SCENE VI.--_A Cave_.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FERDINAND.

_Ferd._ Your pity, noble youth, doth much oblige me.

Indeed, 'twas sad to lose a father so.

_Hip._ Ay, and an only father too; for sure

You said, you had but one.

_Ferd._ But one father! He's wondrous simple.

[_Aside._

_Hip._ Are such misfortunes frequent in your world,

Where many men live?

_Ferd._ Such are we born to.--

But, gentle youth, as you have questioned me,

So give me leave to ask you, what you are?

_Hip._ Do not you know?

_Ferd._ How should I?

_Hip._ I well hoped

I was a man, but, by your ignorance

Of what I am, I fear it is not so.--

Well, Prospero! this is now the second time

You have deceived me.

_Ferd._ Sir, there is no doubt

You are a man: But I would know, of whence?

_Hip._ Why, of this world; I never was in yours.

_Ferd._ Have you a father?

_Hip._ I was told I had one,

And that he was a man; yet I have been

So much deceived, I dare not tell't you for

A truth: But I have still been kept a prisoner,

For fear of women.

_Ferd._ They, indeed, are dangerous;

For, since I came, I have beheld one here,

Whose beauty pierced my heart.

_Hip._ How did she pierce? You seem not hurt.

_Ferd._ Alas! the wound was made by her bright eyes,

And festers by her absence.

But, to speak plainer to you, sir, I love her.

_Hip._ Now, I suspect that love's the very thing,

That I feel too!--Pray tell me truly, sir,

Are you not grown unquiet since you saw her?

_Ferd._ I take no rest.

_Hip._ Just, just, my disease.--

Do you not wish, you do not know for what?

_Ferd._ O, no! I know too well for what I wish.

_Hip._ There, I confess, I differ from you, sir:

But you desire she may be always with you?

_Ferd._ I can have no felicity without her.

_Hip._ Just my condition.--Alas, gentle sir!

I'll pity you, and you shall pity me.

_Ferd._ I love so much, that, if I have her not,

I find I cannot live.

_Hip._ How! do you love her,

And would you have her too? That must not be:

For none but I must have her.

_Ferd._ But perhaps we do not love the same:

All beauties are not pleasing alike to all.

_Hip._ Why, are there more fair women, sir,

Besides that one I love?

_Ferd._ That's a strange question. There are many more,

Besides that beauty which you love.

_Hip._ I will have all

Of that kind, if there be a hundred of them.

_Ferd._ But, noble youth, you know not what you say.

_Hip._ Sir, they are things I love, I cannot be

Without them!--O, how I rejoice!--More women!

_Ferd._ Sir, if you love, you must be tied to one.

_Hip._ Tied! How tied to her?

_Ferd._ To love none but her.

_Hip._ But, sir, I find it is against my nature.

I must love where I like; and, I believe, I may like all,--

All that are fair. Come, bring me to this woman,

For I must have her.

_Ferd._ His simplicity

Is such, that I can scarce be angry with him.--

[_Aside._

Perhaps, sweet youth, when you behold her, you

Will find you do not love her.

_Hip._ I find already

I love, because she is another woman.

_Ferd._ You cannot love two women both at once.

_Hip._ Sure 'tis my duty to love all who do

Resemble her, whom I've already seen.

I'll have as many as I can, that are

So good, and angel-like, as she I love;

And will have yours.

_Ferd._ Pretty youth, you cannot.

_Hip._ I can do any thing for that I love.

_Ferd._ I may, perhaps, by force, restrain you from it.

_Hip._ Why, do so, if you can. But either promise me

To love no woman, or you must try your force.

_Ferd._ I cannot help it, I must love.

_Hip._ Well, you may love;

For Prospero taught me friendship too. You shall

Love me, and other men, if you can find them;

But all the angel women shall be mine.

_Ferd._ I must break off this conference, or he

Will urge me else beyond what I can bear.--

[_Aside._

Sweet youth, some other time we will speak

Farther concerning both our loves; at present

I am indisposed with weariness and grief,

And would, if you're so pleased, retire a while.

_Hip._ Some other time be it; but, sir, remember,

That I both seek and much entreat your friendship;

For, next to women, I find I can love you.

_Ferd._ I thank you, sir, I will consider of it.

[_Exit_ FERD.

_Hip._ This stranger does insult, and comes into

My world, to take those heavenly beauties from me,

Which, I believe, I am inspired to love.--

And yet he said, he did desire but one:

He would be poor in love, but I'll be rich.--

I now perceive that Prospero was cunning;

For when he frightened me from womankind,

Those precious things he for himself designed.

[_Exit._

[Footnote F: This personage, who has bequeathed his name to a well-known

tune, is believed to have been Simon Wadloe, or Wadlow, master of the

Devil Tavern, when frequented by Ben Jonson.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_Cypress trees and a Cave._

_Enter_ PROSPERO _and_ MIRANDA.

_Prosp._ Your suit has pity in't, and has prevailed.

Within this cave he lies, and you may see him:

But yet take heed; let prudence be your guide:

You must not stay, your visit must be short.--

[_She's going._

One thing I had forgot; insinuate into his mind

A kindness to that youth, whom first you saw;

I would have friendship grow betwixt them.

_Mir._ You shall be obeyed in all things.

_Prosp._ Be earnest to unite their very souls.

_Mir._ I shall endeavour it.

_Prosp._ This may secure

Hippolito from that dark danger, which

My art forebodes; for friendship does provide

A double strength to oppose the assaults of fortune.

[_Exit_ PROSP.

_Enter_ FERDINAND.

_Ferd._ To be a prisoner where I dearly love,

Is but a double tie, a link of fortune

Joined to the chain of love; but not to see her,

And yet to be so near her, there's the hardship!--

I feel myself as on a rack, stretched out

And nigh the ground, on which I might have ease,

Yet, cannot reach it.

_Mir._ Sir!--my lord!--where are you?

_Ferd._ Is it your voice, my love? or do I dream?

_Mir._ Speak softly, it is I.

_Ferd._ O heavenly creature!

Ten times more gentle than your fathers cruel!--

How, on a sudden, all my griefs are vanished!

_Mir._ How do you bear your prison?

_Ferd._ 'Tis my palace,

While you are here, and love and silence wait

Upon our wishes; do but think we chuse it,

And 'tis what we would chuse.

_Mir._ I'm sure what I would.

But how can I be certain that you love me?

Look to't; for I will die when you are false.

I've heard my father tell of maids, who died,

And haunted their false lovers with their ghosts.

_Ferd._ Your ghost must take another form to fright me,

This shape will be too pleasing.--Do I love you?

O, heaven! O, earth! bear witness to this sound,

If I prove false!--

_Mir._ O, hold! you shall not swear,

For heaven will hate you if you prove forsworn.

_Ferd._ Did I not love, I could no more endure

This undeserved captivity, than I

Could wish to gain my freedom, with the loss

Of you.

_Mir._ I am a fool, to weep at what

I'm glad of: But I have a suit to you,

And that, sir, shall

Be now the only trial of your love.

_Ferd._ You've said enough, never to be denied,

Were it my life; for you have far o'er-bid

The price of all that human life is worth.

_Mir._ Sir, 'tis to love one for my sake, who, for

His own, deserves all the respect which you

Can ever pay him.

_Ferd._ You mean your father: Do not think his usage

Can make me hate him; when he gave you being,

He then did that, which cancelled all these wrongs.

_Mir._ I meant not him; for that was a request,

Which, if you love, I should not need to urge.

_Ferd._ Is there another whom I ought to love;

And love him for your sake?

_Mir._ Yes, such a one,

Who, for his sweetness and his goodly shape,

(If I, who am unskilled in forms, may judge)

I think can scarce be equalled: 'Tis a youth,

A stranger, too, as you are.

_Ferd._ Of such a graceful feature! and must I,

For your sake, love him?

_Mir._ Yes, sir: Do you scruple

To grant the first request I ever made?

He's wholly unacquainted with the world,

And wants your conversation. You should have

Compassion on so mere a stranger.

_Ferd._ Those need compassion whom you discommend,

Not whom you praise.

_Mir._ Come, you must love him for my sake:--

You shall!

_Ferd._ Must I for yours, and cannot for my own?

Either you do not love, or think that I don't:

But, when you bid me love him, I must hate him.

_Mir._ Have I so far offended you already,

That he offends you only for my sake?--

Yet sure you would not hate him, if you saw

Him as I've done, so full of youth and beauty.

_Ferd._ O, poison to my hopes!--

When he did visit me, and I did mention

This beauteous creature to him, he then did tell

Me, he would have her.

[_Aside._

_Mir._ Alas! what mean you?

_Ferd._ It is too plain: Like most of her frail sex,

She's false, but has not learned the art to hide it.

Nature has done her part, she loves variety:--

Why did I think that any woman could

Be innocent, because she's young? No, no!

Their nurses teach them change, when, with two nipples,

They do divide their liking.

[_Aside._

_Mir._ I fear I have offended you, and yet

I meant no harm: But, if you please to hear me,--

[_A noise within._

Hark, sir! now I am sure my father comes,

I know his steps: Dear love! retire a while;

I fear I've staid too long.

_Ferd._ Too long indeed, and yet not long enough:

Oh, jealousy! Oh, love! how you distract me!

[_Exit_ FERD.

_Mir._ He appears displeased with that young man, I know

Not why: But, 'till I find from whence his hate proceeds,

I must conceal it from my father's knowledge;

For he will think that guiltless I have caused it,

And suffer me no more to see my love.

_Enter_ PROSPERO.

_Prosp._ Now I have been indulgent to your wish;

You have seen the prisoner?

_Mir._ Yes.

_Prosp._ And he spoke to you?

_Mir._ He spoke; but he received short answers from me.

_Prosp._ How like you his converse?

_Mir._ At second sight,

A man does not appear so rare a creature.

_Prosp._ I find she loves him much, because she hides it.

Love teaches cunning even to innocence.--

[_Aside._

Well, go in.

_Mir._ Forgive me, truth! for thus disguising thee.

If I can make him think, I do not love

The stranger much, he'll let me see him oftener.

[_Exit_ MIR.

_Prosp._ Stay, stay!----I had forgot to ask her,

What she has said of young Hippolito.--

Oh, here he comes! and, with him, my Dorinda:

I'll not be seen; let their loves grow in secret.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ DORINDA.

_Hip._ But why are you so sad?

_Dor._ But why are you so joyful?

_Hip._ I have within me

All, all the various music of the woods.

Since last I saw you, I have heard brave news!

I will tell you, and make you joyful for me.

_Dor._ Sir, when I saw you first, I, through my eyes,

Drew something in, I know not what it is;

But still it entertains me with such thoughts,

As make me doubtful whether joy becomes me.

_Hip._ Pray believe me,

As I'm a man, I'll tell you blessed news:

I've heard, there are more women in the world,

As fair as you are too.

_Dor._ Is this your news? You see it moves not me.

_Hip._ And I will have them all.

_Dor._ What will become of me then?

_Hip._ I'll have you too.--

But are not you acquainted with these women?

_Dor._ I never saw but one.

_Hip._ Is there but one here?--

This is a base poor world, I'll go to the other;

I've heard men have abundance of them there.--

But, pray, where's that one woman?

_Dor._ Who, my sister?

_Hip._ Is she your sister? I'm glad of that. You shall

Help me to her, and I will love you for it.

[_Offers to take her hand._

_Dor._ Away! I will not have you touch my hand.--

My father's counsel, which enjoined reservedness,

Was not in vain, I see.

