_Theo._ Since 'tis so unluckily fallen out, that she knows you are at

Madrid, it can no longer be kept a secret; therefore, you must now

pretend openly to me, and run the risk of a denial from my father.

_Mel._ O, madam, there's no question but he'll refuse me: For, alas!

what is it he can see in me worthy of that honour? Or, if he should be

so partial to me, as some in the world are, to think me valiant,

learned, and not altogether a fool, yet my want of fortune would weigh

down all.

_Theo._ When he has refused you his consent, I may

with justice dispose of myself; and that, while you are constant, shall

never be to any but yourself: In witness of which, accept this diamond,

as a pledge of my heart's firmness to you.

_Beat._ Madam, your father is coming this way.

_Theo._ 'Tis no matter; do not stir: since he must know you are

returned, let him now see you.

_Enter Don_ ALONZO.

_Alon._ Daughter, what make you here at this unseasonable hour?

_Theo._ Sir----

_Alon._ I know what you would say, that you heard a noise, and ran

hither to see what it might be----Bless us! who is this with you?

_Mel._ 'Tis your servant, Don Melchor; just returned from St Sebastians.

_Alon._ But, sir, I thought you had been upon the sea for Flanders.

_Mel._ I had so designed it.

_Alon._ But, why came you back from St Sebastians?

_Mel._ As for that, sir, 'tis not material.

_Theo._ An unexpected law-suit has called him back from St Sebastians.

_Alon._ And how fares my son-in-law, that lives there?

_Mel._ In Catholic health, sir.

_Alon._ Have you brought no letters from him?

_Mel._ I had, sir, but I was set upon by the way, by picarons: and, in

spite of my resistance, robbed, and my portmanteau taken from me.

_Theo._ And this was that which he was now desiring me to excuse to

you.

_Alon._ If my credit, friends, or counsel, can do you any service in

your suit, I hope you will command them freely.

_Mel._ When I have dispatched some private business, I shall not fail to

trouble you; till then, humbly kisses your hands the most obliged of

your servants.

[_Exit_ MELCHOR.

_Alon._ Daughter, now this cavalier is gone, what occasion brought you

out so late?--I know what you would say, that it is melancholy; a

tincture of the hypochondria you mean: But, what cause have you for this

melancholy? Give me your hand, and answer me without ambages, or

ambiguities.

_Theo._ He will find out I have given away my ring--I must prevent

him--Sir, I am ashamed to confess it to you; but, in hope of your

indulgence, I have lost the table diamond you gave me.

_Alon._ You would say, The fear of my displeasure has caused the

perturbation in you; well, do not disquiet yourself too much; you say

'tis gone, I say so too. 'Tis stolen; and that by some thief, I take it:

But, I will go and consult the astrologer immediately.

[_He is going._

_Theo._ What have I done? To avoid one inconvenience, I have run into

another: This devil of an astrologer will discover that Don Melchor has

it.

[_Aside._

_Alon._ When did you lose this diamond? The minute and second I should

know; but the hour will serve for the degree ascending.

_Theo._ Sir, the precise time I know not; but it was betwixt six and

seven in the evening, as near as I can guess.

_Alon._ 'Tis enough; by all the stars, I'll have it for you: Therefore,

go in, and suppose it on your finger.

_Beat._ I'll watch you at a distance, sir, that my Englishman may have

wherewithal to answer you.

[_Aside. Exeunt_ THEO. BEAT.

_Alon._ This melancholy, wherewith my daughter laboureth, is--a--I know

what I would say, is a certain species of the hysterical disease; or a

certain motion, caused by a certain appetite, which, at a certain time,

heaveth in her, like a certain motion of an earthquake--

_Enter_ BELLAMY.

_Bel._ This is the place, and very near the time that Theodosia appoints

her meeting with Don Melchor. He is this night otherwise disposed of

with Aurelia: 'Tis but trying my fortune, to tell her of his infidelity,

and my love. If she yields, she makes me happy; if not, I shall be sure

Don Melchor has not planted the arms of Spain in the fort before me.

However, I'll push my fortune, as sure as I am an Englishman.

_Alon._ Sennor Inglis, I know your voice, though I cannot perfectly

discern you.

_Bel._ How the devil came he to cross me?

_Alon._ I was just coming to have asked another favour of you.

_Bel._ Without ceremony, command me, sir.

_Alon._ My daughter Theodosia has lost a fair diamond from her finger,

the time betwixt six and seven this evening; now, I desire you, sir, to

erect a scheme for it, and if it be lost, or stolen, to restore it to

me. This is all, sir.

_Bel._ There is no end of this old fellow; thus will he bait me from day

to day, till my ignorance be found out.

[_Aside._

_Alon._ Now is he casting a figure by the art of memory, and making a

judgment of it to himself. This astrology is a very mysterious

speculation.

[_Aside._

_Bel._ 'Tis a madness for me to hope I can deceive him longer. Since

then he must know I am no astrologer, I'll discover it myself to him,

and blush once for all.

[_Aside._

_Alon._ Well, sir, and what do the stars hold forth? What says nimble

master Mercury to the matter?

_Bel._ Sir, not to keep you longer in ignorance, I must ingenuously

declare to you, that I am not the man for whom you take me. Some

smattering in astrology I have; which my friends, by their indiscretion,

have blown abroad, beyond my intentions. But you are not a person to be

imposed on like the vulgar: Therefore, to satisfy you in one word, my

skill goes not far enough to give you knowledge of what you desire from

me.

_Alon._ You have said enough, sir, to persuade me of your science; if

fame had not published it, yet this very humility of yours were enough

to confirm me in the belief of it.

_Bel._ Death, you make me mad, sir! Will you have me swear? As I am a

gentleman, a man of the town, one who wears good cloaths, eats, drinks,

and wenches abundantly, I am a damned ignorant, and senseless fellow.

_Enter_ BEATRIX.

_Alon._ How now, gentlewoman?--What, are you going to relief by

moonshine?

_Beat._ I was going on a very charitable office, to help a friend that

was gravelled in a very doubtful business.

_Bel._ Some good news, fortune, I beseech thee.

_Beat._ But now I have found this learned gentleman, I shall make bold

to propound a question to him from a lady.

_Alon._ I will have my own question first resolved.

_Bel._ O, sir, 'tis from a lady.

_Beat._ If you please, sir, I'll tell it in your ear--My lady has given

Don Melchor the ring; in whose company her father found her just now at

the garden-door.

[_In a whisper._

_Bel._ [_Aloud_.] Come to me to-morrow, and you shall receive an answer.

_Beat._ Your servant, sir.

[_Exit_ BEATRIX.

_Alon._ Sir, I shall take it very unkindly if you satisfy any other, and

leave me in this perplexity.

_Bel._ Sir, if my knowledge were according--

_Alon._ No more of that, sir, I beseech you.

_Bel._ Perhaps I may know something by my art concerning it; but, for

your quiet, I wish you would not press me.

_Alon._ Do you think I am not master of my passions?

_Bel._ Since you will needs know what I would willingly have concealed,

the person, who has your diamond, is he whom you saw last in your

daughter's company.

_Alon._ You would say 'tis Don Melchor de Guzman. Who the devil would

have suspected him of such an action? But he is of a decayed family, and

poverty, it seems, has enforced him to it. Now I think on't better, he

has e'en stolen it for a fee, to bribe his lawyer; to requite a lie with

a theft. I'll seek him out, and tell him part of my mind before I sleep.

[_Exit_ ALON.

_Bel._ So, once more I am at liberty: But this astrology is so

troublesome a science--Would I were well rid on't!

_Enter Don_ LOPEZ, _and a Servant_.

_Lop._ Astrology, does he say? O, cavalier, is it you? not finding you

at home, I came on purpose to seek you out: I have a small request to

the stars by your mediation.

_Bel._ Sir, for pity let them shine in quiet a little; for what for

ladies, and their servants, and younger brothers, they scarce get a

holiday in a twelve-month.

_Lop._ Pray, pardon me, if I am a little curious of my destiny, since

all my happiness depends on your answer.

_Bel._ Well, sir, what is it you expect?

_Lop._ To know whether my love to a lady will be successful.

_Bel._ 'Tis Aurelia, he means. [_Aside_.]--Sir, in one word I answer

you, that your mistress loves another; one, who is your friend: But

comfort yourself; the dragon's tail is between him and home, he never

shall enjoy her.

_Lop._ But what hope for me?

_Bel._ The stars have partly assured me, you shall be happy, if you

acquaint her with your passion, and with the double-dealing of your

friend, who is false to her.

_Lop._ You speak like an oracle. But, I have engaged my promise to that

friend, to serve him in his passion to my mistress.

_Bel._ We English seldom make such scruples; women are not comprised in

our laws of friendship. They are _ferae naturae_; our common game, like

hare and partridge: Every man has equal right to them, as he has to the

sun and elements.

_Lop._ Must I then betray my friend?

_Bel._ In that case my friend is a Turk to me, if he will be so

barbarous as to retain two women to his private use. I will be factious

for all distressed damsels; who would much rather have their cause tried

by a full jury, than a single judge.

_Lop._ Well, sir, I will take your counsel; and if I err, the fault be

on love and you.

[_Exit_ LOP.

_Bel._ Were it not for love, I would run out of the town, that's the

short on't; for I have engaged myself in so many promises, for the sun

and moon, and those little minced-meats of them, that I must hide before

my day of payment comes. In the mean time I forget Theodosia; but now I

defy the devil to hinder me.

_As he is going out, he meets_ AURELIA, _and almost justles her down.

With her_ CAMILLA _enters_.

_Aur._ What rudeness is this?

_Bel._ Madam Aurelia, is it you?

_Aur._ Monsieur Bellamy!

_Bel._ The same, madam.

_Aur._ My uncle told me he left you here: And, indeed, I came hither to

complain of you. For you have treated me so inhumanly, that I have some

reason to resent it.

_Bel._ What occasion can I have given you for a complaint?

_Aur._ Don Melchor, as I am informed by my uncle, is effectively at

Madrid: So that it was not his idea, but himself in person, whom I saw.

And since you knew this, why did you conceal it from me?

_Bel._ When I spoke with you, I knew it not: But I discovered it in the

erecting of my figure. Yet if, instead of his idea, I constrained

himself to come, in spite of his resolution to remain concealed, I think

I have shown a greater effect of my art than what I promised.

_Aur._ I render myself to so convincing an argument: But by over-hearing

a discourse just now betwixt my cousin Theodosia and her maid, I find

that he has concealed himself upon her account, which has given me

jealousy to the last point; for, to avow an incontestible truth, my

cousin is furiously handsome.

