taste is thus commemorated by Pope:

The hero William, and the martyr Charles,

One knighted Blackmore, and one pensioned Quarles.

Blackmore's dulness, or solidity of temper, rendered him absolutely

impenetrable to the shafts of ridicule, which were aimed at him from

all quarters; and, consoling himself with the excellence of his

intentions, he wrote on till the catalogue of his works gave room for

Swift's burlesque inscription, to be placed under his picture:

See, who ne'er was, or will be half read,

Who first sung Arthur, then sung Alfred(_a_).

Praised great Eliza(_b_) in God's anger,

Till all true Englishmen cried, hang her:

Made William's virtues wipe the bare a--,

And hanged up Marlborough in arras;(_c_)

Then hissed from earth, grown heavenly quite,

Made every reader curse the light(_d_).

Mauled human wit in one thick satire(_e_);

Next, in three books, spoiled human nature(_f_);

Ended Creation(_g_) at a jerk,

And of Redemption(_h_) made damned work:

Then took his muse at once, and dipped her

Full in the middle of the scripture.

What wonders there the man grown old did!

Sternhold himself he out-sternholded;

Made David(_i_) seem so mad and freakish,

All thought him just what thought king Achish.

No mortal read his Solomon(_k_),

But judged R'oboam his own son.

Moses(_l_) he served, as Moses Pharoah,

And Deborah as she Sisera;

Made Jeremy(_m_) full sore to cry,

And Job(_n_) himself curse God and die.

What punishment shall all this follow?

Shall Arthur use him like king Tollo?

Shall David as Uriah slay him?

Or dexterous Deborah Siserhah him?

Or shall Eliza lay a plot,

To treat him like her sister Scot?

Shall William dubb his better end(_o_)?

Of Marlborough serve him like a friend?

No, none of these--heaven spare his life,

But send him, honest Job--thy wife.

(_a_) _Two Heroic Poems, in folio; twenty books._

(_b_) _A Heroic Poem, in twelve books._

(_c_) _Instructions to a Tapestry Weaver._

(_d_) _Hymn to the Light._

(_e_) _Satire against Wit._

(_f_) _Of the Mature of Man._

(_g_) _Creation, in seven books._

(_h_) _Redemption, in six books._

(_i_) _Translation of all the Psalms._

(_k_) _Canticles and Ecclesiastes._

(_l_) _Canticles, of Moses, Deborah, &c._

(_m_) _The Lamentations._

(_n_) _The whole Book of Job, a Poem, in folio._

(_o_) _Kick him on the breech, not knight him on the shoulder._]

SONG

OF A SCHOLAR AND HIS MISTRESS, WHO, BEING CROSSED BY THEIR

FRIENDS, FELL MAD FOR ONE ANOTHER, AND NOW FIRST MEET IN BEDLAM.

In "The Pilgrim," as originally written by Beaumont and Fletcher,

one scene is laid in a mad-house, where the humours of the different

persons confined are described with some pleasantry. Amongst others

is introduced a Scholar, who has solicited dismission from his

confinement, and who, after having been carefully examined by two

gentlemen, whom his patron had appointed to visit him, is on the

point of being discharged as possessed of his perfect understanding.

The Dialogue, which follows, probably formed the introduction to our

Author's Song.

_1st Gent._ What flaws and whils of weather,

Or rather storms, have been aloft these three days!

How dark and hot, and full of mutiny,

And still grows louder.--

_Mas._ It has been stubborn weather.

_2d Gent._ Strange work at sea: I fear me there's old tumbling.

_1st Gent._ Bless my old uncle's bark! I have a venture.

_2d Gent._ And I more than I'd wish to lose.

_Schol._ Do you fear?

_2nd Gent._ Ha! how he looks!

_Mas._ Nay, mark him better, gentlemen.

_2d Gent._ Mercy upon me! how his eyes are altered!

_Mas._ Now, tell me how you like him; whether now

He be that perfect man you credited?