[_Aside._

_Hip._ What makes you shun me?

_Dor._ You need not care, you'll have my sister's hand.

_Hip._ Why, must not he, who touches hers, touch yours?

_Dor._ You mean to love her too?

_Hip._ Do not you love her?

Then why should I not do so?

_Dor._ She's my sister;

And, therefore, I must love her: But you cannot

Love both of us.

_Hip._ I warrant you I can:--

Oh, that you had more sisters!

_Dor._ You may love her,

But then I'll not love you.

_Hip._ O, but you must;

One is enough for you, but not for me.

_Dor._ My sister told me, she had seen another;

A man like you, and she liked only him:

Therefore, if one must be enough for her,

He is that one, and then you cannot have her.

_Hip._ If she like him, she may like both of us.

_Dor._ But how if I should change, and like that man:

Would you be willing to permit that change?

_Hip._ No, for you liked me first.

_Dor._ So you did me.

_Hip._ But I would never have you see that man;

I cannot bear it.

_Dor._ I'll see neither of you.

_Hip._ Yes, me you may, for we are now acquainted:

But he's the man, of whom your father warned you;

O, he's a terrible, huge, monstrous creature!

I'm but a woman to him.

_Dor._ I will see him,

Except you'll promise not to see my sister.

_Hip._ Yes, for your sake, I needs must see your sister.

_Dor._ But she's a terrible, huge creature too!

If I were not her sister, she would eat me;

Therefore take heed.

_Hip._ I heard that she was fair,

And like you.

_Dor._ No, indeed, she's like my father,

With a great beard; 'twould fright you to look on her:

Therefore that man and she may go together,

They are fit for nobody but one another.

_Hip._ [_Looking in_.] Yonder he comes with glaring eyes; fly! fly!

Before he sees you.

_Dor._ Must we part so soon?

_Hip._ You're a lost woman if you see him.

_Dor._ I would not willingly be lost, for fear

You should not find me. I'll avoid him.

[_Exit_ DOR.

_Hip._ She fain would have deceived me, but I know

Her sister must be fair, for she's a woman;

All of a kind, that I have seen, are like

To one another: All the creatures of

The rivers and the woods are so.

_Enter_ FERDINAND.

_Ferd._ O, well encountered! you are the happy man!

You've got the hearts of both the beauteous women.

_Hip._ How, sir! pray, are you sure on't?

_Ferd._ One of them charged me to love you for her sake.

_Hip._ Then I must have her.

_Ferd._ No, not till I am dead.

_Hip._ How dead? what's that?--But whatsoe'er it be,

I long to have her.

_Ferd._ Time and my grief may make me die.

_Hip._ But, for a friend, you should make haste; I ne'er

Asked any thing of you before.

_Ferd._ I see your ignorance,

And, therefore, will instruct you in my meaning.

The woman, whom I love, saw you, and loved you;

Now, sir, if you love her, you'll cause my death.

_Hip._ Be sure I'll do it then.

_Ferd._ But I am your friend;

And I request you that you would not love her.

_Hip._ When friends request unreasonable things,

Sure they're to be denied. You say she's fair;

And I must love all who are fair: for, to tell you

A secret, sir, which I have lately found

Within myself, they're all made for me.

_Ferd._ That's but a fond conceit: You're made for one,

And one for you.

_Hip._ You cannot tell me, sir;

I know I'm made for twenty hundred women,

(I mean, if there so many be i'the world,)

So that, if I once see her, I shall love her.

_Ferd._ Then do not see her.

_Hip._ Yes, sir, I must see her:

For I would fain have my heart beat again,

Just as it did when I first saw her sister.

_Ferd._ I find I must not let you see her then.

_Hip._ How will you hinder me?

_Ferd._ By force of arms.

_Hip._ By force of arms!

My arms, perhaps, may be as strong as yours.

_Ferd._ He's still so ignorant, that I pity him,

And fain would avoid force. [_Aside_.]--Pray do not see her,

She was mine first; you have no right to her.

_Hip._ I have not yet considered what is right;

But, sir, I know my inclinations are

To love all women; and I have been taught,

That to dissemble what I think is base.

In honour, then, of truth, I must declare,

That I do love, and I will see your woman.

_Ferd._ Would you be willing I should see and love

Your woman, and endeavour to seduce her

From that affection, which she vowed to you?

_Hip._ I would not you should do it, but if she

Should love you best, I cannot hinder her.

But, sir, for fear she should, I will provide

Against the worst, and try to get your woman.

_Ferd._ But I pretend no claim at all to yours;

Besides, you are more beautiful than I,

And fitter to allure unpractised hearts:

Therefore I once more beg you will not see her.

_Hip._ I'm glad you let me know I have such beauty;

If that will get me women, they shall have it

As far as ere 'twill go: I'll never want them.

_Ferd._ Then, since you have refused this act of friendship,

Provide yourself a sword, for we must fight.

_Hip._ A sword! what's that?

_Ferd._ Why such a thing as this.

_Hip._ What should I do with it?

_Ferd._ You must stand thus,

And push against me, while I push at you,

'Till one of us fall dead.

_Hip._ This is brave sport:

But we have no swords growing in our world.

_Ferd._ What shall we do then to decide our quarrel?

_Hip._ We'll take the sword by turns, and fight with it.

_Ferd._ Strange ignorance! [_Aside_.]--You must defend your life,

And so must I. But since you have no sword,

Take this: [_Gives him his sword_.] For in a corner of my cave

I found a rusty one; perhaps 'twas his,

Who keeps me pris'ner here: That I will fit:

When next we meet, prepare yourself to fight.

_Hip._ Make haste then, this shall ne'er be yours again.

I mean to fight with all the men I meet,

And, when they're dead, their women shall be mine.

_Ferd._ I see you are unskilful: I desire not

To take your life, but, if you please, we'll fight

On these conditions; he, who first draws blood,

Or who can take the other's weapon from him,

Shall be acknowledged as the conqueror,

And both the women shall be his.

_Hip._ Agreed,

And every day I'll fight for two more with you.

_Ferd._ But win these first.

_Hip._ I'll warrant you I'll push you.

[_Exeunt severally._

SCENE III.--_The wild Island._

_Enter_ TRINCALO, CALIBAN, _and_ SYCORAX.

_Calib._ My lord, I see 'em coming yonder.

_Trinc._ Whom?

_Calib._ The starved prince, and his two thirsty subjects, that would

have our liquor.

_Trinc._ If thou wert a monster of parts, I would make thee my master of

ceremonies, to conduct 'em in. The devil take all dunces! thou hast lost

a brave employment, by not being a linguist, and for want of behaviour.

_Syc._ My lord, shall I go meet 'em? I'll be kind to all of 'em, just as

I am to thee.

_Trinc._ No, that's against the fundamental laws of my dukedom: You are

in a high place, spouse, and must give good example. Here they come;

we'll put on the gravity of statesmen, and be very dull, that we may be

held wise.

_Enter_ STEPHANO, VENTOSO, _and_ MUSTACHO.

_Vent._ Duke Trincalo, we have considered.

_Trinc._ Peace or war?

_Must._ Peace, and the butt.

_Steph._ I come now as a private person, and promise to live peaceably

under your government.

_Trinc._ You shall enjoy the benefits of peace; and the first fruits of

it, amongst all civil nations, is to be drunk for joy: Caliban, skink

about.

_Steph._ I long to have a rouse to her grace's health, and to the

_haunse in kelder_, or rather haddock in kelder, for I guess it will be

half fish.

[_Aside._

_Trinc._ Subject Stephano, here's to thee; and let old quarrels be

drowned in this draught.

[_Drinks._

_Steph._ Great magistrate, here's thy sister's health to thee.

[_Drinks to_ CALIB.

_Syc._ He shall not drink of that immortal liquor; my lord, let him

drink water.

_Trinc._ O sweetheart, you must not shame yourself to-day. Gentlemen

subjects, pray bear with her good huswifery: She wants a little

breeding, but she's hearty.

_Must._ Ventoso, here's to thee. Is it not better to pierce the butt,

than to quarrel and pierce one another's bellies?

_Vent._ Let it come, boy.

_Trinc._ Now would I lay greatness aside, and shake my heels, if I had

but music.

_Calib._ O my lord! my mother left us in her will a hundred spirits to

attend us, devils of all sorts, some great roaring devils, and some

little singing spirits.

_Syc._ Shall we call? And thou shalt hear them in the air.

_Trinc._ I accept the motion: Let us have our mother-in-law's legacy

immediately.

CALIBAN SINGS.

_We want music, we want mirth.

Up, dam, and cleave the earth:

We have no lords that wrong us,

Send thy merry spirits among us._

_Trinc._ What a merry tyrant am I, to have my music, and pay nothing

for't!

_A table rises, and four Spirits with wine and meat enter, placing it,

as they dance, on the table: The dance ended, the bottles vanish, and

the table sinks again._

_Vent._ The bottle's drunk.

_Must._ Then the bottle's a weak shallow fellow, if it be drunk first.

_Trinc._ Stephano, give me thy hand: thou hast been a rebel, but here's

to thee: [_Drinks_.] Pr'ythee, why should we quarrel? Shall I swear two

oaths? By bottle, and by butt, I love thee: In witness whereof I drink

soundly.

_Steph._ Your grace shall find there's no love lost, for I will pledge

you soundly.

_Trinc._ Thou hast been a false rebel, but that's all one; pledge my

grace faithfully.--Caliban, go to the butt, and tell me how it sounds.

[_Exit_ CALIBAN.] Peer Stephano, dost thou love me?

_Steph._ I love your grace, and all your princely family.

_Trinc._ 'Tis no matter, if thou lov'st me; hang my family: Thou art my

friend, pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of my princess:

_Steph._ I look on her, as on a very noble princess.

_Trinc._ Noble! indeed she had a witch to her mother; and the witches

are of great families in Lapland: but the devil was her father; and I

have heard of the Monsieur De Villes in France: but look on her

beauty,--is she a fit wife for Duke Trincalo? Mark her behaviour

too,--she's tippling yonder with the serving-men.

_Steph._ An't please your grace, she's somewhat homely, but that's no

blemish in a princess. She is virtuous.

_Trinc._ Umph! virtuous! I am loath to disparage her; but thou art my

friend,--canst thou be close?

_Steph._ As a stopt bottle, an't please your grace.

_Enter_ CALIBAN _again with a bottle_.

_Trinc._ Why then I'll tell thee,--I found her an hour ago under an

elder-tree, upon a sweet bed of nettles, singing Tory Rory, and Rantum

Scantum, with her own natural brother.

_Steph._ O Jew! make love in her own tribe?

_Trinc._ But 'tis no matter; to tell thee true, I married her to be a

great man, and so forth: But make no words on't, for I care not who

knows it, and so here's to thee again.--Give me the bottle, Caliban! did

you knock the butt? How does it sound?

_Calib._ It sounds as though it had a noise within.

_Trinc._ I fear the butt begins to rattle in the throat, and is

departing: give me the bottle.

[_Drinks._

_Must._ A short life and a merry, I say.

[STEPH. _whispers_ SYCORAX.

_Syc._ But did he tell you so?

_Steph._ He said you were as ugly as your mother, and that he married

you only to get possession of the island.

_Syc._ My mother's devils fetch him for't!

_Steph._ And your father's too. Hem! skink about his grace's health

again. O if you will but cast an eye of pity upon me--

_Syc._ I will cast two eyes of pity on thee; I love thee more than haws

or blackberries. I have a hoard of wildings in the moss, my brother

knows not of 'em; but I'll bring thee where they are.