_Bel._ Madam, madam, trust not your ears too far; she talked on purpose,

that you might hear her. But, I assure you, the true cause of Don

Melchor's concealment was not love of her, but jealousy of you. He staid

in private to observe your actions: Build upon't, madam, he is

inviolably yours.

_Aur._ Then will he sacrifice my cousin to me?

_Bel._ 'Tis furiously true, madam.

_Aur._ O most agreeable assurance!

_Cam._ Albricias, madam, for my good news! Don Melchor is coming this

way; I know him by his voice: but he is in company with another person.

_Aur._ It will not be convenient to give him any umbrage, by seeing me

with another person; therefore, I will go before; do you stay here, and

conduct him to my apartment. Good-night, sir.

[_Exit._

_Bel._ I have promised Don Lopez, he shall possess her; and I have

promised her, she shall possess Don Melchor: 'Tis a little difficult, I

confess, as to the matrimonial part of it: But, if Don Melchor will be

civil to her, and she be civil to Don Lopez, my credit is safe without

the benefit of my clergy. But all this is nothing to Theodosia.

[_Exit_ BEL.

_Enter Don_ ALONZO _and Don_ MELCHOR.

_Cam._ Don Melchor, a word in private.

_Mel._ Your pleasure, lady.--Sir, I will wait on you immediately.

_Cam._ I am sent to you from a fair lady, who bears you no ill will. You

may guess whom I mean.

_Mel._ Not by my own merits, but by knowing whom you serve. But, I

confess, I wonder at her late strange usage, when she fled from me.

_Cam._ That was only a mistake; but I have now, by her command, been in

a thousand places in quest of you.

_Mel._ You overjoy me.

_Cam._ And where, amongst the rest, do you think I have been looking

you?

_Mel._ Pray refresh my memory.

_Cam._ In that same street, by the same shop--you know where, by a good

token.

_Mel._ By what token?

_Cam._ Just by that shop, where, out of your nobleness, you promised me

a new silk gown.

_Mel._ O, now I understand you.

_Cam._ Not that I press you to a performance--

_Mel._ Take this, and please yourself in the choice of it.

[_Gives her money._

_Cam._ Nay, dear sir, now you make me blush; in faith I--am ashamed--I

swear, 'tis only because I would keep something for your sake;--but my

lady expects you immediately in her apartment.

_Mel._ I'll wait on her, if I can possibly. [_Exit_ CAM.] But, if I can

prevail with Don Alonzo for his daughter, then will I again consider,

which of the ladies best deserves me. [_Aside_.] Sir, I beg your pardon

for this rudeness in leaving you.

[_To_ ALON.

_Alon._ I cannot possibly resolve with myself to tell him openly he is a

thief; but I'll gild the pill for him to swallow.

[_Aside._

_Mel._ I believe he has discovered our amour: How he surveys me for a

son-in-law!

[_Aside._

_Alon._ Sir, I am sorry for your sake, that true nobility is not always

accompanied with riches to support it in its lustre.

_Mel._ You have a just exception against the capriciousness of destiny;

yet, if I were owner of any noble qualities, (which I am not) I should

not much esteem the goods of fortune.

_Alon._ But pray conceive me, sir; your father did not leave you

flourishing in wealth.

_Mel._ Only a very fair seat in Andalusia, with all the pleasures

imaginable about it: That alone, were my poor deserts according,--which,

I confess, they are not,--were enough to make a woman happy in it.

_Alon._ But give me leave to come to the point, I beseech you, sir. I

have lost a jewel, which I value infinitely, and I hear it is in your

possession: But I accuse your wants, not you, for it.

_Mel._ Your daughter is indeed a jewel; but she were not lost, were she

in possession of a man of parts.

_Alon._ A precious diamond, sir----

_Mel._ But a man of honour, sir----

_Alon._ I know what you would say, sir,--that a man of honour is not

capable of an unworthy action; and, therefore, I do not accuse you of

the theft: I suppose the jewel was only put into your hands.

_Mel._ By honourable ways, I assure you, sir.

_Alon._ Sir, sir, will you restore my jewel?

_Mel._ Will you please, sir, to give me leave to be the unworthy

possessor of her? I know how to use her with that respect----

_Alon._ I know what you would say, sir; but if it belong to our family?

otherwise, I assure you, it were at your service.

_Mel._ As it belongs to your family, I covet it; not that I plead my own

deserts, sir.

_Alon._ Sir, I know your deserts; but, I protest, I cannot part with it:

For, I must tell you, this diamond ring was originally my

great-grandfather's.

_Mel._ A diamond ring, sir, do you mean?----

_Alon._ By your patience, sir; when I have done, you may speak your

pleasure. I only lent it to my daughter; but, how she lost it, and how

it came upon your finger, I am yet _in tenebris_.

_Mel._ Sir----

_Alon._ I know it, sir; but spare yourself the trouble, I'll speak for

you; you would say you had it from some other hand; I believe it, sir.

_Mel._ But, sir----

_Alon._ I warrant you, sir, I'll bring you off without your

speaking;--from another hand you had it; and now, sir, as you say, sir,

and as I am saying for you, sir, you are loth to part with it.

_Mel._ Good sir,----let me----

_Alon._ I understand you already, sir,--that you have taken a fancy to

it, and would buy it; but, to that I answer, as I did before, that it is

a relick of my family: Now, sir, if you can urge aught farther, you have

liberty to speak without interruption.

_Mel._ This diamond you speak of, I confess----

_Alon._ But what need you confess, sir, before you are accused?

_Mel._ You promised you would hear me in my turn, sir, but----

_Alon._ But, as you were saying, it is needless, because I have already

spoken for you.

_Mel._ The truth is, sir, I was too presumptuous to take this pledge

from Theodosia without your knowledge; but you will pardon the

invincible necessity, when I tell you----

_Alon._ You need not tell me; I know your necessity was the reason of

it, and that place and opportunity have caused your error.

_Mel._ This is the goodest old man I ever knew; he prevents me in my

motion for his daughter.

[_Aside._

Since, sir, you know the cause of my errors, and are pleased to lay part

of the blame upon youth and opportunity, I beseech you, favour me so far

to accept me, as fair Theodosia already has----

_Alon._ I conceive you, sir,--that I would accept of your excuse: Why,

restore the diamond, and 'tis done.

_Mel._ More joyfully than I received it: And, with it, I beg the honour

to be received by you as your son-in-law.

_Alon._ My son-in-law! this is the most pleasant proposition I ever

heard.

_Mel._ I am proud you think it so; but, I protest, I think not I deserve

this honour.

_Alon._ Nor I, I assure you, sir; marry my daughter--ha, ha, ha!

_Mel._ But, sir----

_Alon._ I know what you would say, sir--that there is too much hazard in

the profession of a thief, and therefore you would marry my daughter to

become rich, without venturing your neck for't. I beseech you, sir,

steal on, be apprehended, and, if you please, be hanged, it shall make

no breach betwixt us. For my part, I'll keep your counsel, and so, good

night, sir.

[_Exit_ ALON.

_Mel._ Is the devil in this old man, first to give me occasion to

confess my love, and, when he knew it, to promise he would keep my

counsel? But who are these? I'll not be seen; but to my old appointment

with Theodosia, and desire her to unriddle it.

[_Exit_ MEL.

SCENE III.

_Enter_ MASKALL, JACINTHA, _and_ BEATRIX.

_Mask._ But, madam, do you take me for a man of honour?

_Jac._ No.

_Mask._ Why there's it! if you had, I would have sworn that my master

has neither done nor intended you any injury. I suppose you'll grant he

knew you in your disguise?

_Beat._ Nay, to know her, and use her so, is an aggravation of his

crime.

_Mask._ Unconscionable Beatrix! would you two have all the carnival to

yourselves? He knew you, madam, and was resolved to countermine you in

all your plots. But, when he saw you so much piqued, he was too good

natured to let you sleep in wrath, and sent me to you to disabuse you:

for, if the business had gone on till to-morrow, when Lent begins, you

would have grown so peevish (as all good Catholics are with fasting)

that the quarrel would never have been ended.

_Jac._ Well; this mollifies a little: I am content he shall see me.

_Mask._ But that you may be sure he knew you, he will bring the

certificate of the purse along with him.

_Jac._ I shall be glad to find him innocent.

_Enter_ WILDBLOOD, _at the other end of the stage_.

_Wild._ No mortal man ever threw out so often. It could not be me, it

must be the devil that did it: He took all the chances, and changed them

after I had thrown them. But, I'll be even with him; for, I'll never

throw one of his dice more.

_Mask._ Madam, 'tis certainly my master; and he is so zealous to make

his peace, that he could not stay till I called him to you.----Sir.

_Wild._ Sirrah, I'll teach you more manners than to leave me another

time: You rogue, you have lost me two hundred pistoles, you and the

devil your accomplice; you, by leaving me to myself, and he, by tempting

me to play it off.

_Mask._ Is the wind in that door? Here's like to be fine doings.

_Wild._ O mischief! am I fallen into her ambush? I must face it out with

another quarrel.

[_Aside._

_Jac._ Your man has been treating your accommodation; 'tis half made

already.

_Wild._ Ay, on your part it may be.

_Jac._ He says you knew me.

_Wild._ Yes; I do know you so well, that my poor heart aches for't. I

was going to bed without telling you my mind; but, upon consideration, I

am come----

_Jac._ To bring the money with you.

_Wild._ To declare my grievances, which are great and many.

_Mask._ Well, for impudence, let thee alone.

_Wild._ As, in the first place----

_Jac._ I'll hear no grievances; where's the money?

_Beat._ Ay, keep to that, madam.

_Wild._ Do you think me a person to be so used?

_Jac._ We will not quarrel; where's the money?

_Wild._ By your favour we will quarrel.

_Beat._ Money, money!----

_Wild._ I am angry, and can hear nothing.

_Beat._ Money, money, money, money!

_Wild._ Do you think it a reasonable thing to put on two disguises in a

night, to tempt a man? (Help me, Maskall, for I want arguments

abominably.) I thank heaven I was never so barbarously used in all my

life.

_Jac._ He begins to anger me in good earnest.

_Mask._ A thing so much against the rules of modesty! So indecent a

thing!

_Wild._ Ay so indecent a thing: Nay, now I do not wonder at myself for

being angry. And then to wonder I should love her in those disguises! To

quarrel at the natural desires of human kind, assaulted by powerful

temptations; I am enraged at that.

_Jac._ Heyday! you had best quarrel too for my bringing you the money.

_Wild._ I have a grudging to you for't: (Maskall, the money, Maskall!

now help, or we are gone.)

_Mask._ Would she offer to bring money to you? first, to affront your

poverty----

_Wild._ Ay, to affront my poverty: But that's no great matter; and

then----

_Mask._ And then to bring you money, sir. (I stick fast, sir.)