_Schol._ Does the sea stagger ye?

_Mas._ Now ye have hit the nick.

_Schol._ Do ye fear the billows?

_1st Gent._ What ails him? who has stirred him?

_Schol._ Be not shaken,

Nor let the singing of the storm shoot through you:

Let it blow on, blow on! Let the clouds wrestle,

And let the vapours of the earth turn mutinous;

The sea in hideous mountains rise, and tumble

Upon a dolphin's back! I'll make all tremble,

For I am Neptune!

_Mas._ Now, what think ye of him?

_2d Gent._ Alas, poor man!

_Schol._ Your bark shall plow through all,

And not a surge so saucy as disturb her.

I'll see her safe; my power shall sail before her.

Down, ye angry waters all,

Ye loud whistling whirlwinds, fall!

Down, ye proud waves, ye storms cease;

I command ye, be at peace!

Fright not with your churlish notes,

Nor bruise the keel of bark that floats

No devouring fish come nigh,

Nor monster in my empery,

Once shew his head, or terror bring,

But let the weary sailor sing.

Amphitrite, with white arms,

Strike my lute, I'll sing thy charms.

_Mas._ He must have music now; I must observe him;

This fit will grow too full else.

[_Music and Song._]

Here it seems probable the following Mad Song, betwixt the Scholar

and his Mistress, was introduced. Probably the Dialogue sustained

some alterations in the action, to render the introduction of Phillis

more natural; for, in the original, the Scholar, far from having lost

his senses by being crossed in love, disclaims acquaintance with the

passion during his previous examination.

_1st Gent._ Is there no unkindness

You have conceived from any friend or parent,

Or scorn from what you loved?

_Schol._ No, truly, sir,

I never yet was master of a faith

So poor and weak to doubt my friend or kindred;

And what love is, unless it be in learning,

I think I'm ignorant.

This passage is retained in "The Pilgrim," as altered by Sir John

Vanburgh; so that it does not appear what alterations were made, to

accommodate the Song to the Scholar's previous appearance. The idea

of the character is copied from the story told by the Curate, in the

First Chapter of the Second Part of the Adventures of the Knight of La

Mancha, and applied by him to the relapse of that doughty champion.

SONG.

MUSIC WITHIN.

_The Lovers enter at opposite Doors, each held by a Keeper._

_Phil._ Look, look, I see--I see my love appear!

'Tis he, 'tis he alone,

For like him there is none:

'Tis the dear, dear man, 'tis thee, dear.

_Amyn._ Hark! the winds war,

The foaming waves roar:

I see a ship afar,

Tossing and tossing, and making to the shore.

But what's that I view,

So radiant of hue,

St Hermo, St Hermo[68], that sits upon the sails?

Ah! no, no, no.

St Hermo never, never shone so bright;

'Tis Phillis! only Phillis can shoot so fair a light;

'Tis Phillis, 'tis Phillis, that saves the ship alone,

For all the winds are hushed, and the storm is overblown.

_Phil._ Let me go, let me run, let me fly to his arms.

_Amyn._ If all the fates combine,

And all the furies join,

I'll force my way to Phillis, and break through the charm.

[_Here they break from their Keepers, run to each other, and

embrace._

_Phil._ Shall I marry the man I love?

And shall I conclude my pains?

Now blessed be the powers above,

I feel the blood bound in my veins!

With a lively leap it began to move,

And the vapours leave my brains.

_Amyn._ Body joined to body, and heart joined to heart,

To make sure of the cure,

Go, call the man in black, to mumble o'er his part.

_Phil._ But suppose he should stay--

_Amyn._ At worst, if he delay,

'Tis a work must be done;

We'll borrow but a day,

And the better the sooner begun.

_Cho. of both._ At worst, if he delay, &c.

[_They run out together, hand in hand._

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 68: The meteoric appearances, called by sailors in the

Mediterranean the Lights of St Elmo, and by the ancients, Castor and

Pollux. Their appearance is supposed to presage the safety of the

vessel, and the termination of the storm.]