_Steph._ Trincalo was but my man, when time was.

_Syc._ Wert thou his god, and didst thou give him liquor?

_Steph._ I gave him brandy, and drunk sack myself: Wilt thou leave him,

and thou shalt be my princess?

_Syc._ If thou canst make me glad with this liquor.

_Steph._ I'll warrant thee; we'll ride into the country where it grows.

_Syc._ How wilt thou carry me thither?

_Steph._ Upon a hackney-devil of thy mother's.

_Trinc._ What's that you will do? Ha! I hope you have not betrayed me?

How does my pigsnye?

[_To_ SYCORAX.

_Syc._ Begone! thou shalt not be my lord; thou say'st I'm ugly.

_Trinc._ Did you tell her so?--ha! he's a rogue, do not believe him,

chuck.

_Steph._ The foul words were yours: I will not eat 'em for you.

_Trinc._ I see, if once a rebel, then ever a rebel. Did I receive thee

into grace for this? I will correct thee with my royal hand.

[_Strikes_ STEPH.

_Syc._ Dost thou hurt my love?

[_Flies at_ TRINC.

_Trinc._ Where are our guards? Treason! Treason!

[VENT. MUST. CALIB. _run betwixt_.

_Vent._ Who took up arms first, the prince or the people?

_Trinc._ This false traitor has corrupted the wife of my bosom.

[_Whispers_ MUSTACHO _hastily_.] Mustacho, strike on my side, and thou

shalt be my viceroy.

_Must._ I am against rebels. Ventoso, obey your viceroy.

_Vent._ You a viceroy?

[_They two fight off from the rest._

_Steph._ Ha! Hector monster! do you stand neuter?

_Calib._ Thou would'st drink my liquor, I will not help thee.

_Syc._ 'Twas his doing that I had such a husband, but I'll claw him.

[SYC. _and_ CALIB. _fight_, SYC. _beating him off the stage_.

_Trinc._ The whole nation is up in arms, and shall I stand idle?

[TRINC. _beats off_ STEPH. _to the door. Exit_ STEPH.

I'll not pursue too far, for fear the enemy will rally again, and

surprise my butt in the citadel. Well, I must be rid of my Lady

Trincalo, she will be in the fashion else; first, cuckold her husband,

and then sue for a separation, to get alimony.

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.--_The Cypress-trees and Cave._

_Enter_ FERDINAND _and_ HIPPOLITO, _with their swords drawn_.

_Ferd._ Come, sir, our cave affords no choice of place,

But the ground's firm and even: Are you ready?

_Hip._ As ready as yourself, sir.

_Ferd._ You remember

On what conditions we must fight? Who first

Receives a wound is to submit.

_Hip._ Come, come,

This loses time; now for the women, sir.

[_They fight a little_, FERDINAND _hurts him_.

_Ferd._ Sir, you are wounded.

_Hip._ No.

_Ferd._ Believe your blood.

_Hip._ I feel no hurt, no matter for my blood.

_Ferd._ Remember our conditions.

_Hip._ I will not leave, till my sword hits you too.

[HIP. _presses on_, FERD. _retires and wards_.

_Ferd._ I'm loth to kill you; you are unskilful, sir.

_Hip._ You beat aside my sword, but let it come

As near as yours, and you shall see my skill.

_Ferd._ You faint for loss of blood, I see you stagger;

Pray, sir, retire.

_Hip._ No! I will ne'er go back.--

Methinks the cave turns round, I cannot find--

_Ferd._ Your eyes begin to dazzle.

_Hip._ Why do you swim so, and dance about me?

Stand but still till I have made one thrust.

[HIP. _thrusts and falls._

_Ferd._ O help, help, help!

Unhappy man! what have I done?

_Hip._ I'm going to a cold sleep, but when I wake,

I'll fight again. Pray stay for me.

[_Swoons._

_Ferd._ He's gone!

He's gone! O stay, sweet, lovely youth! Help! help!

_Enter_ PROSPERO.

_Prosp._ What dismal noise is that?

_Ferd._ O see, sir, see,

What mischief my unhappy hand has wrought!

_Prosp._ Alas! how much in vain doth feeble art

Endeavour to resist the will of heaven?

[_Rubs_ HIP.

He's gone for ever; O thou cruel son

Of an inhuman father! all my designs

Are ruined and unravelled by this blow.

No pleasure now is left me but revenge.

_Ferd._ Sir, if you knew my innocence--

_Prosp._ Peace, peace!

Can thy excuses give me back his life?

What, Ariel? sluggish spirit, where art thou?

_Enter_ ARIEL.

_Ariel._ Here, at thy beck, my lord.

_Prosp._ Ay, now thou comest,

When fate is past, and not to be recalled.

Look there, and glut the malice of thy nature;

For, as thou art thyself, thou canst not but

Be glad to see young virtue nipt i' the blossom.

_Ariel._ My lord, the Being, high above, can witness,

I am not glad; we airy spirits are not of

A temper so malicious as the earthy,

But of a nature more approaching good.

For which we meet in swarms, and often combat

Betwixt the confines of the air and earth.

_Prosp._ Why didst thou not prevent, at least foretel,

This fatal action then?

_Ariel._ Pardon, great sir,

I meant to do it, but I was forbidden

By the ill genius of Hippolito,

Who came and threatened me, if I disclosed it,

To bind me in the bottom of the sea,

Far from the lightsome regions of the air,

(My native fields) above a hundred years.

_Prosp._ I'll chain thee in the north for thy neglect,

Within the burning bowels of Mount Hecla;

I'll singe thy airy wings with sulph'rous flames,

And choke thy tender nostrils with blue smoke;

At ev'ry hickup of the belching mountain,

Thou shalt be lifted up to taste fresh air,

And then fall down again.

_Ariel._ Pardon, dread lord.

_Prosp._ No more of pardon than just heaven intends thee,

Shalt thou e'er find from me: Hence! fly with speed,

Unbind the charms which hold this murderer's father,

And bring him, with my brother, straight before me.

_Ariel._ Mercy, my potent lord! and I'll outfly

Thy thought.

[_Exit_ ARIEL.

_Ferd._ O heavens! what words are these I heard,

Yet cannot see who spoke 'em? Sure the woman

Whom I loved was like this, some airy vision.

_Prosp._ No, murderer! she's, like thee, of mortal mould,

But much too pure to mix with thy black crimes;

Yet she has faults, and must be punished for them.

Miranda and Dorinda! where are ye?

The will of heaven's accomplished: I have now

No more to fear, and nothing left to hope;

Now you may enter.

_Enter_ MIRANDA _and_ DORINDA.

_Mir._ My love! is it permitted me to see

You once again?

_Prosp._ You come to look your last;

I will for ever take him from your eyes.

But, on my blessing, speak not, nor approach him.

_Dor._ Pray, father, is not this my sister's man?

He has a noble form; but yet he's not

So excellent as my Hippolito.

_Prosp._ Alas, poor girl! thou hast no man: Look yonder;

There's all of him that's left.

_Dor._ Why, was there ever any more of him?

He lies asleep, sir; shall I waken him?

[_She kneels by_ HIPPOLITO, _and jogs him_.

_Ferd._ Alas! he's never to be waked again.

_Dor._ My love, my love! wilt thou not speak to me?

I fear you have displeased him, sir, and now

He will not answer me; he's dumb and cold too;

But I'll run straight, and make a fire to warm him.

[_Exit_ DORINDA, _running_.

_Enter_ ALONZO, GONZALO, ANTONIO; _and_ ARIEL _invisible_.

_Alon._ Never were beasts so hunted into toils,

As we have been pursued by dreadful shapes.--

But is not that my son? O Ferdinand!

If thou art not a ghost, let me embrace thee.

_Ferd._ My father! O sinister happiness!

Is it decreed I should recover you

Alive, just in that fatal hour, when this

Brave youth is lost in death, and by my hand?

_Ant._ Heaven! what new wonder's this?

_Gonz._ This isle is full of nothing else.

_Prosp._ You stare upon me, as you ne'er had seen me;

Have fifteen years so lost me to your knowledge,

That you retain no memory of Prospero?

_Gonz._ The good old duke of Milan!

_Prosp._ I wonder less,

That thou, Antonio, knowest me not, because

Thou didst long since forget I was thy brother

Else I had ne'er been here.

_Ant._ Shame choaks my words.

_Alonz._ And wonder mine.

_Prosp._ For you, usurping prince,

[_To_ ALONZ.

Know, by my art you were shipwrecked on this isle,

Where, after I a while had punished you,

My vengeance would have ended; I designed

To match that son of yours with this my daughter.

_Alonz._ Pursue it still, I am most willing to it.

_Prosp._ So am not I. No marriages can prosper,

Which are with murderers made; look on that corpse.

This, whilst he lived, was young Hippolito;

That infant duke of Mantua, sir, whom you

Exposed with me; and here I bred him up,

Till that blood-thirsty man, that Ferdinand----

But why do I exclaim on him, when justice

Calls to unsheath her sword against his guilt?

_Alonz._ What do you mean?

_Prosp._ To execute heaven's laws.

Here I am placed by heaven, here I am prince,

Though you have dispossessed me of my Milan.

Blood calls for blood; your Ferdinand shall die,

And I, in bitterness, have sent for you,

To have the sudden joy of seeing him alive,

And then the greater grief to see him die.

_Alonz._ And think'st thou I, or these, will tamely stand,

To view the execution?

[_Lays hand upon his sword._

_Ferd._ Hold, dear father!

I cannot suffer you to attempt against

His life, who gave her being, whom I love.

_Prosp._ Nay, then appear my guards--I thought no more

To use their aid; (I'm cursed because I used it.)

[_He stamps, and many Spirits appear._

But they are now the ministers of heaven,

Whilst I revenge this murder.

_Alonz._ Have I for this

Found thee, my son, so soon again to lose thee?

Antonio, Gonzalo, speak for pity.

_Ferd._ Adieu, my fairest mistress.

[_To_ MIR.

_Mir._ Now I can hold no longer; I must speak,

Though I am loth to disobey you, sir:

Be not so cruel to the man I love,

Or be so kind to let me suffer with him.

_Ferd._ Recall that prayer, or I shall wish to live,

Though death be all the 'mends that I can make.

_Prosp._ This night I will allow you, Ferdinand,

To fit you for your death; that cave's your prison.

_Alonz._ Ah, Prospero! hear me speak. You are a father:--

Look on my age, and look upon his youth.

_Prosp._ No more! all you can say is urged in vain,

I have no room for pity left within me.

Do you refuse? help, Ariel, with your fellows,

To drive them in; Alonzo and his son

Bestow in yonder cave, and here Gonzalo

Shall with Antonio lodge.

[_Spirits drive them in, as they are appointed._

_Enter_ DORINDA.

_Dor._ Sir, I have made a fire; shall he be warmed?

_Prosp._ He's dead, and vital warmth will ne'er return.

_Dor._ Dead, sir! what's that?

_Prosp._ His soul has left his body.

_Dor._ When will it come again?

_Prosp._ O never, never!

He must be laid in earth, and there consume.

_Dor._ He shall not lie in earth; you do not know

How well he loves me: Indeed he'll come again.

He told me he would go a little while,

But promised me he would not tarry long.

_Prosp._ He's murdered by the man who loved your sister.