_Wild._ (Forward, you dog, and invent, or I'll cut your throat.) And

then, as I was saying, to bring me money----

_Mask._ Which is the greatest and most sweet of all temptations; and to

think you could resist it: Being also aggravated by her handsomeness,

who brought it.

_Wild._ Resist it? No; I would she would understand it; I know better

what belongs to flesh and blood than so.

_Beat._ to _Jac._ This is plain confederacy: I smoke it; he came on

purpose to quarrel with you; break first with him, and prevent it.

_Jac._ If it be come to that once, the devil take the hindmost! I'll not

be last in love, for that will be a dishonour to my sex.

_Wild._ And then----

_Jac._ Hold, sir, there needs no more; you shall fall out, and I'll

gratify you with a new occasion: I only tried you in hope you would be

false; and, rather than fail of my design, brought gold to bribe you

to't.

_Beat._ As people, when they have an ill bargain, are content to lose by

it, that they may get it off their hands.

_Mask._ Beatrix, while our principals are engaged, I hold it not for our

honour to stand idle.

_Beat._ With all my heart: Please you let us draw off to some other

ground.

_Mask._ I dare meet you on any spot, but one.

_Wild._ I think we shall do well to put it to an issue: this is the last

time you shall ever be troubled with my addresses.

_Jac._ The favour had been greater to have spared this too.

_Mask._ Beatrix, let us dispatch; or they'll break off before us.

_Beat._ Break as fast as thou wilt; I am as brittle as thou art, for thy

heart.

_Wild._ Because I will absolutely break off with you, I will keep

nothing that belongs to you; therefore take back your picture, and your

handkerchief.

_Jac._ I have nothing of yours to keep; therefore take back your liberal

promises. Take them in imagination.

_Wild._ Not to be behindhand with you in your frumps, I give you back

your purse of gold: Take you that--in imagination.

_Jac._ To conclude with you, take back your oaths and protestations;

they are never the worse for the wearing, I assure you: Therefore take

them, spick and span new, for the use of your next mistress.

_Mask._ Beatrix, follow your leader; here's the six-penny whittle you

gave me, with the mutton haft: I can spare it, for knives are of little

use in Spain.

_Beat._ There's your scissars with the stinking brass chain to them:

'Tis well there was no love betwixt us; for they had been too dull to

cut it.

_Mask._ There's the dandriff comb you lent me.

_Beat._ There's your ferret-ribbanding for garters.

_Mask._ I would never have come so near as to have taken them from you.

_Beat._ For your letter, I have it not about me; but upon reputation

I'll burn it.

_Mask._ And for yours, I have already put it to a fitting

employment.--Courage, sir; how goes the battle on your wing?

_Wild._ Just drawing off on both sides. Adieu, Spain.

_Jac._ Farewell, old England.

_Beat._ Come away in triumph; the day's your own, madam.

_Mask._ I'll bear you off upon my shoulders, sir; we have broke their

hearts.

_Wild._ Let her go first then; I'll stay, and keep the honour of the

field.

_Jac._ I'll not retreat, if you stay till midnight.

_Wild._ Are you sure then we have done loving?

_Jac._ Yes, very sure; I think so.

_Wild._ 'Tis well you are so; for otherwise I feel my stomach a little

maukish. I should have doubted another fit of love were coming up.

_Jac._ No, no; your inconstancy secures you enough for that.

_Wild._ That's it which makes me fear my own returning: Nothing vexes

me, but that you should part with me so slightly, as though I were not

worth your keeping. Well, 'tis a sign you never loved me.

_Jac._ 'Tis the least of your care whether I did or did not: It may be

it had been more for the quiet of myself, if I--but 'tis no matter,

I'll not give you that satisfaction.

_Wild._ But what's the reason you will not give it me?

_Jac._ For the reason that we are quite broke off.

_Wild._ Why, are we quite, quite broke off?

_Jac._ Why, are we not?

_Wild._ Well, since 'tis past, 'tis past; but a pox of all foolish

quarrelling, for my part.

_Jac._ And a mischief of all foolish disguisements, for my part.

_Wild._ But if it were to do again with another mistress, I would even

plainly confess I had lost my money.

_Jac._ And if I had to deal with another servant, I would learn more wit

than to tempt him in disguises: for that's to throw a Venice-glass to

the ground, to try if it would not break.

_Wild._ If it were not to please you, I see no necessity of our parting.

_Jac._ I protest, I do it only out of complaisance to you.

_Wild._ But if I should play the fool, and ask your pardon, you would

refuse it.

_Jac._ No, never submit; for I should spoil you again with pardoning

you.

_Mask._ Do you hear this, Beatrix! They are just upon the point of

accommodation; we must make haste, or they'll make a peace by

themselves, and exclude us from the treaty.

_Beat._ Declare yourself the aggressor then, and I'll take you into

mercy.

_Wild._ The worst that you can say of me is, that I have loved you

thrice over.

_Jac._ The prime articles between Spain and England are sealed; for the

rest, concerning a more strict alliance, if you please, we'll dispute

them in the garden.

_Wild._ But, in the first place, let us agree on the article of

navigation, I beseech you.

_Beat._ These leagues, offensive and defensive, will be too strict for

us, Maskall: A treaty of commerce will serve our turn.

_Mask._ With all my heart; and when our loves are veering, We'll make no

words, but fall to privateering.

[_Exeunt, the men leading the women._

ACT V. SCENE I.

_Enter_ LOPEZ, AURELIA, _and_ CAMILLA.

_Lop._ 'Tis true, if he had continued constant to you, I should have

thought myself obliged in honour to be his friend; but I could no longer

suffer him to abuse a person of your worth and beauty, with a feigned

affection.

_Aur._ But is it possible Don Melchor should be false to love? I'll be

sworn I did not imagine such a treachery could have been in nature;

especially to a lady who had so obliged him.

_Lop._ 'Twas this, madam, which gave me the confidence to wait upon you

at an hour, which would be otherwise unseasonable.

_Aur._ You are the most obliging person in the world.

_Lop._ But to clear it to you that he is false, he is, at this very

minute, at an assignation with your cousin in the garden; I am sure he

was endeavouring it not an hour ago.

_Aur._ I swear this evening's air begins to incommode me extremely with

a cold: but yet, in hope of detecting this perjured man, I am content

to stay abroad.

_Lop._ But withal, you must permit me to tell you, madam, that it is but

just I should have some share in a heart, which I endeavour to redeem:

In the law of arms, you know that they, who pay the ransom, have right

to dispose of the prisoner.

_Aur._ The prize is so very inconsiderable, that 'tis not worth the

claiming.

_Lop._ If I thought the boon were small, I would not importune my

princess with the asking it: But since my life depends upon the grant--

_Cam._ Ma'am, I must needs tell your la'ship, that Don Lopez has

deserved you, for he has acted all along like a cavalier, and more for

your interest than his own. Besides, ma'am, Don Melchor is as poor as he

is false: For my part, I shall never endure to call him master.

_Aur._ Don Lopez, go along with me. I can promise nothing, but I swear I

will do my best to disengage my heart from this furious tender, which I

have for him.

_Cam._ If I had been a man, I could never have forsaken you: Ah those

languishing casts, ma'am; and that pouting lip of your la'ship, like a

cherry-bough, weighed down with the weight of fruit!

_Aur._ And that sigh too, I think, is not altogether disagreeable; but

something _charmante_ and _mignonne_.

_Cam._ Well, Don Lopez, you'll be but too happy.

_Lop._ If I were once possessor--

_Enter_ BELLAMY _and_ THEODOSIA.

_Theo._ O we are surprised.

_Bel._ Fear nothing, madam; I think, I know them: Don Lopez?

_Lop._ Our famous astrologer, how come you here?

_Bel._ I am infinitely happy to have met you with Donna Aurelia, that

you may do me the favour to satisfy this lady of a truth, which I can

scarce persuade her to believe.

_Lop._ I am glad our concernments are so equal; for I have the like

favour to ask from Donna Theodosia.

_Theo._ Don Lopez is too noble to be refused any thing within my power;

and I am ready to do him any service, after I have asked my cousin, if

ever Don Melchor pretended to her?

_Aur._ 'Tis the very question which I was furiously resolved to have

asked of you.

_Theo._ I must confess he has made some professions to me: And withal, I

will acknowledge my own weakness so far as to tell you, I have given way

he should often visit me, when the world believed him absent.

_Aur._ O cavalier astrologer, how have you betrayed me! did you not

assure me, that Don Melchor's tender and inclination was for me only?

_Bel._ I had it from his star, madam, I do assure you; and if that

twinkled false, I cannot help it. The truth is, there's no trusting the

planet of an inconstant man; he was moving to you when I looked on it,

and if since it has changed the course, I am not to be blamed for it.

_Lop._ Now, madam, the truth is evident. And for this cavalier, he might

easily be deceived in Melchor; for I dare affirm it to you both, he

never knew to which of you he was most inclined: For he visited one, and

writ letters to the other.

_Bel._ to _Theo._ Then, madam, I must claim your promise, (since I have

discovered to you that Don Melchor is unworthy of your favours) that you

would make me happy, who, amongst my many imperfections, can never be

guilty of such a falsehood.

_Theo._ If I have been deceived in Melchor, whom I have known so long,

you cannot reasonably expect, I should trust you at a day's

acquaintance.

_Bel._ For that, madam, you may know as much of me in a day, as you can

in all your life: All my humours circulate like my blood, at farthest

within twenty-four hours. I am plain and true, like all my countrymen;

you see to the bottom of me as easily, as you do to the gravel of a

clear stream in autumn.

_Lop._ You plead so well, sir, that I desire you would speak for me too:

My cause is the same with yours, only it has not so good an advocate.

_Aur._ Since I cannot make myself happy, I will have the glory to

felicitate another: and, therefore, I declare, I will reward the

fidelity of Don Lopez.

_Theo._ All that I can say at present is, that I will never be Don

Melchor's: The rest, time and your service must make out.

_Bel._ I have all I can expect, to be admitted as eldest servant; as

preferment falls, I hope you will remember my seniority.

_Cam._ Ma'am, Don Melchor.

_Aur._ Cavaliers, retire a little; we shall see to which of us he will

make his court.

[_The men withdraw._

_Enter_ DON MELCHOR.

Don Melchor, I thought you had been a-bed before this time.

_Mel._ Fair Aurelia, this is a blessing beyond expectation, to see you

again so soon.

_Aur._ What important business brought you hither?

_Mel._ Only to make my peace with you before I slept. You know you are

the saint to whom I pay my devotions.

_Aur._ And yet it was beyond your expectances to meet me? This is

furiously incongruous.

_Theo._ [_advancing_.] Don Melchor, whither were you bound so late?