THE

SECULAR MASQUE.

The moral of this emblematical representation is sufficiently

intelligible. By the introduction of the deities of the chace, of

war, and of love, as governing the various changes of the seventeenth

century, the poet alludes to the sylvan sports of James the First, the

bloody wars of his son, and the licentious gallantry which reigned in

the courts of Charles II. and James his successor.

James I. was inordinately attached to the sports of the chace: it

was indeed the only manly passion which our British Solomon ever

manifested; his dress was of the forest-green, and his only severity

was in executing the game-laws[69]. Able hunters were the bribes by

which the English courtiers endeavoured to secure his favour[70], while

he was yet but king of Scotland; and, in England, his perpetual hunting

expeditions were censured by his prelates[71], and their oppressive

duration deprecated by his subjects, who, to render their complaints

more palatable, contrived, upon one occasion, to make a favourite hound

convey a hint of the burthen, which his long residence at a hunting

seat imposed upon the neighbourhood[72]. Even in the most advanced

state of his age and imbecility, when unable to sit on horseback

without assistance, he contrived to pursue the chace by being laced

or tied up in his saddle! When we add to this vehement passion for

hunting, the spirit of extravagant dissipation, which discharged itself

"in shows, sights, and banquetings, from morn to eve[73]," where even

the ladies abandoned their sobriety, the age of James might well be

characterised, as in the Masque,

A very merry, dancing, drinking,

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.

To show how justly the middle part of the seventeenth century was

characterised, as under the influence of Mars, we have only to mention

the great civil war, which so long ravaged the whole kingdom.

The manners of the court of Charles II., so notoriously dissolute and

licentious, when, as our author says in the Epilogue,

Whitehall the naked Venus first revealed,

amply vindicate Dryden for placing the period in which they were

fashionable under the dominion of the queen of Cyprus.

The moral, by which the whole masque is winded up, was sadly true. The

frivolity of James the First's sports would have been admitted by the

sapient monarch himself--

His sport had a beast in view.

But it is less credible, were it not a historical fact, that the wars

of Charles the First "brought nothing about;" since royal prerogative,

and popular encroachment, far from being adjusted by so many years

bloodshed, were as much themes of mutual dissention betwixt the Court

and the House of Commons in the reign of Charles II. as during that

of his father. But so bloody a lesson was not entirely lost. The

contending parties at the Revolution lived too near that eventful

period, not to be aware of the direful consequences of civil war, and

thence, by mutual concession, were determined to avoid the repetition

of similar calamities. The nation gained by the compromise; for freedom

is always benefited by the equal balance of contending factions, and as

certainly suffers by the decided ascendancy of either.

A thousand lampoons bear witness, that, during the reign of Venus,

under the auspices of Charles II. her

----Lovers were all untrue.

The modern reader will find the most decent, and, at the same time, the

most lively record of their infidelities, in Count Hamilton's _Memoires

du Compte de Grammont_.

From the "Secular Masque" being performed in the beginning of the year

1700, it appears, that, by a blunder, or rather confusion of ideas, the

century was supposed to terminate with 1699; in other words, a hundred

years were considered as accomplished when the hundredth was just

commenced:--an error of calculation which, though it could not puzzle a

horse-jockey, who, if he was to ride twenty miles, would hardly think

he had accomplished the match by riding nineteen, did, nevertheless,

find patrons in the year 1800, though hardly any of such account as

Dryden.