Now both of you may see what 'tis to break

A father's precept; you would needs see man,

And by that sight are made for ever wretched;

Hippolito is dead, and Ferdinand

Must die for murdering him.

_Mir._ Have you no pity?

_Prosp._ Your disobedience has so much incensed me,

That I this night can leave no blessing with you.

Help to convey the body to my couch,

Then leave me to mourn over it alone.

[_They bear off the body of_ HIP.

_Enter_ MIRANDA _and_ DORINDA _again_. ARIEL _behind them_.

_Ariel._ I've been so chid for my neglect by Prospero,

That I must now watch all, and be unseen.

_Mir._ Sister, I say again, 'twas long of you,

That all this mischief happened.

_Dor._ Blame not me

For your own fault; your curiosity

Brought me to see the man.

_Mir._ You safely might

Have seen him, and retired, but you would needs

Go near him, and converse; you may remember

My father called me thence, and I called you.

_Dor._ That was your envy, sister, not your love;

You called me thence, because you could not be

Alone with him yourself; but I am sure

My man had never gone to heaven so soon,

But that yours made him go.

[_Crying._

_Mir._ Sister, I could not wish that either of them

Should go to heaven without us; but it was

His fortune, and you must be satisfied.

_Dor._ I'll not be satisfied: My father says

He'll make your man as cold as mine is now;

And when he is made cold, my father will

Not let you strive to make him warm again.

_Mir._ In spite of you, mine never shall be cold.

_Dor._ I'm sure 'twas he that made me miserable,

And I will be revenged. Perhaps you think

'Tis nothing to lose a man.

_Mir._ Yes, but there is

Some difference betwixt my Ferdinand,

And your Hippolito.

_Dor._ Ay, there's your judgment:

Your's is the oldest man I ever saw,

Except it were my father.

_Mir._ Sister, no more;

It is not comely in a daughter, when

She says her father's old.

_Dor._ But why do I

Stay here, whilst my cold love perhaps may want me?

I'll pray my father to make yours cold too.

_Mir._ Sister, I'll never sleep with you again.

_Dor._ I'll never more meet in a bed with you,

But lodge on the bare ground, and watch my love.

_Mir._ And at the entrance of that cave I'll lie,

And echo to each blast of wind a sigh.

[_Exeunt severally, looking discontentedly on one another._

_Ariel._ Harsh discord reigns throughout this fatal isle,

At which good angels mourn, ill spirits smile.

Old Prospero, by his daughters robbed of rest,

Has in displeasure left them both unblest.

Unkindly they abjure each other's bed,

To save the living, and revenge the dead.

Alonzo, and his son, are prisoners made,

And good Gonzalo does their crimes upbraid.

Antonio and Gonzalo disagree,

And would, though in one cave, at distance be.

The seamen all that cursed wine have spent,

Which still renewed their thirst of government;

And wanting subjects for the food of power,

Each would, to rule alone, the rest devour.

The monsters, Sycorax and Caliban,

More monstrous grow by passions learned from man.

Even I, not framed of warring elements,

Partake and suffer in these discontents.

Why should a mortal, by enchantments, hold

In chains a spirit of etherial mould?

Accursed magic we ourselves have taught,

And our own power has our subjections wrought!

[_Exit._

ACT V. SCENE I.

_Enter_ PROSPERO _and_ MIRANDA.

_Prosp._ You beg in vain; I cannot pardon him;

He has offended heaven.

_Mir._ Then let heaven punish him.

_Prosp._ It will, by me.

_Mir._ Grant him, at least, some respite for my sake.

_Prosp._ I, by deferring justice, should incense

The deity against myself and you.

_Mir._ Yet I have heard you say, the powers above

Are slow in punishing; and should not you

Resemble them?

_Prosp._ The argument is weak.

But I want time to let you see your errors;

Retire, and, if you love him, pray for him.

[_He's going._

_Mir._ And can you be his judge and executioner?

_Prosp._ I cannot force Gonzalo or my brother,

Much less the father to destroy the son;

It must be then the monster Caliban,

And he's not here; but Ariel strait shall fetch him.

_Enter_ ARIEL.

_Ariel._ My potent lord, before thou callest I come,

To serve thy will.

_Prosp._ Then, spirit, fetch me here my savage slave.

_Ariel._ My lord, it does not need.

_Prosp._ Art thou then prone to mischief, wilt thou be

Thyself the executioner?

_Ariel._ Think better of thy airy minister,

Who, for thy sake, unbidden, this night has flown

O'er almost all the habitable world.

_Prosp._ But to what purpose was all thy diligence?

_Ariel._ When I was chidden by my mighty lord,

For my neglect of young Hippolito,

I went to view his body, and soon found

His soul was but retired, not sallied out:

Then I collected

The best of simples underneath the moon,

The best of balms, and to the wound applied

The healing juice of vulnerary herbs.

His only danger was his loss of blood,

But now he's waked, my lord, and just this hour

He must be dressed again, as I have done it.

Anoint the sword which pierced him with this weapon-salve,

and wrap it close from air, till I have

time to visit him again.

_Prosp._ Thou art my faithful servant;

It shall be done: be it your task, Miranda,

Because your sister is not present here;

While I go visit your dear Ferdinand,

From whom I will a while conceal the news,

That it may be more welcome.

_Mir._ I obey you,

And with a double duty, sir: For now,

You twice have given me life.

_Prosp._ My Ariel, follow me.

[_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.

HIPPOLITO _discovered on a couch_, DORINDA _by him_.

_Dor._ How do you find yourself?

_Hip._ I'm somewhat cold;

Can you not draw me nearer to the sun?

I am too weak to walk.

_Dor._ My love, I'll try.

[_She draws the chair nearer to the audience._

I thought you never would have walked again;

They told me you were gone to heaven;

Have you been there?

_Hip._ I know not where I was.

_Dor._ I will not leave you, till you promise me,

You will not die again.

_Hip._ Indeed, I will not.

_Dor._ You must not go to heaven, unless we go

Together; for I have heard my father say,

That we must strive to be each other's guide,

The way to it will else be difficult,

Especially to those who are so young;

But I much wonder what it is to die.

_Hip._ Sure 'tis to dream, a kind of breathless sleep,

When once the soul's gone out.

_Dor._ What is the soul?

_Hip._ A small blue thing, that runs about within us.

_Dor._ Then I have seen it in a frosty morning,

Run smoaking from my mouth.

_Hip._ But, dear Dorinda,

What is become of him who fought with me?

_Dor._ O! I can tell you joyful news of him;

My father means to make him die to-day,

For what he did to you.

_Hip._ That must not be,

My dear Dorinda; go, and beg your father,

He may not die; it was my fault he hurt me,

I urged him to it first.

_Dor._ But if he live, he'll never leave killing you.

_Hip._ O no! I just remember when I fell asleep,

I heard him calling me a great way off,

And crying over me as you would do;

Besides, we have no cause of quarrel now.

_Dor._ Pray, how began your difference first?

_Hip._ I fought with him, for all the women in the world.

_Dor._ That hurt you had, was justly sent from heaven,

For wishing to have any more but me.

_Hip._ Indeed I think it was, but I repent it;

The fault was only in my blood, for now

'Tis gone, I find I do not love so many.

_Dor._ In confidence of this, I'll beg my father

That he may live; I'm glad the naughty blood,

That made you love so many, is gone out.

_Hip._ My dear, go quickly, lest you come too late.

[_Exit_ DOR.

_Enter_ MIRANDA _at the other door, with_ HIPPOLITO'S _sword wrapt up_.

_Hip._ Who's this, who looks so fair and beautiful,

As nothing but Dorinda can surpass her?

O! I believe it is that angel woman,

Whom she calls sister.

_Mir._ Sir, I am sent hither

To dress your wound; how do you find your strength?

_Hip._ Fair creature, I am faint with loss of blood.

_Mir._ I am sorry for it.

_Hip._ Indeed, and so am I,

For if I had that blood, I then should find

A great delight in loving you.

_Mir._ But, sir,

I am another's, and your love is given

Already to my sister.

_Hip._ Yet I find,

That, if you please, I can love still a little.

_Mir._ I cannot be inconstant, nor should you.

_Hip._ O my wound pains me.

_Mir._ I am come to ease you.

[_She unwraps the sword._

_Hip._ Alas! I feel the cold air come to me;

My wound shoots worse than ever.

[_She wipes, and anoints the sword._

_Mir._ Does it still grieve you?

_Hip._ Now methinks, there's something

Laid just upon it.

_Mir._ Do you find no ease?

_Hip._ Yes, yes, upon the sudden, all the pain

Is leaving me: Sweet heaven, how I am eased!

_Enter_ FERDINAND _and_ DORINDA _to them_.

_Ferd._ [_to Dor_.] Madam, I must confess my life is yours,

I owe it to your generosity.

_Dor._ I am overjoyed my father lets you live,

And proud of my good fortune, that he gave

Your life to me.

_Mir._ How? gave his life to her!

_Hip._ Alas! I think she said so, and he said,

He owed it to her generosity.

_Ferd._ But is not that your sister with Hippolito?

_Dor._ So kind already?

_Ferd._ I came to welcome life, and I have met

The cruellest of deaths.

_Hip._ My dear Dorinda with another man?

_Dor._ Sister, what business have you here?

_Mir._ You see I dress Hippolito.

_Dor._ You're very charitable to a stranger.

_Mir._ You are not much behind in charity,

To beg a pardon for a man, whom you

Scarce ever saw before.

_Dor._ Henceforward let your surgery alone,

For I had rather he should die, than you

Should cure his wound.

_Mir._ And I wish Ferdinand had died, before

He owed his life to your entreaty.

_Ferd._ to _Hip._ Sir, I am glad you are so well recovered.

You keep your humour still to have all women?

_Hip._ Not all, sir; you except one of the number,

Your new love there, Dorinda.

_Mir._ Ah, Ferdinand! can you become inconstant?

If I must lose you, I had rather death

Should take you from me, than you take yourself.

_Ferd._ And if I might have chose, I would have wished

That death from Prospero, and not this from you.

_Dor._ Ay, now I find why I was sent away,

That you might have my sister's company.

_Hip._ Dorinda, kill me not with your unkindness;

This is too much, first to be false yourself,

And then accuse me too.

_Ferd._ We all accuse

Each other, and each one denies their guilt:

I should be glad it were a mutual error;

And, therefore, first to clear myself from fault,

Madam, I beg your pardon, while I say,

I only love your sister.

[_To_ DOR.

_Mir._ O, blest word!

I'm sure I love no man but Ferdinand,

_Dor._ Nor I, heaven knows, but my Hippolito.

_Hip._ I never knew I loved so much, before

I feared Dorinda's constancy; but now

I am convinced, that I loved none but her;

Because none else can recompense her loss.

_Ferd._ 'Twas happy, then, we had this little trial;

But how we all so much mistook I know not.

_Mir._ I have only this to say in my defence;

My father sent me hither, to attend

The wounded stranger.

_Dor._ And Hippolito

Sent me to beg the life of Ferdinand.

_Ferd._ From such small errors, left at first unheeded,

Have often sprung sad accidents in love.--

But see, our fathers and our friends are come

To mix their joys with ours.

_Enter_ PROSPERO, ALONZO, ANTONIO, _and_ GONZALO.

_Alon._ to _Prosp._ Let it no more be thought of;

Your purpose, though it was severe, was just.

In losing Ferdinand, I should have mourned,

But could not have complained.

_Pros._ Sir, I am glad

Kind heaven decreed it otherwise.

_Dor._ O, wonder!