_Mel._ What shall I say? I am so confounded, that I know not to which of

them I should excuse myself.

[_Aside._

_Theo._ Pray answer me truly to one question: Did you ever make any

addresses to my cousin?

_Mel._ Fie, fie, madam, there's a question indeed.

_Aur._ How, monster of ingratitude! can you deny the declaration of your

passion to me?

_Mel._ I say nothing, madam.

_Theo._ Which of us is it, for whom you are concerned?

_Mel._ For that, madam, you must excuse me; I have more discretion than

to boast a lady's favour.

_Aur._ Did you counterfeit an address to me?

_Mel._ Still I say nothing, madam; but I will satisfy either of you in

private; for these matters are too tender for public discourse.

_Enter_ LOPEZ _and_ BELLAMY _hastily, with their swords drawn_.

Bellamy and Lopez! This is strange!

_Lop._ Ladies, we would not have disturbed you, but as we were walking

to the garden door, it opened suddenly against us, and we confusedly

saw, by moonlight, some persons entering, but who they were we know not.

_Bel._ You had best retire into the garden-house, and leave us to take

our fortunes, without prejudice to your reputations.

_Enter_ WILDBLOOD, MASKALL, JACINTHA, _and_ BEATRIX.

_Wild._ [_To Jacintha entering_.] Do not fear, madam, I think I heard my

friend's voice.

_Bel._ Marry hang you, is it you that have given us this hot alarm?

_Wild._ There's more in it than you imagine; the whole house is up: For

seeing you two, and not knowing you, after I had entered the

garden-door, I made too much haste to get out again, and have left the

key broken in it. With the noise, one of the servants came running in,

whom I forced back; and, doubtless, he is gone for company, for you may

see lights running through every chamber.

_Theo. Jac._ What will become of us?

_Bel._ We must have recourse to our former resolution. Let the ladies

retire into the garden-house. And, now I think on it, you gentlemen

shall go in with them, and leave me and Maskall to bear the brunt of it.

_Mask._ Me, sir! I beseech you let me go in with the ladies too; dear

Beatrix, speak a good word for me! I protest 'tis more out of love to

thy company than for any fear I have.

_Bel._ You dog, I have need of your wit and counsel. We have no time to

deliberate. Will you stay, sir?

[_To_ MASKALL.

_Mask._ No, sir, 'tis not for my safety.

_Bel._ Will you in, sir?

[_To_ MELCHOR.

_Mel._ No, sir, 'tis not for my honour, to be assisting to you: I'll to

Don Alonzo, and help to revenge the injury you are doing him.

_Bel._ Then we are lost, I can do nothing.

_Wild._ Nay, an you talk of honour, by your leave, sir. I hate your

Spanish honour, ever since it spoiled our English plays, with faces

about and t'other side.

[_Falls upon him and throws him down._

_Mel._ What do you mean, you will not murder me? Must valour be

oppressed by multitudes?

_Wild._ Come yarely, my mates, every man to his share of the burden.

Come, yarely, hay.

[_The four men take him each by a limb, and carry him

out, he crying murder._

_Theo._ If this Englishman save us now, I shall admire his wit.

_Beat._ Good wits never think themselves admired till they are well

rewarded: You must pay him in specie, madam; give him love for his wit.

_Enter the Men again._

_Bel._ Ladies, fear nothing, but enter into the garden-house

with these cavaliers.

_Mask._ O that I were a cavalier too!

[_Is going with them._

_Bel._ Come you back, sirrah. [_Stops him_.] Think yourselves as safe as

in a sanctuary; only keep quiet, whatever happens.

_Jac._ Come away then, they are upon us.

[_Exeunt all but_ BEL. _and_ MASK.

_Mask._ Hark, I hear the foe coming: Methinks they threaten too, sir;

pray let me go in for a guard to the ladies and poor Beatrix. I can

fight much better, when there is a wall betwixt me and danger.

_Bel._ Peace, I have occasion for your wit to help me to lie.

_Mask._ Sir, upon the faith of a sinner, you have had my last lie

already; I have not one more to do me credit, as I hope to be saved,

sir.

Bel. _Victoire, victoire!_ knock under, you rogue, and confess me

conqueror, and you shall see I'll bring all off.

_Enter_ DON ALONZO, _and six Servants; with lights, and swords drawn._

_Alon._ Search about there.

_Bel._ Fear nothing, do but vouch what I shall say.

_Mask._ For a passive lie I can yet do something.

_Alon._ Stand: who goes there?

_Bel._ Friends.

_Alon._ Friends! Who are you?

_Bel._ Noble Don Alonzo, such as are watching for your good.

_Alon._ Is it you, Sennor Inglis? Why all this noise and tumult? Where

are my daughters and my niece? But, in the first place, though last

named, how came you hither, sir?

_Bel._ I came hither--by astrology, sir.

_Mask._ My master's in; heavens send him good shipping with his lie, and

all kind devils stand his friends!

_Alon._ How! by astrology, sir? Meaning, you came hither by art magic.

_Bel._ I say by pure astrology, sir; I foresaw by my art, a little after

I had left you, that your niece and daughters would this night run a

risque of being carried away from this very garden.

_Alon._ O the wonders of this speculation!

_Bel._ Thereupon I called immediately for my sword, and came in all

haste to advertise you; but I see there's no resisting destiny; for just

as I was entering the garden door, I met the women with their gallants

all under sail, and outward bound.

_Mask._ Thereupon what does me he, but draws, by my advice--

_Bel._ How now, Mr Rascal? Are you itching to be in?

[_Aside._

_Mask._ Pray, sir, let me go snip with you in this lie, and be not too

covetous of honour. You know I never stood with you; now my courage is

come to me, I cannot resist the temptation.

[_Aside._

_Bel._ Content; tell on.

_Mask._ So, in short, sir, we drew, first I, and then my master; but,

being overpowered, they have escaped us, so that I think you may go to

bed, and trouble yourself no further, for gone they are.

_Bel._ You tell a lie! you have curtailed my invention: You are not fit

to invent a lie for a bawd, when she would wheedle a young squire.

[_Aside._

_Alon._ Call up the officers of justice, I'll have the town searched

immediately.

_Bel._ 'Tis in vain, sir; I know, by my art, you'll

never recover them: Besides, 'tis an affront to my friends, the stars,

who have otherwise disposed of them.

_Enter a Servant._

_Ser._ Sir, the key is broken in the garden-door, and the door locked,

so that of necessity they must be in the garden yet.

_Alon._ Disperse yourselves, some into the wilderness, some into the

alleys, and some into the parterre: You, Diego, go try to get out the

key, and run to the corrigidor for his assistance: In the mean time,

I'll search the garden-house myself.

[_Exeunt all the servants but one._

_Mask._ I'll be unbetted again, if you please, sir, and leave you all

the honour of it.

[_To_ BELLAMY _aside_.

_Alon._ Come, cavalier, let us in together.

_Bel._ [_holding him_.] Hold, sir, for the love of heaven! you are not

mad?

_Alon._ We must leave no place unsearched. A light there.

_Bel._ Hold, I say! do you know what you are undertaking? And have you

armed yourself with resolution for such an adventure?

_Alon._ What adventure?

_Bel._ A word in private--The place you would go into is full of

enchantments; there are at this time, for aught I know, a legion of

spirits in it.

_Alon._ You confound me with wonder, sir!

_Bel._ I have been making there my magical operations, to know the event

of your daughters' flight; and, to perform it rightly, have been forced

to call up spirits of several orders: And there they are humming like a

swarm of bees, some stalking about upon the ground, some flying, and

some sticking upon the walls like rear-mice.

_Mask._ The devil's in him, he's got off again.

_Alon._ Now, sir, I shall try the truth of your friendship to me. To

confess the secret of my soul to you, I have all my life been curious to

see a devil; and to that purpose have conned Agrippa through and

through, and made experiment of all his rules, _Pari die et incremento

Lunae_, and yet could never compass the sight of one of these

_daemoniums_: If you will ever oblige me, let it be on this occasion.

_Mask._ There's another storm arising.

_Bel._ You shall pardon me, sir; I'll not expose you to that peril for

the world, without due preparations of ceremony.

_Alon._ For that, sir, I always carry a talisman about me, that will

secure me: And therefore I will venture in, a God's name, and defy them

all at once.

[_Going in._

_Mask._ How the pox will he get off from this?

_Bel._ Well, sir, since you are so resolved, send off your servant, that

there may be no noise made on't, and we'll take our venture.

_Alon._ Pedro, leave your light, and help the fellows to search the

garden.

[_Exit Servant._

_Mask._ What does my incomprehensible master mean?

_Bel._ Now, I must tell you, sir, you will see that, which will very

much astonish you, if my art fail me not. [_Goes to the door_.] You

spirits and intelligences, that are within there, stand close, and

silent, at your peril, and fear nothing, but appear in your own shapes,

boldly.--Maskall, open the door.

[MASKALL _goes to one side of the scene, which draws, and discovers_

THEO. JAC. AUR. BEAT. CAM. LOP. WILD., _standing all without motion

in a rank_.

Now, sir, what think you?

_Alon._ They are here, they are here: We need search no farther. Ah you

ungracious baggages!

[_Going toward them._

_Bel._ Stay, or you'll be torn in pieces: These are the very shapes I

conjured up, and truly represent to you in what company your niece and

daughters are, this very moment.

_Alon._ Why, are they not they? I durst have sworn that some of them had

been my own flesh and blood.--Look; one of them is just like that rogue,

your comrade.

[WILD. _shakes his head, and frowns at him._

_Bel._ Do you see how you have provoked that English devil? Take heed of

him; if he gets you once into his clutches--

[WILD. _embracing_ JAC.

_Alon._ He seems to have got possession of the spirit of my Jacintha, by

his hugging her.

_Bel._ Nay, I imagined as much: Do but look upon his physiognomy--you

have read Baptista Porta? Has he not the leer of a very lewd, debauched

spirit?

_Alon._ He has indeed: Then there's my niece Aurelia, with the spirit of

Don Lopez; but that's well enough; and my daughter Theodosia all alone:

Pray how comes that about?

_Bel._ She's provided for with a familiar too: One that is in this very

room with you, and by your elbow; but I'll shew you him some other time.

_Alon._ And that baggage Beatrix, how I would swinge her, if I had her

here: I'll lay my life she was in the plot for the flight of her

mistresses.

[BEAT. _claps her hands at him._

_Bel._ Sir, you do ill to provoke her; for being the spirit of a woman,

she is naturally mischievous: You see she can scarce hold her hands from

you already.

_Mask._ Let me alone to revenge your quarrel upon Beatrix: If e'er she

come to light, I'll take a course with her, I warrant you, sir.