The original music of the Masque was very much approved. It is

mentioned in the Travels of John Buncle. Mr Malone believes Daniel

Purcel to have been the composer. It was set anew by Dr Boyce, and

afterwards revived with success at Drury-Lane in 1749. The hunting song

was long popular.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 69: "Nay, I dare boldly say, one man might with more

safety have killed another, than a rascal deer: but if a stag had

been known to have miscarried, and the author fled, a proclamation,

with a description of the party, had been presently penned by the

Attorney-general, and the penalty of his Majesty's high displeasure

(by which was understood the Star-Chamber) threatened against all

that did abet, comfort, or relieve him. Thus satirical, or, if you

please, tragical, was this sylvan prince against deer-killers, and

indulgent to men-slayers. But, lest this expression should be thought

too poetical for an historian, I shall leave him dressed to posterity

in the colours I saw him in the next progress after his inauguration;

which was as green as the grass he trod on, with a feather in his cap,

and a horn, instead of a sword, by his side: how suitable to his age,

calling, or complexion, I leave others to judge from his pictures; he

owning a countenance not in the least semblable to any my eyes ever

met with, besides an host, dwelling in Amt-hill, formerly a shepherd,

and so metaphorically of the same profession."--_Osborne's Traditional

Memorials_, § 17.]

[Footnote 70: "I have sent the kyng," says Thomas Randolph, in a letter

to the infamous Archibald Douglas, "two hunting men, very good and

skillful, with one footman, that can whoop, hollow, and cry, that all

the trees in Falkland will quake for fear. Pray the king's majesty to

be merciful to the poor bucks." _Murdin's State Papers_, vol. ii. p.

558.]

[Footnote 71: The archbishop of York, in a remarkable letter to Lord

Cranbourne, expresses his wish for "more moderation in the lawful

exercise of hunting, both that poor men's corn may be less spoiled,

and other his Majesty's subjects more spared." To this Lord Cranbourne

answers, courtier-like, that, as it was a praise in the good Emperor

Trajan, to be disposed to such manlike and active recreations, so it

ought to be a joy to the English to behold a prince, of so able a

constitution, promising long life and a numerous progeny. _Lodge's

Illustrations of English History_, vol. iii. pp. 251, 263]

[Footnote 72: "There is no news we hear, but a reasonable pretty jest

is spoken that happened at Royston.--There was one of the king's

special hounds, called Jowler, missing one day; the king was much

displeased that he was wanted, notwithstanding went a hunting. The next

day, when they were in the field, Jowler came in among the rest of the

hounds; the king was told of him, and was very glad, and, looking on

him, spied a paper about his neck, and in the paper was written--'Good

Mr Jowler,--We pray you speak to the king, for he hears you every day,

and so doth he not us; that it will please his Majesty to go back to

London, for else the country will be undone. All our provision is spent

already, and we are not able to entertain him longer.' It was taken for

a jest, and so passed over, for his Majesty intends to lye there yet a

fortnight." _Lodge's Illustrations_, vol. iii. p. 245. There is also

in the _Nugæ Antiquæ_, a most singular letter of the king's, praying

God to thank the master of the horse, for providing him such fair well

shaped horse, and such a fine pretty kennel of young hounds. Vol. i. p.

394.]

[Footnote 73: See the _Nugæ Antiquæ_. In vol. i. p. 349. of Mr

Park's excellent edition, Sir John Harrington gives the following

extraordinary account of one of King James's revels with Christian

IV. of Denmark.--"One day a great feast was held, and, after dinner,

the representation of Solomon his Temple, and the coming of the queen

of Sheba, was made (or, as I may better say) was meant to have been

made, before their majesties, by device of the earl of Salisbury and

others. But, alas! as all earthly things do fail to poor mortals in

enjoyment, so did prove our presentment hereof. The ladie, who did

play the queen's part, did carry most precious gifts to both their

majesties; but, forgetting the steps arising to the canopy, overset her

caskets into his Danish majesties lap, and fell at his feet, though

I rather think it was in his face. Much was the hurry and confusion;

clothes and napkins were at hand to make all clean. His majesty then

got up, and would dance with the queen of Sheba, but he fell down and

humbled himself before her, and was carried to an inner chamber, and

laid upon a bed of state, which was not a little defiled with the

presents of the queen, which had been bestowed on his garments; such as

wine, cream, jelly, beverage, cakes, spices, and other good matters.