How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is!

_Hip._ O, brave new world,

That has such people in't!

_Alon._ to _Ferd._ Now all the blessings

Of a glad father compass thee about,

And make thee happy in thy beauteous choice.

_Gonz._ I've inward wept, or should have spoken ere this.--

Look down, sweet heaven! and on this couple drop

A blessed crown; for it is you chalked out

The way, which brought us hither.

_Anto._ Though penitence,

Forced by necessity, can scarce seem real,

Yet, dearest brother, I have hope my blood

May plead for pardon with you: I resign

Dominion, which, 'tis true, I could not keep,

But heaven knows too, I would not.

_Prosp._ All past crimes

I bury in the joy of this blessed day.

_Alon._ And, that I may not be behind in justice,

To this young prince I render back his dukedom,

And as the duke of Mantua thus salute him.

_Hip._ What is it that you render back? methinks

You give me nothing.

_Prosp._ You are to be lord

Of a great people, and o'er towns and cities.

_Hip._ And shall these people be all men and women?

_Gonz._ Yes, and shall call you lord.

_Hip._ Why, then, I'll live no longer in a prison,

But have a whole cave to myself hereafter.

_Prosp._ And, that your happiness may be complete,

I give you my Dorinda for your wife:

She shall be yours for ever, when the priest

Has made you one.

_Hip._ How can he make us one? Shall I grow to her?

_Prosp._ By saying holy words, you shall be joined

In marriage to each other.

_Dor._ I warrant you, those holy words are charms:

My father means to conjure us together.

_Prosp._ My Ariel told me, when last night you quarrelled,

[_To his daughters._

You said you would for ever part your beds.

But what you threatened in your anger, heaven

Has turned to prophecy;

For you, Miranda, must with Ferdinand,

And you, Dorinda, with Hippolito,

Lie in one bed hereafter.

_Alon._ And heaven make

Those beds still fruitful in producing children,

To bless their parents' youth, and grandsires' age.

_Mir._ to _Dor._ If children come by lying in a bed,

I wonder you and I had none between us.

_Dor._ Sister, it was our fault; we meant, like fools,

To look 'em in the fields, and they, it seems,

Are only found in beds.

_Hip._ I am o'er-joyed,

That I shall have Dorinda in a bed;

We'll lie all night and day together there,

And never rise again.

_Ferd._ [_Aside to him_.] Hippolito! You yet

Are ignorant of your great happiness;

But there is something, which, for your own and fair

Dorinda's sake, I must instruct you in.

_Hip._ Pray teach me quickly,

How men and women, in your world, make love;

I shall soon learn, I warrant you.

_Enter_ ARIEL, _driving in_ STEPHANO, TRINCALO, MUSTACHO, VENTOSO,

CALIBAN _and_ SYCORAX.

_Prosp._ Why that's my dainty Ariel; I shall miss thee,

But yet thou shalt have freedom.

_Gonz._ O look, sir, look! The master and the sailors--

The boatswain too--my prophecy is out,

That if a gallows were on land, that man

Could ne'er be drowned.

_Alon._ Now, blasphemy; what, not one oath ashore!

Hast thou no mouth by land? Why starest thou so?

[_To_ TRINCALO.

_Trinc._ What! more dukes yet? I must resign my dukedom;

But 'tis no matter, I was almost starved in't.

_Must._ Here's nothing but wild sallads, without

oil, or vinegar.

_Steph._ The duke and prince alive! Would I had now

Our gallant ship again, and were her master:

I'd willingly give all my island for her.

_Vent._ And I my viceroyship.

_Trinc._ I shall need no hangman; for I shall even

hang myself, now my friend Butt has shed his last

drop of life. Poor Butt is quite departed.

_Anto._ They talk like madmen.

_Prosp._ No matter, time will bring 'em to themselves,

And now their wine is gone, they will not quarrel.

Your ship is safe and tight, and bravely rigged,

As when you first set sail.

_Alon._ This news is wonderful.

_Ariel._ Was it well done, my lord?

_Prosp._ Rarely, my diligence.

_Gonz._ But pray, sir, what are those mis-shapen creatures?

_Prosp._ Their mother was a witch; and one so strong,

She would controul the moon, make flows and ebbs,

And deal in her command without her power.

_Syc._ O Setebos! these be brave spirits indeed.

_Prosp._ Go, sirrah, to my cell, and, as you hope

For pardon, trim it up.

[_To_ CALIB.

_Calib._ Most carefully. I will be wise hereafter.

What a dull fool was I, to take those drunkards

For gods, when such as these were in the world?

_Prosp._ Sir, I invite your highness and your train

To my poor cave this night; a part of which

I will employ, in telling you my story.

_Alon._ No doubt it must be strangely taking, sir.

_Prosp._ When the morn draws, I'll bring you to your ship,

And promise you calm seas, and happy gales.

My Ariel, that's thy charge: Then to the elements

Be free, and fare thee well!

_Ariel._ I'll do it, master.

_Prosp._ Now, to make amends

For the rough treatment you have found to-day,

I'll entertain you with my magic art;

I'll, by my power, transform this place, and call

Up those, that shall make good my promise to you.

SCENE II.--_Changes to the Rocks, with the arch of Rocks, and calm Sea.

Music playing on the Rocks._

_Prosp._ Neptune, and your fair Amphitrite, rise;

Oceanus, with your Tethys too, appear;

All ye sea-gods, and goddesses, appear!

Come, all ye Tritons; all ye Nereids, come,

And teach your saucy element to obey:

For you have princes now to entertain,

And unsoiled beauties, with fresh youthful lovers.

NEPTUNE, AMPHITRITE, OCEANUS _and_ TETHYS, _appear in a Chariot drawn

with Sea-horses; on each side of the Chariot, Sea-Gods, and Goddesses,

Tritons, and Nereids_.

_Alon._ This is prodigious!

_Anto._ Ah! what amazing objects do we see?

_Gonz._ This art doth much exceed all human skill.

SONG.

Amph. _My lord, great Neptune, for my sake,

Of these bright beauties pity take;

And to the rest allow

Your mercy too.

Let this enraged element be still,

Let AEolus obey my will:

Let him his boisterous prisoners safely keep

In their dark caverns; and no more

Let them disturb the bosom of the deep,

Till these arrive upon their wished-for shore._

Nept. _So much my Amphitrite's love I prize,

That no commands of her's I can despise.

Tethys no furrows now shall wear,

Oceanus no wrinkles on his brow,

Let your serenest looks appear!

Be calm and gentle now._

Nept. and Amph.

{ _Be calm, ye great parents of the floods and the springs,

{ While each Nereid and Triton plays, revels, and sings._

Ocean. _Confine the roaring winds, and we

Will soon obey you cheerfully._

_Chorus of_ Trit. & Ner.

{_Tie up the winds, and we'll obey;_

{_Upon the floods we'll sing and play,_

{_And celebrate a Halcyon day._

[Here the Dancers mingle with the Singers, and perform a dance.

Nept. _Great nephew, AEolus, make no noise,

Muzzle your roaring boys._ [AEOLUS _appears._

Amph. _Let 'em not bluster to disturb our ears,

Or strike these noble passengers with fears._

Nept. _Afford 'em only such an easy gale,

As pleasantly may swell each sail._

Amph. _While fell sea-monsters cause intestine jars,

This empire you invade by foreign wars._

Nept. _But you shall now be still,

And shall obey my Amphitrite's will._

AEolus _descends

{_You I'll obey, who at one stroke can make,_

{_With your dread trident, the whole earth to quake._

_Come down, my blusterers, swell no more,

Your stormy rage give o'er._

[Winds from the four corners appear.

_Let all black tempests cease,

And let the troubled ocean rest:

Let all the sea enjoy as calm a peace,

As where the halcyon builds her quiet nest.

To your prisons below,

Down, down you must go:

You in the earth's entrails your revels may keep;

But no more till I call shall you trouble the deep._

[Winds fly down.

_Now they are gone, all stormy wars shall cease;

Then let your trumpeters proclaim a peace._

Amph. _Tritons, my sons, your trumpets sound,

And let the noise from neighbouring shores rebound._

Chorus.{ _Sound a calm._

{ _Sound a calm._

{ _Sound a calm._

{ _a calm._

{ _Sound a calm._

[Here the Tritons, at every repeat of _Sound a calm_, changing their

figure and postures, seem to sound their wreathed trumpets made of

shells.

A symphony of music, like trumpets, to which four

Tritons dance.

Nept. _See, see, the heavens smile; all your troubles are past,

Your joys, by black clouds, shall no more be o'ercast._

Amph. _On this barren isle ye shall lose all your fears,

Leave behind all your sorrows, and banish your cares._

Both. { _And your loves and your lives shall in safety enjoy;_

{ _No influence of stars shall your quiet destroy._

Chorus of all.

{ _And your loves, &c._

{ _No influence, &c._

[Here the Dancers mingle with the Singers.

Ocean. _We'll safely convey you to your own happy shore,

And your's and your country's soft peace will restore._

Tethys. _To treat you, blest lovers, as you sail on the deep,

The Tritons and sea-nymphs their revels shall keep._

Both. { _On the swift dolphins' backs they shall sing and shall play;_

{ _They shall guard you by night, and delight you by day._

Chorus of all.

{ _On the swift, &c._

{ _And shall guard, &c._

[Here the Dancers mingle with the Singers.

[A dance of twelve Tritons.

_Mir._ What charming things are these?

_Dor._ What heavenly power is this?

_Prosp._ Now, my Ariel, be visible,

And let the rest of your aerial train

Appear, and entertain them with a song,

And then farewell, my long-loved Ariel.

SCENE III.--_Changes to the Rising Sun, and a number of Aerial Spirits

in the Air_; ARIEL _flying from the Sun, advances towards the Pit_.

_Alon._ Heaven! What are these we see?

_Prosp._ They are spirits, with which the air abounds

In swarms, but that they are not subject

To poor feeble mortal eyes.

_Anto._ O wondrous skill!

_Gonz._ O power divine!

ARIEL, _and the rest, sing the following Song._

_Where the bee sucks, there suck I;

In a cowslip's bed I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the swallow's wings I fly,

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough._

_Song ended_, ARIEL _speaks, hovering in the air_.

_Ariel._ My noble master!

May theirs and your blest joys never impair!

And for the freedom I enjoy in air.

I will be still your Ariel, and wait

On airy accidents that work for fate.

Whatever shall your happiness concern,

From your still faithful Ariel you shall learn.

_Prosp._ Thou hast been always diligent and kind.

Farewell, my long-loved Ariel! thou shalt find

I will preserve thee ever in my mind.

Henceforth this isle to the afflicted be

A place of refuge, as it was to me:

The promises of blooming spring live here,

And all the blessings of the ripening year.

On my retreat let heaven and nature smile,

And ever flourish the Enchanted Isle.

[_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

Gallants, by all good signs it does appear,

That sixty-seven's a very damning year,

For knaves abroad, and for ill poets here.

Among the muses there's a general rot,

The rhiming monsieur, and the Spanish plot:

Defy or court, all's one, they go to pot.

The ghosts of poets walk within this place,

And haunt us actors wheresoe'er we pass,

In visions bloodier than King Richard's was.

For this poor wretch, he has not much to say,

But quietly brings in his part o'th' play,

And begs the favour to be damned to-day,

He sends me only like a sheriff's man here,

To let you know the malefactor's near,

And that he means to die, _en cavalier_.