_Bel._ Now come away, sir, you have seen enough; the spirits are in pain

whilst we are here: We keep them too long condensed in bodies; if we

were gone, they would rarify into air immediately.--Maskall, shut the

door.

[MASK. _goes to the scene, and it closes._

Alon. _Monstrum hominis!_ O prodigy of science!

_Enter two Servants with Don_ MELCHOR.

_Bel._ Now help me with a lie, Maskall, or we are lost.

_Mask._ Sir, I could never lie with man or woman in a fright.

_Serv._ Sir, we found this gentleman bound and gagged, and he desired us

to bring him to you with all haste imaginable.

_Mel._ O, sir, sir! your two daughters and your niece----

_Bel._ They are gone; he knows it:--But are you mad, sir, to set this

pernicious wretch at liberty?

_Mel._ I endeavoured all that I was able----

_Mask._ Now, sir, I have it for you. [_Aside to his master_.]--He was

endeavouring, indeed, to have got away with them; for your daughter

Theodosia was his prize. But we prevented him, and left him in the

condition in which you see him.

_Alon._ I thought somewhat was the matter, that Theodosia had not a

spirit by her, as her sister had.

_Bel._ This was he I meant to shew you.

_Mel._ Do you believe him, sir?

_Bel._ No, no, believe him, sir: You know his truth, ever since he stole

your daughter's diamond.

_Mel._ I swear to you, by my honour--

_Alon._ Nay, a thief I knew him; and yet, after that, he had the

impudence to ask me for my daughter.

_Bel._ Was he so impudent? The case is plain, sir; put him quickly into

custody.

_Mel._ Hear me but one word, sir, and I'll discover all to you.

_Bel._ Hear him not, sir; for my art assures me, if he speaks one

syllable more, he will cause great mischief.

_Alon._ Will he so? I'll stop my ears; away with him.

_Mel._ Your daughters are yet in the garden, hidden by this fellow and

his accomplices.

_Alon._ [_At the same time, drowning him_.] I'll stop my ears, I'll stop

my ears.

_Bel. Mask._ [_At the same time also_.] A thief, a thief! away with him.

[_Servants carry_ MELCHOR _off struggling_.

_Alon._ He thought to have borne us down with his confidence.

_Enter another Servant._

_Serv._ Sir, with much ado we have got out the key, and opened the door.

_Alon._ Then, as I told you, run quickly to the corrigidor, and desire

him to come hither in person to examine a malefactor. [WILDBLOOD

_sneezes within_.] Hark! what noise is that within? I think one sneezes.

_Bel._ One of the devils, I warrant you, has got a cold, with being so

long out of the fire.

_Alon._ Bless his devilship, as I may say.

[WILDBLOOD _sneezes again._

_Serv._ [_To Don_ ALONZO.] This is a man's voice; do not suffer yourself

to be deceived so grossly, sir.

_Mask._ A man's voice! that's a good one indeed, that you should live to

these years, and yet be so silly as not to know a man from a devil.

_Alon._ There's more in't than I imagined: Hold

up your torch, and go in first, Pedro, and I'll follow

you.

_Mask._ No, let me have the honour to be your usher.

[_Takes the torch and goes in._

_Mask._ [_Within_.] Help, help, help!

_Alon._ What's the matter?

_Bel._ Stir not upon your life, sir.

_Enter_ MASKALL _again, without the torch_.

_Mask._ I was no sooner entered, but a huge giant seized my torch, and

felled me along, with the very whiff of his breath, as he passed by me.

_Alon._ Bless us!

_Bel._ [_At the door to them within_.] Pass out now, while you have

time, in the dark: The officers of justice will be here immediately; the

garden-door is open for you.

_Alon._ What are you muttering there, sir?

_Bel._ Only dismissing these spirits of darkness, that they may trouble

you no further.--Go out, I say.

[_They all come out upon the stage, groping their way_.

WILDBLOOD _falls into_ ALONZO'S _hands_.

_Alon._ I have caught somebody: Are these your spirits? Another light

quickly, Pedro.

_Mask._ [_Slipping between_ ALON. _and_ WILD.] 'Tis Maskall you have

caught, sir; do you mean to strangle me, that you press me so hard

between your arms?

_Alon._ [_Letting_ WILD. _go_.] Is it thee, Maskall? I durst have sworn

it had been another.

_Bel._ Make haste now, before the candle comes.

[AURELIA _falls into_ ALONZO'S _arms_.

_Alon._ Now I have another.

_Aur._ 'Tis Maskall you have caught, sir.

_Alon._ No, I thank you, niece, this artifice is too gross: I know your

voice a little better. What ho, bring lights there!

_Bel._ Her impertinence has ruined all.

_Enter Servants with lights, and swords drawn._

_Serv._ Sir, the corrigidor is coming, according to your desire: In the

mean time, we have secured the garden doors.

_Alon._ I'm glad on't: I'll make some of them severe examples.

_Wild._ Nay, then, as we have lived merrily, so let us die together: But

we'll shew the Don some sport first.

_Theo._ What will become of us!

_Jac._ We'll die for company: Nothing vexes me, but that I am not a man,

to have one thrust at that malicious old father of mine before I go.

_Lop._ Let us break our way through the corrigidor's band.

_Jac._ A match, i'faith. We'll venture our bodies with you: You shall

put the baggage in the middle.

_Wild._ He that pierces thee, I say no more, but I shall be somewhat

angry with him.--[_To_ ALON.] In the mean time, I arrest you, sir, in

the behalf of this good company. As the corrigidor uses us, so we'll

use you.

_Alon._ You do not mean to murder me!

_Bel._ You murder yourself, if you force us to it.

_Wild._ Give me a razor there, that I may scrape his weeson, that the

bristles may not hinder me, when I come to cut it.

_Bel._ What need you bring matters to that extremity? You have your

ransom in your hand: Here are three men, and there are three women; you

understand me.

_Jac._ If not, here's a sword, and there's a throat; you understand me.

_Alon._ This is very hard!

_Theo._ The propositions are good, and marriage is as honourable as it

used to be.

_Beat._ You had best let your daughters live branded with the name of

strumpets; for whatever befals the men, that will be sure to be their

share.

_Alon._ I can put them into a nunnery.

_All the Women._ A nunnery!

_Jac._ I would have thee to know, thou graceless old man, that I defy a

nunnery: Name a nunnery once more, and I disown thee for my father.

_Lop._ You know the custom of the country, in this case, sir: 'Tis

either death or marriage. The business will certainly be public; and if

they die, they have sworn you shall bear them company.

_Alon._ Since it must be so, run, Pedro, and stop the corrigidor: Tell

him it was only a carnival merriment, which I mistook for a rape and

robbery.

_Jac._ Why now you are a dutiful father again, and I receive you into

grace.

_Bel._ Among the rest of your mistakes, sir, I must desire you to let my

astrology pass for one: My mathematics, and art magic, were only a

carnival device; and now that's ending, I have more mind to deal with

the flesh, than with the devil.

_Alon._ No astrologer! 'tis impossible!

_Mask._ I have known him, sir, these seven years, and dare take my oath,

he has been always an utter stranger to the stars; and indeed to any

thing that belongs to heaven.

_Lop._ Then I have been cozened among the rest.

_Theo._ And I; but I forgive him.

_Beat._ I hope you will forgive me, madam, who have been the cause on't;

but what he wants in astrology, he shall make up to you some other way,

I'll pass my word for him.

_Alon._ I hope you are both gentlemen?

_Bel._ As good as the cid himself, sir.

_Alon._ And for your religion, right Romans----

_Wild._ As ever was Mark Anthony.

_Alon._ For your fortunes and courages----

_Mask._ They are both desperate, sir; especially their fortunes.

_Theo._ [_To_ BEL.] You should not have had my consent so soon, but only

to revenge myself upon the falseness of Don Melchor.

_Aur._ I must avow, that gratitude for Don Lopez is as prevalent with

me, as revenge against Don Melchor.

_Alon._ Lent, you know, begins to-morrow; when that's over, marriage

will be proper.

_Jac._ If I stay till after Lent, I shall be to marry when I have no

love left: I'll not bate you an ace of to-night, father; I mean to bury

this man ere Lent be done, and get me another before Easter.

_Alon._ Well, make a night on't then.

[_Giving his daughters._

_Wild._ Jacintha Wildblood, welcome to me: Since our stars have doomed

it so, we cannot help it; but 'twas a mere trick of fate, to catch us

thus at unawares; to draw us in, with a what do you lack, as we passed

by: Had we once separated to-night, we should have had more wit, than

ever to have met again to-morrow.

_Jac._ 'Tis true, we shot each other flying: We were both upon the wing,

I find; and, had we passed this critical minute, I should have gone for

the Indies, and you for Greenland, ere we had met in a bed, upon

consideration.

_Mask._ You have quarrelled twice to-night without bloodshed; beware the

third time.

Jac. _Apropos!_ I have been retrieving an old song of a lover, that was

ever quarrelling with his mistress: I think it will fit our amour so

well, that, if you please, I'll give it you for an epithalamium; and you

shall sing it.

[_Gives him a paper._

_Wild._ I never sung in all my life; nor ever durst try, when I was

alone, for fear of braying.

_Jac._ Just me, up and down; but for a frolic, let's sing together; for

I am sure, if we cannot sing now, we shall never have cause when we are

married.

_Wild._ Begin then; give me my key, and I'll set my voice to't.

_Jac._ Fa la, fa la, fa la.

_Wild._ Fala, fala, fala. Is this your best, upon the faith of a virgin?

_Jac._ Ay, by the muses, I am at my pitch.

_Wild._ Then do your worst; and let the company be judge who sings

worst.

_Jac._ Upon condition the best singer shall wear the breeches. Prepare

to strip, sir; I shall put you into your drawers presently.

_Wild._ I shall be revenged, with putting you into your smock anon; St

George for me.

_Jac._ St James for me: Come, start, sir.

SONG.

Damon. _Celimena, of my heart

None shall e'er bereave you:

If, with your good leave, I may

Quarrel with you once a day,

I will never leave you._

Celimena. _Passion's but an empty name,

Where respect is wanting:

Damon, you mistake your aim;

Hang your heart, and burn your flame,

If you must be ranting._

Damon. _Love as dull and muddy is,

As decaying liquor:

Anger sets it on the lees,

And refines it by degrees,

Till it works the quicker._

Celimena. _Love by quarrels to beget

Wisely you endeavour;

With a grave physician's wit,

Who, to cure an ague fit,

Put me in a fever._

Damon. _Anger rouses love to fight,

And his only bait is,

'Tis the spur to dull delight,

And is but an eager bite,

When desire at height is._

Celimena. _If such drops of heat can fall

In our wooing weather;

If such drops of heat can fall,

We shall have the devil and all

When we come together._

_Wild._ Your judgment, gentlemen; a man, or a maid?