The entertainment and show _went forward_, and most of the presenters

_went backward_, or fell down: wine did so occupy their upper chambers.

Now did appear, in rich dresses, Hope, Faith, and Charity: Hope did

essay to speak, but wine rendered her endeavours so feeble, that she

withdrew, and _hoped_ the king would excuse her brevity: Faith was

then left all alone, for I am certain she was not joined with good

works, and left the court in a staggering condition: Charity came to

the king's feet, and seemed to cover the multitude of sins her sisters

had committed; in some sort she made obeisance, and brought gifts, but

said she would return home again, as there was no gift which heaven had

not already given his majesty. She then returned to Hope and Faith,

who were both sick, and spewing in the lower hall. Next came Victory,

in bright armour, and presented a rich sword to the king, who did not

accept it, but put it by with his hand, and by a strange medley of

versification, did endeavour to make suit to the king. But Victory did

not triumph long; for, after much lamentable utterance, she was led

away like a silly captive, and laid to sleep on the outer steps of the

anti-chamber. Now did Peace make entry, and strove to get foremost to

the king; but I grieve to tell how great wrath she did discover unto

those of her attendants, and, much contrary to her semblance, most

rudely made war with her olive-branch, and laid on the pates of those

who did oppose her coming. I have much marvelled at these strange

pageantries; and they do bring to my remembrance what past of this sort

in our queen's days, of which I was sometime a humble presenter and

assistant, but I ne'er did see such lack of good order, discretion,

and sobriety, as I have now done. I have passed much time in seeing

the royal sports of hunting and hawking, where the manners were such

as made me devise the beasts were pursuing the sober creation, and

not man, in quest of exercise and food. I will now, in good sooth,

declare to you, who will not blab, that the gun-powder fright is got

out of all our heads, and we are going on hereabouts as if the devil

was contriving every man should blow up himself by wild riot, excess,

and devastation of time and temperance."--_Ibid. Letter from Sir John

Harrington to Mr Secretary Barlow, 1606._]

THE

SECULAR MASQUE.

_Enter_ JANUS.

_Janus._ Chronos, Chronos, mend thy pace;

An hundred times the rolling sun

Around the radiant belt has run

In his revolving race.

Behold, behold, the goal in sight,

Spread thy fans, and wing thy flight.

_Enter_ CHRONOS, _with a Scythe in his hand, and a Globe on his

back; which he sets down at his entrance_.

_Chronos._ Weary, weary of my weight,

Let me, let me drop my freight,

And leave the world behind.

I could not bear,

Another year,

The load of humankind.

_Enter_ MOMUS, _laughing_.

_Momus._ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! well hast thou done,

To lay down thy pack,

And lighten thy back,

The world was a fool, e'er since it begun;

And since neither Janus, nor Chronos, nor I,

Can hinder the crimes,

Or mend the bad times,

'Tis better to laugh than to cry.

Cho. of all three. _'Tis better to laugh than to cry._

_Janus._ Since Momus comes to laugh below,

Old Time begin the show,

That he may see, in every scene,

What changes in this age have been.

_Chronos._ Then, goddess of the silver bow, begin.

[_Horns, or hunting-music, within._]

_Enter_ DIANA.

_Dia._ With horns and with hounds, I waken the day,

And hie to the woodland-walks away;

I tuck up my robe, and am buskined soon,

And tie to my forehead a wexing moon.

I course the fleet stag, unkennel the fox,

And chace the wild goats o'er summits of rocks;

With shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky,

And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry.

Cho. of all. _With shouting and hooting we pierce through the sky,

And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry._

_Janus._ Then our age was in its prime:

_Chronos._ Free from rage,

_Diana._ ----And free from crime.

_Momus._ A very merry, dancing, drinking,

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.

Cho. of all. _Then our age was in its prime,

Free from rage, and free from crime;

A very merry, dancing, drinking,

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time._

[_Dance of_ DIANA'S _Attendants._]

_Enter_ MARS.