For, if you should be gracious to his pen,

The example will prove ill to other men,

And you'll be troubled with them all again.

AN

EVENING'S LOVE;

OR, THE

MOCK ASTROLOGER.

A

COMEDY.

TO HIS GRACE,

WILLIAM,

DUKE OF NEWCASTLE[G],

ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S

MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, AND OF THE

MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &c.

* * * * *

MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE,

Amongst those few persons of wit and honour, whose favourable opinion I

have desired, your own virtue, and my great obligations to your grace,

have justly given you the precedence. For what could be more glorious to

me, than to have acquired some part of your esteem, who are admired and

honoured by all good men; who have been, for so many years together,

the pattern and standard of honour to the nation; and whose whole life

has been so great an example of heroic virtue, that we might wonder how

it happened into an age so corrupt as ours, if it had not likewise been

a part of the former. As you came into the world with all the advantages

of a noble birth and education, so you have rendered both yet more

conspicuous by your virtue. Fortune, indeed, has perpetually crowned

your undertakings with success, but she has only waited on your valour,

not conducted it. She has ministered to your glory like a slave, and has

been led in triumph by it; or, at most, while honour led you by the hand

to greatness, fortune only followed to keep you from sliding back in the

ascent. That, which Plutarch accounted her favour to Cymon and Lucullus,

was but her justice to your grace; and, never to have been overcome

where you led in person, as it was more than Hannibal could boast, so it

was all that Providence could do for that party, which it had resolved

to ruin. Thus, my lord, the last smiles of victory were on your arms;

and, everywhere else declaring for the rebels, she seemed to suspend

herself, and to doubt, before she took her flight, whether she were able

wholly to abandon that cause, for which you fought[H].

But the greatest trials of your courage and constancy were yet to come:

Many had ventured their fortunes, and exposed their lives to the utmost

dangers for their king and country, who ended their loyalty with the

war; and, submitting to the iniquity of the times, chose rather to

redeem their former plenty, by acknowledging an usurper, than to suffer

with an unprofitable fidelity (as those meaner spirits called it) for

their lawful sovereign. But, as I dare not accuse so many of our

nobility, who were content to accept their patrimonies from the clemency

of the conqueror, and to retain only a secret veneration for their

prince, amidst the open worship which they were forced to pay to the

usurper, who had dethroned him; so, I hope, I may have leave to extol

that virtue which acted more generously; and which was not satisfied

with an inward devotion to monarchy, but produced itself to view, and

asserted the cause by open martyrdom. Of these rare patterns of loyalty,

your grace was chief: Those examples you could not find, you made. Some

few Cato's there were with you, whose invincible resolution could not be

conquered by that usurping Caesar. Your virtue opposed itself to his

fortune, and overcame it, by not submitting to it. The last and most

difficult enterprize he had to effect, when he had conquered three

nations, was to subdue your spirit; and he died weary of that war, and

unable to finish it.

In the mean time, you lived more happily in your exile, than the other

on his throne. Your loyalty made you friends and servants amongst

foreigners; and you lived plentifully without a fortune; for you lived

on your own desert and reputation. The glorious name of the valiant and

faithful Newcastle, was a patrimony which could never be exhausted.

Thus, my lord, the morning of your life was clear and calm; and, though

it was afterwards overcast, yet, in that general storm, you were never

without a shelter. And now you are happily arrived to the evening of a

day, as serene as the dawn of it was glorious; but such an evening as, I

hope, and almost prophecy, is far from night: 'Tis the evening of a

summer's sun, which keeps the day-light long within the skies. The

health of your body is maintained by the vigour of your mind: Neither

does the one shrink from the fatigue of exercise, nor the other bend

under the pains of study. Methinks, I behold in you another Caius

Marius, who, in the extremity of his age, exercised himself almost every

morning in the Campus Martius, amongst the youthful nobility of Rome.

And afterwards in your retirements, when you do honour to poetry, by

employing part of your leisure in it, I regard you as another Silius

Italicus, who, having passed over his consulship with applause,

dismissed himself from business, and from the gown, and employed his

age, amongst the shades, in the reading and imitation of Virgil.

In which, lest any thing should be wanting to your happiness, you have,

by a rare effect of fortune, found, in the person of your excellent

lady, not only a lover, but a partner of your studies; a lady whom our

age may justly equal with the Sappho of the Greeks, or the Sulpitia of

the Romans; who, by being taken into your bosom, seems to be inspired

with your genius; and, by writing the history of your life[I], in so

masculine a style, has already placed you in the number of the heroes.

She has anticipated that great portion of fame, which envy often hinders

a living virtue from possessing; which would, indeed, have been given to

your ashes, but with a later payment; and of which you could have no

present use, except it were by a secret presage of that which was to

come, when you were no longer in a possibility of knowing it. So that if

that were a praise, or satisfaction to the greatest of emperors, which

the most judicious of poets gives him--

_Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores, &c._

that the adoration, which was not allowed to Hercules and Romulus till

after death, was given to Augustus living, then certainly it cannot be

denied, but that your grace has received a double satisfaction: the one,

to see yourself consecrated to immortality while you are yet alive; the

other, to have your praises celebrated by so dear, so just, and so pious

an historian.

It is the consideration of this that stops my pen; though I am loth to

leave so fair a subject, which gives me as much field as poetry could

wish, and yet no more than truth can justify. But to attempt any thing

of a panegyric, were to enterprize on your lady's right; and to seem to

affect those praises, which none but the duchess of Newcastle can

deserve, when she writes the actions of her lord. I shall, therefore,

leave that wider space, and contract myself to those narrow bounds,

which best become my fortune and employment.

I am obliged, my lord, to return you not only my own acknowledgments,

but to thank you in the names of former poets; the names of Jonson and

D'Avenant[J] seem to require it from me, that those favours, which you

placed on them, and which they wanted opportunity to own in public, yet

might not be lost to the knowledge of posterity, with a forgetfulness

unbecoming of the Muses, who are the daughters of memory. And give me

leave, my lord, to avow so much of vanity, as to say, I am proud to be

their remembrancer: For, by relating how gracious you have been to them,

and are to me, I, in some measure, join my name with theirs: And the

continued descent of your favours to me is the best title which I can

plead for my succession. I only wish, that I had as great reason to be

satisfied with myself, in the return of our common acknowledgments, as

your grace may justly take in the conferring them: For I cannot but be

very sensible, that the present of an ill comedy, which I here make you,

is a very unsuitable way of giving thanks for them, who, themselves,

have written so many better. This pretends to nothing more, than to be a

foil to those scenes, which are composed by the most noble poet of our

age and nation; and to be set as a water-mark of the lowest ebb, to

which the wit of my predecessor has sunk, and run down in me. But,

though all of them have surpassed me in the scene, there is one part of

glory, in which I will not yield to any of them: I mean, my lord, that

honour and veneration which they had for you in their lives; and which I

preserve after them, more holily than the vestal fires were maintained

from age to age; but with a greater degree of heat, and of devotion,

than theirs, as being with more respect and passion than they ever were.

Your GRACE'S

Most obliged, most humble,

and most obedient Servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

[Footnote G: William Cavendish, duke of Newcastle, distinguished himself

in the civil wars of Charles I. He might have possessed himself of Hull,

had the king more early resolved on an open rupture with the parliament.

When the war broke out, he levied an army of 8000 men, secured the

northern counties for the king, and raised the siege of York. The

invasion of the Scots prevented his farther success; but he defeated the

parliamentary forces in several actions, and shewed all the talents of a

great soldier. After the loss of the battle of Marston Moor, which

Prince Rupert hazarded in opposition to his advice, he left England in

disgust, and did not return till the Restoration. He was much respected

when abroad, and acquired the favour of many princes, and, amongst

others, of Don John of Austria. His skill in the equestrian art was,

perhaps, as great a recommendation, as his noble birth and unstained

loyalty. During the wars, he had been raised from the rank of earl to

that of marquis; and after the Restoration he was created duke of

Newcastle. He wrote several plays, of which we know only the names; "The

Country Captain," "Variety," "The Humourous Lovers," and "The Triumphant

Widow." He also translated Moliere's "_L'Etourdi,"_ which our author

converted into "Sir Martin Mar-all". But his most noted work is a

splendid folio on Horsemanship, with engravings; in which, after his

grace has been represented in every possible attitude and dress, he is

at length depicted mounted on Pegasus, and in the act of ascending from

a circle of Houyhnhnms, kneeling around him in the act of adoration.

His once celebrated duchess was Margaret, daughter of Sir Charles Lucas.

She was his grace's second wife, and married to him during his exile. A

most voluminous author; she wrote nineteen plays, besides philosophical

essays, letters, and orations. For the former she has condescended to

leave the following apology:

The Latin phrases I could never tell, But Jonson could, which made him

write so well. Greek, Latin poets I could never read, Nor their

historians, but our English Speed. I could not steal their wit, nor

plots out-take, All my plays plots my own poor brain did make. From

Plutarch's story I ne'er took a plot, Nor from romances, nor from Don

Quixote.

Her grace's assiduity was equal to her originality. She kept a bevy of

maidens of honour, who were obliged, at all hours of the night, to

attend the summons of her bell, with a light, and materials "to register

her grace's conceptions," which, we beg the reader to understand, were

all of a literary or philosophical nature.

The good duchess's conceptions are now forgotten; but it should not be

forgotten, that her kind solicitude soothed and supported her husband

through a weary exile of eighteen years, when their fortunes were

reduced to the lowest ebb. In gratitude, he appears to have encouraged

her pursuits, and admired the productions of her muse. In the "Sessions

of Poets" he is introduced as founding upon her literary pretensions,

rather than his own.

Newcastle and's horse for entrance next strives,

Well-stuffed was his cloak-bag, and so was his breeches,

And ---- ----

Pulled out his wife's poems, plays, essays, and speeches.

Whoop! quoth Apollo, what a devil have we here?

Put up thy wife's trumpery, good noble marquis,

And home again, home again take thy career,

To provide her fresh straw, and a chamber that dark is.

Such were the noble personages whom Dryden deemed worthy of the fine

strains of eulogy conveyed in this dedication.]

[Footnote H: This compliment is overstrained. But though Charles gained

many advantages after the earl of Newcastle had left England, the north

was irrecoverably lost to his cause.]

[Footnote I: The duchess wrote her husband's Life, which was translated

into Latin. It is certainly the best of her grace's performances.]

[Footnote J: Jonson and D'Avenant were both protected by the duke of

Newcastle. Jonson has addressed several verses to him, and composed a

Masque for the splendid entertainment which he gave to Charles I., at

his house at Wellbeck, when the king was on his first northern

journey.]

AN EVENING'S LOVE.

Our author acknowledges, that this play of "The Mock Astrologer" is

founded on "_Le feint Astrologue_," by the younger Corneille, which he,

in his turn, had imitated from "_El Astrologo fingido_" of Calderon. But

Dryden has also laid Moliere under contribution. Most part of the

quarrelling scene betwixt Wildblood and Jacintha, in the fourth act, is

literally copied from that betwixt Lucile Eraste, Marinette, and Gros

Rene, in "_Le Depit Amoureux_." The absurd loquacity of Don Alonzo, and

his friend's mode of silencing him, by ringing a bell in his ears, is

imitated from the scene betwixt Albert and Metaphraste, in the same

play; and, it must be allowed, it is an expedient which might be more

decently resorted to against an inundation of nonsense from a pedantic

schoolmaster, as in Moliere, than to stop the mouth of a noble old

Spaniard, the uncle of Don Lopez' mistress. The play itself is more

lively than most of Dryden's comedies. Wildblood and Jacintha are far

more pleasant than their prototypes, Celadon and Florimel; and the

Spanish bustle of the plot is well calculated to keep up the attention.