_Bel._ An you make no better harmony after you are married, than you

have before, you are the miserablest couple in Christendom.

_Wild._ 'Tis no great matter; if I had had a good voice, she would have

spoiled it before to-morrow.

_Bel._ When Maskall has married Beatrix, you may learn of her.

_Mask._ You shall put her life into a lease, then.

_Wild._ Upon condition, that when I drop into your house from hunting, I

may set my slippers at your door, as a Turk does at a Jew's, that you

may not enter.

_Theo._ And while you refresh yourself within, he shall wind the horn

without.

_Mask._ I'll throw up my lease first.

_Bel._ Why, thou wouldst not be so impudent, to marry Beatrix for

thyself only?

_Beat._ For all his ranting and tearing now, I'll pass my word, he shall

degenerate into as tame and peaceable a husband, as a civil woman would

wish to have.

_Enter Don_ MELCHOR, _with a Servant_.

_Mel._ Sir----

_Alon._ I know what you would say, but your discovery comes too late

now.

_Mel._ Why, the ladies are found.

_Aur._ But their inclinations are lost, I can assure you.

_Jac._ Look you, sir, there goes the game: Your plate-fleet is divided;

half for Spain, and half for England.

_Theo._ You are justly punished for loving two.

_Mel._ Yet I have the comfort of a cast lover: I will think well of

myself, and despise my mistresses.

[_Exit._

DANCE.

_Bel._ Enough, enough; let's end the carnival abed.

_Wild._ And for these gentlemen, whene'er they try, May they all speed

as soon, and well as I.

[_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

My part being small, I have had time to-day,

To mark your various censures of our play.

First, looking for a judgment or a wit,

Like Jews, I saw them scattered through the pit;

And where a knot of smilers lent an ear

To one that talked, I knew the foe was there.

The club of jests went round; he, who had none,

Borrowed o'the next, and told it for his own.

Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,

In whispering that he stole the Astrologer;

And said, betwixt a French and English plot,

He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot.

Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warm

In the French stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm;

_Morbleu, dit il_, and cocks, I am a rogue,

But he has quite spoiled the feigned _Astrologue_.

'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir

With a son of a whore farce that's regular,

A rule, where nothing must decorum shock!

Damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock.

An evening! Why the devil should we be vext,

Whether he gets the wench this night or next?

When I heard this, I to the poet went, }

Told him the house was full of discontent, }

And asked him what excuse he could invent. }

He neither swore or stormed, as poets do,

But, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true;

Yet said, he used the French like enemies,

And did not steal their plots, but made them prize.

But should he all the pains and charges count

Of taking them, the bill so high would mount,

That, like prize-goods, which through the office come,

He could have had them much more cheap at home.

He still must write; and, banquier-like, each day

Accept new bills, and he must break, or pay.

When through his hands such sums must yearly run,

You cannot think the stock is all his own.

His haste his other errors might excuse,

But there's no mercy for a guilty muse;

For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall,

And please you to a height, or not at all.

TYRANNIC LOVE;

OR, THE

ROYAL MARTYR.

A

TRAGEDY.

TYRANNIC LOVE.

The "Royal Martyr" is one of Dryden's most characteristic productions.

The character of Maximin, in particular, is drawn on his boldest plan,

and only equalled by that of Almanzor, in the "Conquest of Granada."

Indeed, although, in action, the latter exhibits a larger proportion of

that extravagant achievement peculiar to the heroic drama, it may be

questioned, whether the language of Maximin does not abound more with

the flights of fancy, which hover betwixt the confines of the grand and

the bombast, and which our author himself has aptly termed the Dalilahs

of the theatre. Certainly, in some of those rants which occasionally

burst from the emperor, our poet appears shorn of his locks; as for

example,

Look to it, Gods; for you the aggressors are:

Keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies,

And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice;

Your trade of heaven will soon be at a stand,

And all your goods lie dead upon your hand.

Indeed, Dryden himself acknowledged, in the Dedication to the "Spanish

Friar," that some verses of Maximin and Almanzor cry vengeance upon him

for their extravagance, and heartily wishes them in the same fire with

Statius and Chapman. But he pleads in apology, that he knew they were

bad enough to please, even when he wrote them, although he is now

resolved no longer to seek credit from the approbation of fools. Johnson

has doubted, with apparent reason, whether this confession be

sufficiently ample; and whether the poet did not really give his love to

those enticing seducers of his imagination, although he contemned them

in his more sober judgment. In the Prologue, he has boldly stated and

justified his determination to rush forwards, and hazard the disgrace of

a fall, rather than the loss of the race. Certainly a genius, which

dared so greatly as that of Dryden, cannot always be expected to check

its flight upon the verge of propriety; and we are often hurried along

with it into the extravagant and bombast, when we can seldom discover

the error till a second reading of the passage. Take, for example, the

often quoted account of the death of Charinus;

With a fierce haste he led our troops the way;

While fiery showers of sulphur on him rained;

Nor left he, till the battlements he gained:

There with a forest of their darts he strove,

And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove.

With his broad sword the boldest beating down,

While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town,

And turned the iron leaves of its dark book,

To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook:

Till sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late,

And by his fall asserted doubtful fate.

Although this passage, upon examination, will be found to contain much

tumid bombast, yet, like others in the same tone, it conveys, at first,

a dark impression of grandeur and sublimity, which only vanishes on a

critical examination. Such passages, pronounced with due emphasis on the

stage, will always meet with popular applause. They are like the

fanciful shapes into which a mist is often wreathed; it requires a near

approach, and an attentive consideration, to discover their emptiness

and vanity. On the other hand, we meet with many passages in Maximin,

where the impression of sublimity becomes more deep, in proportion to

the attention we bestow on them. Such is the speech of St Catharine to

her mother:

Could we live always, life were worth our cost;

But now we keep with care what must be lost.

Here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry,

When we should plunge into eternity.

One moment ends our pain;

And yet the shock of death we dare not stand,

By thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand:

'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew,

They fear to prove it, as a thing that's new.

Let me the experiment before you try,

I'll show you first how easy 'tis to die.

In the same scene occurs an instance of a different kind of beauty, less

commonly found in Dryden. The tender description given by Felicia of her

attachment to her child, in infancy, is exquisitely beautiful.

The introduction of magic, and of the astral spirits, who have little to

do with the catastrophe, was perhaps contrived for the sake of music and

scenery. The supernatural has, however, been fashionable at all periods;

and we learn, from a passage in the dedication to "Prince Arthur," that

the Duchess of Monmouth, whom Dryden calls his first and best patroness,

was pleased with the parts of airy and earthy spirits, and with that

fairy kind of writing, which depends upon the force of imagination. It

is probable, therefore, that, in a play inscribed to her husband, that

style of composition was judiciously intermingled, to which our poet

knew the duchess was partial. There is much fine description in the

first account of the wizard; but the lyrical dialogue of the spirits is

rather puerile, and is ridiculed, with great severity, in the

"Rehearsal."

Mr Malone has fixed the first acting of this play to the end of 1668, or

beginning of 1669. It was printed in 1670, and a revised edition came

forth in 1672.

TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE,

JAMES,

DUKE OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUGH,

ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY-COUNCIL; AND KNIGHT OF THE

MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C.[K]

Sir,

The favourable reception which your excellent lady afforded to one of my

former plays[L], has encouraged me to double my presumption, in

addressing this to your grace's patronage. So dangerous a thing it is to

admit a poet into your family, that you can never afterwards be free

from the chiming of ill verses, perpetually sounding in your ears, and

more troublesome than the neighbourhood of steeples. I have been

favourable to myself in this expression; a zealous fanatick would have

gone farther, and have called me the serpent, who first presented the

fruit of my poetry to the wife, and so gained the opportunity to seduce

the husband. Yet, I am ready to avow a crime so advantageous to me; but

the world, which will condemn my boldness, I am sure will justify and

applaud my choice. All men will join with me in the adoration which I

pay you; they would wish only I had brought you a more noble sacrifice.

Instead of an heroick play, you might justly expect an heroick poem,

filled with the past glories of your ancestors, and the future

certainties of your own. Heaven has already taken care to form you for

an hero. You have all the advantages of mind and body, and an

illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an extraordinary person. The

Achilles and the Rinaldo are present in you, even above their originals;

you only want a Homer, or a Tasso, to make you equal to them. Youth,

beauty, and courage (all which you possess in the height of their

perfection) are the most desirable gifts of heaven: and heaven is never

prodigal of such treasures, but to some uncommon purpose. So goodly a

fabric was never framed by an Almighty architect for a vulgar guest. He

shewed the value which he set upon your mind, when he took care to have

it so nobly, and so beautifully lodged. To a graceful fashion and

deportment of body, you have joined a winning conversation, and an easy

greatness, derived to you from the best, and best-beloved of princes.

And with a great power of obliging, the world has observed in you a

desire to oblige, even beyond your power. This, and all that I can say

on so excellent and large a subject, is only history, in which fiction

has no part; I can employ nothing of poetry in it, any more than I do in

that humble protestation which I make, to continue ever

Your Grace's most obedient

And most devoted servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

[Footnote K: For some account of the Duke of Monmouth, we refer our

readers to the poem of Absalom and Achitophel, in which Dryden has

described that unfortunate young nobleman under the character of

Absalom].

[Footnote L: See the Dedication to the "Indian Emperor."]

PREFACE.

I was moved to write this play by many reasons: Amongst others, the

commands of some persons of honour, for whom I have a most particular

respect, were daily sounding in my ears, that it would be of good

example to undertake a poem of this nature. Neither were my own

inclinations wanting to second their desires. I considered that pleasure

was not the only end of poesy; and that even the instructions of

morality were not so wholly the business of a poet, as that the precepts

and examples of piety were to be omitted. For, to leave that employment

altogether to the clergy, were to forget that religion was first taught

in verse, which the laziness, or dulness, of succeeding priesthood,

turned afterwards into prose; and it were also to grant (which I never

shall) that representations of this kind may not as well be conducing to

holiness, as to good manners. Yet far be it from me to compare the use

of dramatick poesy with that of divinity: I only maintain, against the

enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, and

equally removed from the extremes of superstition and profaneness, may

be of excellent use to second the precepts of our religion. By the

harmony of words we elevate the mind to a sense of devotion, as our

solemn musick, which is inarticulate poesy, does in churches; and by the

lively images of piety, adorned by action, through the senses allure the

soul; which while it is charmed in a silent joy of what it sees and

hears, is struck, at the same time, with a secret veneration of things

celestial: and is wound up insensibly into the practice of that which it

admires. Now if, instead of this, we sometimes see on our theatres the

examples of vice rewarded, or, at least, unpunished; yet it ought not to

be an argument against the art, any more than the extravagances and

impieties of the pulpit, in the late times of rebellion, can be against

the office and dignity of the clergy.