_Mars._ Inspire the vocal brass, inspire;

The world is past its infant age:

Arms and honour,

Arms and honour,

Set the martial mind on fire,

And kindle manly rage.

Mars has looked the sky to red;

And Peace, the lazy God,[74] is fled.

Plenty, peace, and pleasure fly;

The sprightly green,

In woodland-walks, no more is seen;

The sprightly green has drunk the Tyrian dye.

Cho. of all. _Plenty, peace, &c._

_Mars._ Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;

Through all the world around,

Sound a reveillé, sound, sound,

The warrior god is come.

Cho. of all. _Sound the trumpet, &c._

_Momus._ Thy sword within the scabbard keep,

And let mankind agree;

Better the world were fast asleep,

Than kept awake by thee.

The fools are only thinner,

With all our cost and care;

But neither side a winner,

For things are as they were.

Cho. of all. _The fools are only, &c._

_Enter_ VENUS.

_Venus._ Calms appear, when storms are past;

Love will have his hour at last:

Nature is my kindly care;

Mars destroys, and I repair;

Take me, take me, while you may,

Venus comes not every day.

Cho. of all. _Take her, take her, &c._

_Chronos._ The world was then so light,

I scarcely felt the weight;

Joy ruled the day, and Love the night.

But, since the queen of pleasure left the ground,[75]

I faint, I lag,

And feebly drag

The ponderous orb around.

_Momus._ All, all of a piece throughout;

Thy chace had a beast in view; [_Pointing to_ DIANA.

Thy wars brought nothing about; [_To_ MARS.

Thy lovers were all untrue. [_To_ VENUS.

_Janus._ 'Tis well an old age is out,

_Chronos._ And time to begin a new.

Cho. of all. _All, all of a piece throughout;

Thy chace had a beast in view:--

Thy wars brought nothing about;--

Thy lovers were all untrue.--

'Tis well an old age is out,

And time to begin a new._

[Dance of Huntsmen, Nymphs, Warriors, and Lovers.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 74: The first edition, and some others, have _Good_; but I

prefer _God_, as the more poetical reading.]

[Footnote 75: There seems here to be a secret allusion to the exile of

the beautiful queen of James II., so much admired by the Tory poets of

the time.]

EPILOGUE

TO

THE PILGRIM.

This epilogue bears chiefly reference to the violent controversy,

which, about this time, arose between the favourers of the drama and

Jeremy Collier, who, in 1698, published "A short View of the Immorality

and Profaneness of the English Stage;"--"I believe," says Johnson,

"with no other view, than religious zeal, and honest indignation.[76]

He was formed for a controvertist; with sufficient learning, with

diction vehement and pointed, though often vulgar and incorrect, with

unconquerable pertinacity, with wit in the highest degree keen and

sarcastic, and with all those powers exalted and invigorated by just

confidence in his cause.

"Thus qualified, and thus incited, he walked forth to battle, and

assailed, at once, most of the living writers, from Dryden to Durfey.

His onset was violent. Those passages which, while they had stood

single, had passed with little notice, when they were accumulated and

exposed together, excited horror. The wise and the pious caught the

alarm; and the nation wondered why it had so long suffered irreligion

and licentiousness to be openly taught at the public charge."--_Life of

Congreve._

Dryden had his personal share of rough treatment in this indiscriminate

attack upon dramatic profligacy. But it is creditable to him, that,

whatever his feelings of resentment might be, he was too much

conscience-struck to attempt a defence of what was really indefensible.