The character of Aurelia was perhaps suggested by the "_Precieuses

Ridicules_" of Moliere, but cannot, with any justice, be said to be

copied from them. The Preface contains some excellent remarks on the old

comedy. There is also an elaborate defence, the first our poet deigned

to make, against the charge of plagiarism. On this point he quotes the

words of Charles II., who had only desired, that they, who accused

Dryden of theft, would steal him such plays as Dryden's: And he

vindicates the right of an author to take his plot where he could best

find it, in history or romance, providing that the conduct and

disposition of the action, with the dialogue, character, and poetical

ornaments, were original. Our author's use of the terms and technical

phrases of judicial astronomy intimate his acquaintance with that

pretended science, in which he is known to have placed some confidence.

The "Mock Astrologer" appears to have been acted and published in 1668.

THE

PREFACE.

* * * * *

I had thought, reader, in this preface, to have written somewhat

concerning the difference betwixt the plays of our age, and those of our

predecessors, on the English stage: To have shewn in what parts of

dramatic poesy we were excelled by Ben Jonson, I mean, humour, and

contrivance of comedy; and in what we may justly claim precedence of

Shakespeare and Fletcher, namely in heroic plays: But this design I have

waved on second considerations; at least, deferred it till I publish The

Conquest of Granada, where the discourse will be more proper. I had also

prepared to treat of the improvement of our language since Fletcher's

and Jonson's days, and consequently of our refining the courtship,

raillery, and conversation of plays: But as I am willing to decline that

envy which I should draw on myself from some old _opiniatre_ judges of

the stage, so likewise I am prest in time so much that I have not

leisure, at present, to go through with it. Neither, indeed, do I value

a reputation gained from comedy, so far as to concern myself about it,

any more than I needs must in my own defence: For I think it, in its

own nature, inferior to all sorts of dramatick writing. Low comedy

especially requires, on the writer's part, much of conversation with the

vulgar, and much of ill nature in the observation of their follies. But

let all men please themselves according to their several tastes: That

which is not pleasant to me, may be to others who judge better: And, to

prevent an accusation from my enemies, I am sometimes ready to imagine,

that my disgust of low comedy proceeds not so much from my judgment as

from my temper; which is the reason why I so seldom write it; and that

when I succeed in it, (I mean so far as to please the audience) yet I am

nothing satisfied with what I have done; but am often vexed to hear the

people laugh, and clap, as they perpetually do, where intended them no

jest; while they let pass the better things, without taking notice of

them. Yet even this confirms me in my opinion of slighting popular

applause, and of contemning that approbation which those very people

give, equally with me, to the zany of a mountebank; or to the appearance

of an antick on the theatre, without wit on the poet's part, or any

occasion of laughter from the actor, besides the ridiculousness of his

habit and his grimaces.

But I have descended, before I was aware, from comedy to farce; which

consists principally of grimaces. That I admire not any comedy equally

with tragedy, is, perhaps, from the sullenness of my humour; but that I

detest those farces, which are now the most frequent entertainments of

the stage, I am sure I have reason on my side. Comedy consists, though

of low persons, yet of natural actions and characters; I mean such

humours, adventures, and designs, as are to be found and met with in the

world. Farce, on the other side, consists of forced humours, and

unnatural events. Comedy presents us with the imperfections of human

nature: Farce entertains us with what is monstrous and chimerical. The

one causes laughter in those who can judge of men and manners, by the

lively representation of their folly or corruption: The other produces

the same effect in those who can judge of neither, and that only by its

extravagances. The first works on the judgment and fancy; the latter on

the fancy only: There is more of satisfaction in the former kind of

laughter, and in the latter more of scorn. But, how it happens, that an

impossible adventure should cause our mirth, I cannot so easily imagine.

Something there may be in the oddness of it, because on the stage it is

the common effect of things unexpected, to surprise us into a delight:

and that is to be ascribed to the strange appetite, as I may call it, of

the fancy; which, like that of a longing woman, often runs out into the

most extravagant desires; and is better satisfied sometimes with loam,

or with the rinds of trees, than with the wholesome nourishments of

life. In short, there is the same difference betwixt farce and comedy,

as betwixt an empirick, and a true physician: Both of them may attain

their ends; but what the one performs by hazard, the other does by

skill. And as the artist is often unsuccessful, while the mountebank

succeeds; so farces more commonly take the people than comedies. For, to

write unnatural things, is the most probable way of pleasing them, who

understand not nature. And a true poet often misses of applause, because

he cannot debase himself to write so ill as to please his audience.

After all, it is to be acknowledged, that most of those comedies, which

have been lately written, have been allied too much to farce: And this

must of necessity fall out, till we forbear the translation of French

plays: For their poets, wanting judgment to make or to maintain true

characters, strive to cover their defects with ridiculous figures and

grimaces. While I say this, I accuse myself as well as others: And this

very play would rise up in judgment against me, if I would defend all

things I have written to be natural: But I confess I have given too much

to the people in it, and am ashamed for them as well as for myself, that

I have pleased them at so cheap a rate. Not that there is any thing here

which I would not defend to an ill-natured judge; (for I despise their

censures, who I am sure would write worse on the same subject:) but,

because I love to deal clearly and plainly, and to speak of my own

faults with more criticism, than I would of another poet's. Yet I think

it no vanity to say, that this comedy has as much of entertainment in

it, as many others which have been lately written: And, if I find my own

errors in it, I am able, at the same time, to arraign all my

contemporaries for greater. As I pretend not that I can write humour, so

none of them can reasonably pretend to have written it as they ought.

Jonson was the only man, of all ages and nations, who has performed it

well; and that but in three or four of his comedies: The rest are but a

_crambe bis cocta_; the same humours a little varied and written worse.

Neither was it more allowable in him, than it is in our present poets,

to represent the follies of particular persons; of which many have

accused him. _Parcere personis, dicere de vitiis_, is the rule of plays.

And Horace tells you, that the old comedy amongst the Grecians was

silenced for the too great liberties of the poets:

----_In vitium libertas excidit et vim

Dignam lege regi: Lex est accepta, chorusque

Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi._

Of which he gives you the reason in another place: where, having given

the precept,

_Neve immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta,_

He immediately subjoins,

_Offenduntur enim quibus est equus, et pater, et res._

But Ben Jonson is to be admired for many excellencies; and can be taxed

with fewer failings than any English poet. I know I have been accused as

an enemy of his writings; but without any other reason, than that I do

not admire him blindly, and without looking into his imperfections. For

why should he only be exempted from those frailties, from which Homer

and Virgil are not free? Or why should there be any _ipse dixit_ in our

poetry, any more than there is in our philosophy? I admire and applaud

him where I ought: Those, who do more, do but value themselves in their

admiration of him; and, by telling you they extol Ben Jonson's way,

would insinuate to you that they can practise it. For my part, I declare

that I want judgment to imitate him; and should think it a great

impudence in myself to attempt it. To make men appear pleasantly

ridiculous on the stage, was, as I have said, his talent; and in this he

needed not the acumen of wit, but that of judgment. For the characters

and representations of folly are only the effects of observation; and

observation is an effect of judgment. Some ingenious men, for whom I

have a particular esteem, have thought I have much injured Ben Jonson,

when I have not allowed his wit to be extraordinary: But they confound

the notion of what is witty, with what is pleasant. That Ben Jonson's

plays were pleasant, he must want reason who denies: But that

pleasantness was not properly wit, or the sharpness of conceit; but the

natural imitation of folly: Which I confess to be excellent in its kind,

but not to be of that kind which they pretend. Yet if we will believe

Quintilian, in his chapter _de movendo risu_, he gives his opinion of

both in these following words: _Stulta reprehendere facillimum est; nam

per se sunt ridicula, et a derisu non procul abest risus: Sed rem

urbanam facit aliqua ex nobis adjectio_.

And some perhaps would be apt to say of Jonson, as it was said of

Demosthenes,--_non displicuisse illi jocos, sed non contigisse_. I will

not deny, but that I approve most the mixt way of comedy; that which is

neither all wit, nor all humour, but the result of both. Neither so

little of humour as Fletcher shews, nor so little of love and wit as

Jonson; neither all cheat, with which the best plays of the one are

filled, nor all adventure, which is the common practice of the other. I

would have the characters well chosen, and kept distant from interfering

with each other; which is more than Fletcher or Shakespeare did: But I

would have more of the _urbana, venusta, salsa, faceta_, and the rest

which Quintilian reckons up as the ornaments of wit; and these are

extremely wanting in Ben Jonson. As for repartee, in particular; as it

is the very soul of conversation, so it is the greatest grace of comedy,

where it is proper to the characters. There may be much of acuteness in

a thing well said; but there is more in a quick reply: _Sunt enim longe

venustiora omnia in respondendo quam in provocando_. Of one thing I am

sure, that no man ever will decry wit, but he who despairs of it

himself; and who has no other quarrel to it, but that which the fox had

to the grapes. Yet, as Mr Cowley (who had a greater portion of it than

any man I know) tells us in his _Character of Wit_,--rather than all

wit, let there be none. I think there is no folly so great in any poet

of our age, as the superfluity and waste of wit was in some of our

predecessors: particularly we may say of Fletcher and of Shakespeare,

what was said of Ovid, _In omni ejus ingenio, facilius quod rejici, quam

quod adjici potest, invenies:_ The contrary of which was true in Virgil,

and our incomparable Jonson.

Some enemies of repartee have observed to us, that there is a great

latitude in their characters, which are made to speak it: and that it is

easier to write wit than humour; because, in the characters of humour,

the poet is confined to make the person speak what is only proper to it;

whereas, all kind of wit is proper in the character of a witty person.

But, by their favour, there are as different characters in wit as in

folly. Neither is all kind of wit proper in the mouth of every ingenious

person. A witty coward, and a witty brave, must speak differently.

_Falstaff_ and the _Liar_ speak not like _Don John_ in the "Chances,"

and _Valentine_ in "Wit without Money." And Jonson's _Truewit_ in the

"Silent Woman," is a character different from all of them. Yet it

appears, that this one character of wit was more difficult to the

author, than all his images of humour in the play: for those he could

describe and manage from his observations of men; this he has taken, at

least a part of it, from books; Witness the speeches in the first act,

translated _verbatim_ out of Ovid, "_De Arte Amandi_." To omit what

afterwards he borrowed from the sixth satire of Juvenal against women.

However, if I should grant, that there were a greater latitude in

characters of wit, than in those of humour; yet that latitude would be

of small advantage to such poets, who have too narrow an imagination to

write it. And to entertain an audience perpetually with humour, is to

carry them from the conversation of gentlemen, and treat them with the

follies and extravagancies of Bedlam.

I find I have launched out farther than I intended in the beginning of

this preface; and that, in the heat of writing, I have touched at

something, which I thought to have avoided. It is time now to draw

homeward; and to think rather of defending myself, than assaulting

others. I have already acknowledged, that this play is far from perfect:

But I do not think myself obliged to discover the imperfections of it to

my adversaries, any more than a guilty person is bound to accuse himself

before his judges. It is charged upon me that I make debauched persons

(such as, they say, my Astrologer and Gamester are) my protagonists, or

the chief persons of the drama; and that I make them happy in the

conclusion of my play; against the law of comedy, which is to reward

virtue, and punish vice. I answer, first, that I know no such law to

have been constantly observed in comedy, either by the ancient or modern

poets. _Chaerea_ is made happy in the "Eunuch," after having deflowered a

virgin; and Terence generally does the same through all his plays, where

you perpetually see, not only debauched young men enjoy their

mistresses, but even the courtezans themselves rewarded and honoured in

the catastrophe. The same may be observed in Plautus almost everywhere.