But many times it happens, that poets are wrongfully accused; as it is

my own case in this very play; where I am charged by some ignorant or

malicious persons, with no less crimes than profaneness and irreligion.

The part of _Maximin_, against which these holy critics so much declaim,

was designed by me to set off the character of _St Catharine_. And

those, who have read the Roman history, may easily remember, that

Maximin was not only a bloody tyrant, _vastus corpore, animo ferus_, as

Herodian describes him; but also a persecutor of the church, against

which he raised the Sixth Persecution. So that whatsoever he speaks or

acts in this tragedy, is no more than a record of his life and manners;

a picture, as near as I could take it, from the original. If, with much

pains, and some success, I have drawn a deformed piece, there is as much

of art, and as near an imitation of nature, in a lazar, as in a Venus.

Maximin was an heathen, and what he speaks against religion, is in

contempt of that which he professed. He defies the gods of Rome, which

is no more than St Catharine might with decency have done. If it be

urged, that a person of such principles, who scoffs at any religion,

ought not to be presented on the stage; why then are the lives and

sayings of so many wicked and profane persons, recorded in the Holy

Scriptures? I know it will be answered, That a due use may be made of

them; that they are remembered with a brand of infamy fixed upon them;

and set as sea-marks for those who behold them to avoid. And what other

use have I made of Maximin? have I proposed him as a pattern to be

imitated, whom, even for his impiety to his false gods, I have so

severely punished? Nay, as if I had foreseen this objection, I purposely

removed the scene of the play, which ought to have been at Alexandria in

Egypt, where St Catharine suffered, and laid it under the walls of

Aquileia in Italy, where Maximin was slain; that the punishment of his

crime might immediately succeed its execution.

This, reader, is what I owed to my just defence, and the due reverence

of that religion which I profess, to which all men, who desire to be

esteemed good, or honest, are obliged. I have neither leisure nor

occasion to write more largely on this subject, because I am already

justified by the sentence of the best and most discerning prince in the

world, by the suffrage of all unbiassed judges, and, above all, by the

witness of my own conscience, which abhors the thought of such a crime;

to which I ask leave to add my outward conversation, which shall never

be justly taxed with the note of atheism or profaneness.

In what else concerns the play, I shall be brief: For the faults of the

writing and contrivance, I leave them to the mercy of the reader. For I

am as little apt to defend my own errors, as to find those of other

poets. Only, I observe, that the great censors of wit and poetry,

either produce nothing of their own, or what is more ridiculous than any

thing they reprehend. Much of ill nature, and a very little judgment, go

far in finding the mistakes of writers.

I pretend not that any thing of mine can be correct: This poem,

especially, which was contrived, and written in seven weeks, though

afterwards hindered by many accidents from a speedy representation,

which would have been its just excuse.

Yet the scenes are every where unbroken, and the unities of place and

time more exactly kept, than perhaps is requisite in a tragedy; or, at

least, than I have since preserved them in the "Conquest of Granada."

I have not everywhere observed the equality of numbers, in my verse;

partly by reason of my haste; but more especially, because I would not

have my sense a slave to syllables.

It is easy to discover, that I have been very bold in my alteration of

the story, which of itself was too barren for a play; and that I have

taken from the church two martyrs, in the persons of Porphyrius, and the

empress, who suffered for the Christian faith, under the tyranny of

Maximin.

I have seen a French play, called the "Martyrdom of St Catharine:" But

those, who have read it, will soon clear me from stealing out of so dull

an author. I have only borrowed a mistake from him, of one Maximin for

another; for finding him in the French poet, called the son of a

Thracian herdsman, and an Alane woman, I too easily believed him to have

been the same Maximin mentioned in Herodian. Till afterwards, consulting

Eusebius and Metaphrastes, I found the Frenchman had betrayed me into an

error, when it was too late to alter it, by mistaking that first Maximin

for a second, the contemporary of Constantine the Great, and one of the

usurpers of the eastern empire.

But neither was the other name of my play more fortunate; for, as some,

who had heard of a tragedy of St Catharine, imagined I had taken my plot

from thence; so others, who had heard of another play, called "L'Amour

Tyrannique," with the same ignorance, accused me to have borrowed my

design from it, because I have accidentally given my play the same

title; not having to this day seen it, and knowing only by report that

such a comedy is extant in French, under the name of "Monsieur Scudery."

As for what I have said of astral or aerial spirits, it is no invention

of mine, but taken from those who have written on that subject. Whether

there are such beings or not, it concerns not me; it is sufficient for

my purpose, that many have believed the affirmative; and that these

heroic representations, which are of the same nature with the epic, are

not limited, but with the extremest bounds of what is credible.

For the little critics, who pleased themselves with thinking they have

found a flaw in that line of the prologue,

And he, who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, &c.[M],

as if I patronized my own nonsense, I may reasonably suppose they have

never read Horace. _Serpit humi tutus_, &c. are his words: He, who

creeps after plain, dull, common sense, is safe from committing

absurdities; but can never reach any height, or excellence of wit; and

sure I could not mean, that any excellence were to be found in

nonsense. With the same ignorance, or malice, they would accuse me for

using--_empty arms_, when I write of a ghost, or shadow; which has only

the appearance of a body or limbs, and is empty, or void, of flesh and

blood; and _vacuis amplectitur ulnis_, was an expression of Ovid's on

the same subject. Some fool before them had charged me in "The Indian

Emperor" with nonsense in these words,

And follow fate, which does too fast pursue;

Which was borrowed from Virgil, in the eleventh of his AEneids,

_Eludit gyro interior, sequiturque sequentem_[N].

I quote not these to prove, that I never writ nonsense; but only to

shew, that they are so unfortunate as not to have found it.

VALE.

[Footnote M: See the prologue to this play.]

[Footnote N: We may be allowed to suspect that this resemblance was

discovered _ex post facto_.]

PROLOGUE.

Self-love, which, never rightly understood,

Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,

And malice, in all critics, reigns so high,

That for small errors, they whole plays decry;

So that to see this fondness, and that spite,

You'd think that none but madmen judge or write.

Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit

T' impose upon you what he writes for wit;

So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free, }

You equal judges of the whole will be: }

They judge but half, who only faults will see. }

Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare,

They spoil their business with an over-care;

And he, who servilely creeps after sense,

Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.

Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,

Allowed his fancy the full scope and swing.

But when a tyrant for his theme he had,

He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad:

And though he stumbles in a full career,

Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.

He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,

To chuse the ground might be to lose the race.

They then, who of each trip the advantage take,

Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MAXIMIN, _Tyrant of Rome_.

PORPHYRIUS, _Captain of the Praetorian Bands_.

CHARINUS, _the Emperor's son_.

PLACIDIUS, _a great officer_.

VALERIUS, }

} _Tribunes of the army_.

ALBINUS, }

NIGRINUS, _a Tribune and conjurer_.

AMARIEL, _guardian-angel to St_ CATHARINE.

APOLLONIUS, _a Heathen philosopher_.

BERENICE, _wife to_ MAXIMIN.

VALERIA, _daughter to_ MAXIMIN.

_St_ CATHERINE, _Princess of Alexandria_.

FELICIA, _her mother_.

EROTION, }

} _Attendants_.

CYDNON, }

SCENE--_The camp of Maximin, under the walls of Aquileia_.

TYRANNIC LOVE,

OR, THE

ROYAL MARTYR.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_A Camp, or Pavilion Royal_.

_Enter_ MAXIMIN, CHARINUS, PLACIDIUS, ALBINUS, VALERIUS, APOLLONIUS,

_and Guards_.

_Max._ Thus far my arms have with success been crowned,

And found no stop, or vanquished what they found.

The German lakes my legions have o'erpast,

With all the bars which art or nature cast:

My foes, in watery fastnesses inclosed,

I fought alone, to their whole war exposed;

Did first the depth of trembling marshes sound,

And fixed my eagles in unfaithful ground;

By force submitted to the Roman sway

Fierce nations, and unknowing to obey;

And now, for my reward, ungrateful Rome,

For which I fought abroad, rebels at home.

_Alb._ Yet 'tis their fear which does this war maintain;

They cannot brook a martial monarch's reign:

Your valour would their sloth too much accuse;

And therefore, like themselves they princes chuse.

_Plac._ Two tame gown'd princes, who at ease debate,

In lazy chairs, the business of the state;

Who reign but while the people they can please,

And only know the little arts of peace.

_Char._ In fields they dare not fight, where honour calls;

But breathe a faint defiance from their walls.

The very noise of war their souls does wound;

They quake, but hearing their own trumpets sound.

_Val._ An easy summons but for form they wait,

And to your fame will open wide the gate.

_Plac._ I wish our fame that swift success may find;

But conquests, sir, are easily designed.

However soft within themselves they are,

To you they will be valiant by despair:

For, having once been guilty, well they know,

To a revengeful prince they still are so.

_Alb._ 'Tis true, that, since the senate's succours came,

They grow more bold.

_Max._ That senate's but a name:

Or they are pageant princes which they make;

That power they give away, they would partake.

Two equal powers two different ways will draw,

While each may check, and give the other law.

True, they secure propriety and peace;

But are not fit an empire to increase.

When they should aid their prince, the slaves dispute;

And fear success should make him absolute.

They let foes conquer, to secure the state,

And lend a sword, whose edge themselves rebate.

_Char._ When to increase the gods you late are gone,

I'll swiftly chuse to die, or reign alone:

But these half kings our courage cannot fright;

The thrifty state will bargain ere they fight:

Give just so much for every victory,

And rather lose a fight than overbuy.

_Max._ Since all delays are dangerous in war,

Your men, Albinus, for assault prepare;

Crispinus and Meniphilus, I hear,

Two consulars, these Aquileians cheer;

By whom they may, if we protract the time,

Be taught the courage to defend their crime.

_Plac._ Put off the assault but only for this day:

No loss can come by such a small delay.

_Char._ We are not sure to-morrow will be ours:

Wars have, like love, their favourable hours.

Let us use all; for if we lose one day,

That white one, in the crowd, may slip away.

_Max._ Fate's dark recesses we can never find;

But fortune, at some hours, to all is kind:

The lucky have whole days, which still they chuse;

The unlucky have but hours, and those they lose.

_Plac._ I have consulted one, who reads heaven's doom,

And sees, as present, things which are to come.

'Tis that Nigrinus, made by your command

A tribune in the new Pannonian band.

Him have I seen (on Ister's banks he stood,

Where last we wintered), bind the headlong flood

In sudden ice; and, where most swift it flows,

In crystal nets the wond'ring fishes close.