"I shall say the less of Mr Collier, because in many things he

has taxed me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts

and expressions of mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity,

profaneness, or immorality, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let

him triumph; if he be my friend, as I have given him no personal

occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes

me not to draw my pen in the defence of a bad cause, when I have so

often drawn it for a good one." _Preface to the Fables._

This candid avowal, and the coincidence of their political sentiments,

(for Collier was a rigid Non-juror,) did not save Dryden from some

oblique thrusts in an Answer published by Collier to the Vindications

of Congreve and Vanburgh, who, less patient or prudent than our poet,

had stepped forward to assert the correctness of their dramatic

writings. These passages in the "Defence of the Short View," which

was published in 1699, seem to have incited our poet to put himself

upon his defence, or at least to offer the best apology he could,

by throwing upon the gay court of Charles the scandal of importing

the open profligacy, which the poet insists had corrupted the stage,

instead of being derived from thence. Lord Lansdowne, in a prologue to

the "Jew of Venice," when revived, took the freedom to dissent from

Dryden and Collier; and, by exculpating both the theatre and court, to

throw the whole blame upon the public at large:

Each in his turn, the poet and the priest,

Have viewed the stage, but like false prophets guessed

The man of zeal, in his religious rage,

Would silence poets and reduce the stage;

The poet, rashly to get clear, retorts

On kings the scandal, and bespatters courts.

Both err: for, without mincing, to be plain,

The guilt's your own of every odious scene;

The present time still gives the stage its mode;

The vices, that you practise, we explode.

We hold the glass, and but reflect your shame,

Like Spartans, by exposing to reclaim.

The scribbler, pinched with hunger, writes to dine,

And to your genius must conform his line;

Not lewd by choice, but merely to submit:

Would you encourage sense, sense would be writ.

There is, in every case of this kind, much partial accusation. The

court, stage, and public at large, have a mutual action and re-action

on the manners of each other. If the habits of a court be licentious,

the poet will hardly venture to paint them noble and innocent; but it

will depend upon the extent which that licence has attained amongst

his audience at large, whether he represents the courtly vices in gay,

or in disgusting and odious colours. In any case, the dramatist, who

degrades himself by indecency, has little personal apology; for, if he

has condescended to blot his pages with filth, it avails but little

where he has gathered it.

Collier's attack on the stage was attended with good consequences,

which that active disputant lived to witness: indecencies were no

longer either fashionable or tolerated; and, by degrees, the ladies

began to fill the boxes at a new play, without either the necessity

of wearing masks, or the risk of incurring censure. Later times have

carried this laudable restraint still farther; till, at last, if we

have lost almost all the wit of our predecessors, we at least have

retained none of their licentiousness.

The following verses appear upon Dryden's death, in the "State Poems,"

vol. iii. founded upon his controversy with Sir Richard Blackmore and

Collier, which so immediately preceded that event:

John Dryden enemies had three,

Sir Dick, old Nick, and Jeremy:

The doughty knight was forced to yield,

The other two have kept the field;

But had his life been something holier,

He'd foiled the Devil and the Collier.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 76: The facetious Joe Haines, who is mentioned at the end of

the epilogue, assigned another motive for this assault: "The clergy and

the actors are both moral menders by profession," said the wag; "and

you know two of a trade can never agree."--_Cibber's Apology._]

EPILOGUE

TO

THE PILGRIM.

Perhaps the parson stretched a point too far,

When with our theatres he waged a war.

He tells you, that this very moral age

Received the first infection from the stage;

But sure, a banished court, with lewdness fraught,

The seeds of open vice, returning, brought.

Thus lodged, (as vice by great example thrives,)

It first debauched the daughters and the wives.

London, a fruitful soil, yet never bore

So plentiful a crop of horns before.

The poets, who must live by courts, or starve,

Were proud, so good a government to serve;

And, mixing with buffoons and pimps prophane,

Tainted the stage for some small snip of gain:

For they, like harlots, under bawds profest,

Took all the ungodly pains, and got the least.

Thus did the thriving malady prevail;

The court its head, the poets but the tail.

The sin was of our native growth, 'tis true;

The scandal of the sin was wholly new.

Misses there were, but modestly concealed;

Whitehall the naked Venus first revealed,

Who standing as at Cyprus in her shrine,

The strumpet was adored with rites divine.