Ben Jonson himself, after whom I may be proud to err, has given me more

than once the example of it. That in "The Alchemist" is notorious, where

_Face_, after having contrived and carried on the great cozenage of the

play, and continued in it without repentance to the last, is not only

forgiven by his master, but enriched, by his consent, with the spoils of

those whom he had cheated. And, which is more, his master himself, a

grave man, and a widower, is introduced taking his man's counsel,

debauching the widow first, in hope to marry her afterward. In the

"Silent Woman," _Dauphine_ (who, with the other two gentlemen, is of the

same character with my _Celadon_ in the "Maiden Queen," and with

_Wildblood_ in this) professes himself in love with all the collegiate

ladies: and they likewise are all of the same character with each other,

excepting only _Madam Otter_, who has something singular: Yet this

naughty _Dauphine_ is crowned in the end with the possession of his

uncle's estate, and with the hopes of enjoying all his mistresses; and

his friend, _Mr Truewit_, (the best character of a gentleman which Ben

Jonson ever made) is not ashamed to pimp for him. As for Beaumont and

Fletcher, I need not allege examples out of them; for that were to quote

almost all their comedies. But now it will be objected, that I patronise

vice by the authority of former poets, and extenuate my own faults by

recrimination. I answer, that as I defend myself by their example, so

that example I defend by reason, and by the end of all dramatic poesy.

In the first place, therefore, give me leave to shew you their mistake,

who have accused me. They have not distinguished, as they ought, betwixt

the rules of tragedy and comedy. In tragedy, where the actions and

persons are great, and the crimes horrid, the laws of justice are more

strictly observed; and examples of punishment to be made, to deter

mankind from the pursuit of vice. Faults of this kind have been rare

amongst the ancient poets: for they have punished in _Oedipus_, and in

his posterity, the sin which he knew not he had committed. _Medea_ is

the only example I remember at present, who escapes from punishment

after murder. Thus tragedy fulfils one great part of its institution;

which is, by example, to instruct. But in comedy it is not so; for the

chief end of it is divertisement and delight: and that so much, that it

is disputed, I think, by Heinsius, before Horace's "Art of Poetry,"

whether instruction be any part of its employment. At least I am sure it

can be but its secondary end: for the business of the poet is to make

you laugh: when he writes humour, he makes folly ridiculous; when wit,

he moves you, if not always to laughter, yet to a pleasure that is more

noble. And if he works a cure on folly, and the small imperfections in

mankind, by exposing them to public view, that cure is not performed by

an immediate operation: For it works first on the ill-nature of the

audience; they are moved to laugh by the representation of deformity;

and the shame of that laughter teaches us to amend what is ridiculous in

our manners. This being then established, that the first end of comedy

is delight, and instruction only the second; it may reasonably be

inferred, that comedy is not so much obliged to the punishment of faults

which it represents, as tragedy. For the persons in comedy are of a

lower quality, the action is little, and the faults and vices are but

the sallies of youth, and the frailties of human nature, and not

premeditated crimes: such to which all men are obnoxious; not such as

are attempted only by few, and those abandoned to all sense of virtue:

such as move pity and commiseration; not detestation and horror: such,

in short, as may be forgiven; not such as must of necessity be punished.

But, lest any man should think that I write this to make libertinism

amiable, or that I cared not to debase the end and institution of

comedy, so I might thereby maintain my own errors, and those of better

poets, I must further declare, both for them and for myself, that we

make not vicious persons happy, but only as Heaven makes sinners so;

that is, by reclaiming them first from vice. For so it is to be supposed

they are, when they resolve to marry; for then, enjoying what they

desire in one, they cease to pursue the love of many. So _Chaerea_ is

made happy by Terence, in marrying her whom he had deflowered: and so

are _Wildblood_ and the _Astrologer_ in this play.

There is another crime with which I am charged, at which I am yet much

less concerned, because it does not relate to my manners, as the former

did, but only to my reputation as a poet: a name of which I assure the

reader I am nothing proud; and therefore cannot be very solicitous to

defend it. I am taxed with stealing all my plays, and that by some, who

should be the last men from whom I would steal any part of them. There

is one answer which I will not make; but it has been made for me, by him

to whose grace and patronage I owe all things,

_Et spes et ratio studiorum in Caesare tantum_--

and without whose command they should no longer be troubled with any

thing of mine;--that he only desired, that they, who accused me of

theft, would always steal him plays like mine. But though I have reason

to be proud of this defence, yet I should wave it, because I have a

worse opinion of my own comedies than any of my enemies can have. It is

true, that wherever I have liked any story in a romance, novel, or

foreign play, I have made no difficulty, nor ever shall, to take the

foundation of it, to build it up, and to make it proper for the English

stage. And I will be so vain to say, it has lost nothing in my hands:

But it always cost me so much trouble to heighten it for our theatre,

(which is incomparably more curious in all the ornaments of dramatic

poesy than the French or Spanish,) that when I had finished my play, it

was like the hulk of Sir Francis Drake, so strangely altered, that there

scarcely remained any plank of the timber which first built it. To

witness this, I need go no farther than this play: it was first Spanish,

and called "El Astrologo Fingido;" then made French by the younger

Corneille; and is now translated into English, and in print, under the

name of "The Feigned Astrologer." What I have performed in this will

best appear by comparing it with those: You will see that I have

rejected some adventures which I judged were not divertising; that I

have heightened those which I have chosen; and that I have added others,

which were neither in the French nor Spanish. And, besides, you will

easily discover, that the walk of the _Astrologer_ is the least

considerable in my play: For the design of it turns more on the parts of

_Wildblood_ and _Jacinta_, who are the chief persons in it. I have

farther to add, that I seldom use the wit and language of any romance or

play, which I undertake to alter: because my own invention (as bad as it

is) can furnish me with nothing so dull as what is there. Those who have

called Virgil, Terence, and Tasso, plagiaries, (though they much injured

them) had yet a better colour for their accusation; for Virgil has

evidently translated Theocritus, Hesiod, and Homer, in many places;

besides what he has taken from Ennius in his own language. Terence was

not only known to translate Menander, (which he avows also in his

prologues) but was said also to be helped in those translations by

Scipio the African, and Laelius. And Tasso, the most excellent of modern

poets, and whom I reverence next to Virgil, has taken both from Homer

many admirable things, which were left untouched by Virgil, and from

Virgil himself, where Homer could not furnish him. Yet the bodies of

Virgil's and Tasso's poems were their own; and so are all the ornaments

of language and elocution in them. The same (if there were any thing

commendable in this play) I could say for it. But I will come nearer to

our own countrymen. Most of Shakespeare's plays, I mean the stories of

them, are to be found in the "Hecatomithi," or "Hundred Novels" of

Cinthio. I have myself read in his Italian, that of "Romeo and Juliet,"

the "Moor of Venice," and many others of them. Beaumont and Fletcher had

most of theirs from Spanish novels: Witness "The Chances," "The Spanish

Curate," "Rule a Wife and have a Wife," "The Little French Lawyer," and

so many others of them as compose the greatest part of their volume in

folio. Ben Jonson, indeed, has designed his plots himself; but no man

has borrowed so much from the ancients as he has done: and he did well

in it, for he has thereby beautified our language.

But these little critics do not well consider what is the work of a

poet, and what the graces of a poem: the story is the least part of

either: I mean the foundation of it, before it is modelled by the art of

him who writes it; who forms it with more care, by exposing only the

beautiful parts of it to view, than a skilful lapidary sets a jewel. On

this foundation of the story, the characters are raised: and, since no

story can afford characters enough for the variety of the English stage,

it follows, that it is to be altered and enlarged with new persons,

accidents, and designs, which will almost make it new. When this is

done, the forming it into acts and scenes, disposing of actions and

passions into their proper places, and beautifying both with

descriptions, similitudes, and propriety of language, is the principal

employment of the poet; as being the largest field of fancy, which is

the principal quality required in him: for so much the word [Greek:

poietes] implies. Judgment, indeed, is necessary in him; but it is fancy

that gives the life-touches, and the secret graces to it; especially in

serious plays, which depend not much on observation. For, to write

humour in comedy, (which is the theft of poets from mankind) little of

fancy is required; the poet observes only what is ridiculous and

pleasant folly, and by judging exactly what is so, he pleases in the

representation of it.

But, in general, the employment of a poet is like that of a curious

gunsmith, or watchmaker: the iron or silver is not his own; but they are

the least part of that which gives the value: the price lies wholly in

the workmanship. And he who works dully on a story, without moving

laughter in a comedy, or raising concernment in a serious play, is no

more to be accounted a good poet, than a gunsmith of the Minories is to

be compared with the best workman of the town.

But I have said more of this than I intended; and more, perhaps, than I

needed to have done: I shall but laugh at them hereafter, who accuse me

with so little reason; and withal contemn their dulness, who, if they

could ruin that little reputation I have got, and which I value not, yet

would want both wit and learning to establish their own; or to be

remembered in after ages for any thing, but only that which makes them

ridiculous in this.

PROLOGUE.

When first our poet set himself to write,

Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night;

He laid about him, and did so bestir him,

His muse could never lie in quiet for him:

But now his honey-moon is gone and past,

Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last:

And he is bound, as civil husbands do,

To strain himself, in complaisance to you:

To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss,

Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss.

But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want;

Each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant:

And though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before,

Yet still there's something in a new amour.

Your several poets work with several tools,

One gets you wits, another gets you fools:

This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit,

This finds some cranny that was never hit.

But should these janty lovers daily come

To do your work, like your good man at home,

Their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay;

These are gallants but for a holiday.

Others you had, who oftner have appeared,

Whom, for mere impotence, you have cashiered:

Such as at first came on with pomp and glory,

But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye.

Their useless weight, with patience, long was born,

But at the last you threw them off with scorn.

As for the poet of this present night, }

Though now he claims in you a husband's right, }

He will not hinder you of fresh delight. }

He, like a seaman, seldom will appear;

And means to trouble home but thrice a-year:

That only time from your gallants he'll borrow;

Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

WILDBLOOD, }

} _Two young English gentlemen_.

BELLAMY, }

MASKALL, _their servant_.

_Don_ ALONZO DE RIBERA, _an old Spanish gentleman_.

_Don_ LOPEZ DE GAMBOA, _a young noble Spaniard_.

_Don_ MELCHOR DE GUZMAN, _a gentleman of a great family; but of a

decayed fortune_.

_Donna_ THEODOSIA, }

} _Daughters to Don_ ALONZO.

_Donna_ JACINTHA, }

_Donna_ AURELIA, _their cousi_.

BEATRIX, _woman and confident to the two Sisters_.

CAMILLA, _woman to_ AURELIA.

_Servants to Don_ LOPEZ _and Don_ ALONZO.

SCENE--_Madrid, in the Year 1665_.

_The Time, the last Evening of the Carnival_.

AN

EVENING'S LOVE;

OR, THE

MOCK ASTROLOGER.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_Don_ LOPEZ, _and a Servant walking over the stage. Enter another

Servant, and follows him_.

_Serv._ Don Lopez.