Ere this, if saints had any secret motion,

'Twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion.

I pass the peccadillos of their time;

Nothing but open lewdness was a crime.

A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,

Compared with one foul act of fornication[77].

Now, they would silence us, and shut the door

That let in all the bare-faced vice before.

As for reforming us, which some pretend, }

That work in England is without an end; }

Well may we change, but we shall never mend. }

Yet, if you can but bear the present stage,

We hope much better of the coming age.

What would you say, if we should first begin }

To stop the trade of love behind the scene, }

Where actresses make bold with married men? }

For while abroad so prodigal the dolt is,

Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.

In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,

Save, here and there, a woman or a man;

But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,

Can make clean work; there will be some remains,

While you have still your Oates[78] and we our Haines[79].

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 77: The rigour of the republicans against female frailty,

was of a piece with their general hypocrisy. It was, however, carried

much farther in Scotland, where open adultery was declared by statute a

capital crime. That act is still unrepealed, and may remind the reader

of a verse I have somewhere read:

Beware, ye knights on British ground,

Beware, ye dames so free;

Full many a neck so straight and round

On gallows stretched might be.]

[Footnote 78: The infamous Oates fared, at the Revolution, not so

well as he wished, though much better than he deserved. James II. by

the extreme cruelty of the punishment, which Jefferies doomed, and he

suffered to be inflicted, contrived to excite the public commiseration

even in favour of this miscreant, whose forsworn tongue had occasioned

more murders than the dagger of the most sanguinary bravo. After the

Revolution he obtained a pardon, or rather remission of his inhuman

sentence, to be imprisoned during life, and pilloried five times every

year. He was also admitted to the comforts of a pension of L.400

a-year. But, although he bestirred himself to obtain a reversal of

his judgement for perjury, and wrote an abusive pamphlet, entitled, a

"Picture of the late King James," and dedicated to King William, that

cool-headed monarch, and his sagacious council, would never restore

him to a capacity of bearing evidence. The Earl of Danby, now Duke

of Leeds, who had experienced the danger of his swearing capacity,

would consent to the reversal in no other sense, than that, having

been condemned to be scourged from Newgate to Tyburn, he should now be

scourged back from Tyburn to Newgate. Dryden, therefore, without fear

of offence, might venture a stroke of satire at this once formidable

person.]

[Footnote 79: The allusion seems to be partly to Bryan Haines, the

Tory evidence against Shaftesbury and College, a fellow almost as

infamous as Oates; but chiefly, by way of equivoque, to the wicked wag

Jee Haines, the comedian, who, amongst other pranks, chose, during the

reign of James II., to become Roman Catholic. Whether he took this step

from any serious prospect of advantage, or to throw ridicule on the new

converts, is somewhat dubious; at least his apostacy was not founded

upon conviction for, after the Revolution, he abjured the errors of

Popery, spoke a penitentiary prologue, and reconciled himself to the

church and theatre of England.]

THE END OF THE EIGHTH VOLUME.

Edinburgh:

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

* * * * *

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| Transcriber notes: |

| |

| Tags that surround the words: _Hartford Courant._ |

| indicate italics. |

| |

| Table of Contents: Prologue, Song, Secular Masque etc. |

| is on page 437. Changed. |

| P.36. 'wont' changed to 'won't'. |

| P.65. 'Farewel' changed to 'farewell'. |

| P.208. 'pased' changed to 'passed'. |

| P.223. 'encreased' changed to 'increased'. |

| P.242. 'Hippotus' changed to 'Hippotas'. |

| P.259. 'houshold' changed to 'household'. |

| P.293. Found the word 'contemn' in 18th century |

| dictionary--the word is similar to contempt, |

| no need to change. |

| P.335. '1673-4' was actually '1693-4', changed. |

| P.419. 'o o' is probably 'too', changed. |

| P.452. Added missing footnote anchor. |

| Fixed various punctuation. |

| Replaced Paed. with Phæd as in list of characters on P.14. |

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