Then, with a moment's thaw, the streams enlarge,

And from the mesh the twinkling guests discharge.

In a deep vale, or near some ruined wall,

He would the ghosts of slaughtered soldiers call;

Who slow to wounded bodies did repair,

And, loth to enter, shivered in the air;

These his dread wand did to short life compel,

And forced the fates of battles to foretel.

_Max._ 'Tis wonderous strange! But, good Placidius, say,

What prophecies Nigrinus of this day?

_Plac._ In a lone tent, all hung with black, I saw,

Where in a square he did a circle draw;

Four angles, made by that circumference,

Bore holy words inscribed, of mystic sense.

When first a hollow wind began to blow,

The sky grew black, and bellied down more low;

Around the fields did nimble lightning play,

Which offered us by fits, and snatched the day.

'Midst this was heard the shrill and tender cry

Of well-pleased ghosts, which in the storm did fly;

Danced to and fro, and skimmed along the ground,

Till to the magic circle they were bound.

They coursing it, while we were fenced within,

We saw this dreadful scene of fate begin.

_Char._ Speak without fear; what did the vision shew?

_Plac._ A curtain, drawn, presented to our view

A town besieged; and on the neighbouring plain

Lay heaps of visionary soldiers slain.

A rising mist obscured the gloomy head

Of one, who, in imperial robes, lay dead.

Near this, in fetters, stood a virgin crowned,

Whom many Cupids strove in vain to wound:

A voice,--_To-morrow_, still _To-morrow_ rung;

Another,--_lo, lo Paean_ sung.

_Char._ Visions and oracles still doubtful are,

And ne'er expounded till the event of war.

The gods' foreknowledge on our swords will wait:

If we fight well, they must foreshow good fate.

_To them a Centurion._

_Cent._ A rising dust, which troubles all the air,

And this way travels, shews some army near.

_Char._ I hear the sound of trumpets from afar.

[_Exit_ ALBINUS.

_Max._ It seems the voice of triumph, not of war.

_To them_ ALBINUS _again_.

_Alb._ Health and success our emperor attends;

The forces, marching on the plain, are friends.

Porphyrius, whom you Egypt's praetor made,

Is come from Alexandria to your aid.

_Max._ It well becomes the conduct and the care

Of one so famed and fortunate in war.

You must resign, Placidius, your command;

To him I promised the praetorian band.

Your duty in your swift compliance show;

I will provide some other charge for you.

_Plac._ May Caesar's pleasure ever be obeyed,

With that submission, which by me is paid.

Now all the curses envy ever knew,

Or could invent, Porphyrius pursue!

[_Aside._

_Alb._ Placidius does too tamely bear his loss;

[_To_ CHARINUS.

This new pretender will all power engross:

All things must now by his direction move,

And you, sir, must resign your father's love.

_Char._ Yes; every name to his repute must bow;

There grow no bays for any other brow.

He blasts my early honour in the bud,

Like some tall tree, the monster of the wood;

O'ershading all which under him would grow,

He sheds his venom on the plants below.

_Alb._ You must some noble action undertake,

Equal with his your own renown to make.

_Char._ I am not for a slothful envy born;

I'll do't this day, in the dire vision's scorn.

He comes: We two like the twin stars appear;

Never to shine together in one sphere.

[_Exeunt_ CHAR. _and_ ALBINUS.

_Enter_ PORPHYRIUS _attended_.

_Max._ Porphyrius, welcome; welcome as the light

To cheerful birds, or as to lovers night;

Welcome as what thou bring'st me, victory.

_Por._ That waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me.

You left a conquest more than half achieved,

And for whose easiness I almost grieved.

Yours only the Egyptian laurels are;

I bring you but the reliques of your war.

The Christian princess, to receive your doom,

Is from her conquered Alexandria come;

Her mother, in another vessel sent,

A storm surprised, nor know I the event:

Both from your bounty must receive their state,

Or must on your triumphant chariot wait.

_Max._ From me they can expect no grace, whose minds

An execrable superstition blinds.

_Apol._ The gods, who raised you to the world's command,

Require these victims from your grateful hand.

_Por._ To minds resolved, the threats of death are vain;

They run to fires, and there enjoy their pain;

Not Mucius made more haste his hand to expose

To greedy flames, than their whole bodies those.

_Max._ How to their own destruction they are blind!

Zeal is the pious madness of the mind.

_Por._ They all our famed philosophers defy,

And would our faith by force of reason try.

_Apol._ I beg it, sir, by all the powers divine.

That in their right this combat may be mine.

_Max._ It shall; and fifty doctors of our laws

Be added to you, to maintain the cause.

_Enter_ BERENICE, _the Empress_; VALERIA, _daughter to the Emperor, and_

EROTION.

_Plac._ The empress and your daughter, sir, are here.

_Por._ What dangers in those charming eyes appear!

[_Looking on the Empress._

How my old wounds are opened at this view,

And in my murderer's presence bleed anew!

_Max._ I did expect your coming, to partake

[_To the Ladies._

The general gladness which my triumphs make.

You did Porphyrius as a courtier know;

But as a conqueror behold him now.

_Ber._ You know (I read it in your blushing face),

[_To_ POR.

To merit, better than receive a grace:

And I know better silently to own,

Than with vain words to pay your service done.

_Por._ Princes, like gods, reward ere we deserve;

[_Kneeling to kiss her hand._

And pay us, in permitting us to serve.

O might I still grow here, and never move!

[_Lower._

_Ber._ How dangerous are these ecstacies of love!

He shews his passion to a thousand eyes;

He cannot stir, nor can I bid him rise.

That word my heart refuses to my tongue!

[_Aside._

_Max._ Madam, you let the general kneel too long.

_Por._ Too long! as if eternity were so.

[_Aside._

_Ber._ Rise, good Porphyrius--since it must be so.

[_Aside._

_Por._ Like hermits from a vision I retire,

[_Rising._

With eyes too weak to see what I admire.

[_Aside._

_Val._ The empress knows your worth; but, sir, there be

[_To_ PORPHYRIUS, _who kisses her hand_.

Those who can value it as high as she.

And 'tis but just (since in my father's cause

You fought) your valour should have my applause.

_Plac._ O jealousy, how art thou eagle-eyed!

She loves; and would her love in praises hide:

How am I bound this rival to pursue,

Who ravishes my love and fortune too!

[_Aside._

[_A dead march within, and trumpets._

_Max._ Somewhat of mournful, sure, my ears does wound;

Like the hoarse murmurs of a trumpet's sound,

And drums unbraced, with soldiers' broken cries.

_Enter_ ALBINUS.

Albinus, whence proceeds this dismal noise?

_Alb._ Too soon you'll know what I want words to tell.

_Max._ How fares my son? Is my Charinus well?

Not answer me! Oh my prophetic fear!

_Alb._ How can I speak, or how, sir, can you hear?

Imagine that which you would most deplore,

And that, which I would speak, is it, or more.

_Max._ Thy mournful message in thy looks I read:

Is he (oh that I live to ask it!) dead?

_Alb._ Sir--

_Max._ Stay; if thou speak'st that word, thou speak'st thy last:

Some God now, if he dares, relate what's past:

Say but he's dead, that God shall mortal be.

_Alb._ Then, what I dare not speak, look back and see.

[CHARINUS _borne in dead by soldiers_.

_Max._ See nothing, eyes, henceforth, but death and woe;

You've done me the worst office you can do.

You've shewn me destiny's preposterous crime;

An unripe fate, disclosed ere nature's time.

_Plac._ Assuage, great prince, your passion, lest you shew

There's somewhat in your soul which fate can bow.

_Por._ Fortune should by your greatness be controuled:

Arm your great mind, and let her take no hold.

_Max._ To tame philosophers teach constancy;

There is no farther use of it in me.

Gods!--but why name I you!

All that was worth a prayer to you is gone;--

I ask not back my virtue, but my son.

_Alb._ His too great thirst of fame his ruin brought;

Though, sir, beyond all human force he fought.

_Plac._ This was my vision of this fatal day!

_Alb._ With a fierce haste he led our troops the way,

While fiery showers of sulphur on him rained;

Nor left he, till the battlements he gained:

There with a forest of their darts he strove,

And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove;

With his broad sword the boldest beating down,

While fate grew pale lest he should win the town;

And turned the iron leaves of its dark book,

To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook;

Till, sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late,

And by his fall asserted doubtful fate.

_Val._ Oh my dear brother! whom heaven let us see,

And would not longer suffer him to be!

_Max._ And didst not thou a death with honour chuse,

[_To_ ALB.

But impudently liv'st to bring this news?

After his loss how did'st thou dare to breathe?

But thy base ghost shall follow him in death.

A decimation I will strictly make

Of all, who my Charinus did forsake;

And of each legion, each centurion

Shall die:--Placidius, see my pleasure done.

_Por._ Sir, you will lose, by this severity,

Your soldiers' hearts.

_Max._ Why, they take pay to die.

_Por._ Then spare Albinus only.

_Max._ I consent

To leave his life to be his punishment.

Discharged from trust, branded with infamy,

Let him live on, till he ask leave to die.

_Ber._ Let me petition for him.

_Max._ I have said;

And will not be intreated, but obeyed.

But, empress, whence does your compassion grow?

_Ber._ You need not ask it, since my birth you know.

The race of Antonines was named the good:

I draw my pity from my royal blood.

_Max._ Still must I be upbraided with your line?

I know you speak it in contempt of mine.

But your late brother did not prize me less,

Because I could not boast of images;

And the Gods own me more, when they decreed,

A Thracian shepherd should your line succeed.

_Ber._ The Gods! O do not name the powers divine,

They never mingled their decrees with thine.

My brother gave me to thee for a wife,

And for my dowry thou didst take his life.

_Max._ The Gods by many victories have shewn,

That they my merits and his death did own.

_Ber._ Yes, they have owned it; witness this just day,

When they begin thy mischiefs to repay.

See the reward of all thy wicked care

Before thee; thy succession ended there.

Yet, but in part my brother's ghost is pleased;

Restless till all the groaning world be eased.

For me, no other happiness I own,

Than to have borne no issue to thy throne.

_Max._ Provoke my rage no farther, lest I be

Revenged at once upon the gods and thee.

_Por._ What horrid tortures seize my labouring mind,

O, only excellent of all thy kind,

To hear thee threatened, while I idle stand!

Heaven! was I born to fear a tyrant's hand?

[_Aside._

_Max._ [_to Ber_.] Hence from my sight!--thy blood,

If thou dost stay----

_Ber._ Tyrant! too well to that thou knowest the way.

[_Going._

_Por._ Let baser souls from falling fortunes fly:

I'll pay my duty to her, though I die.

[_Exit, leading her._

_Max._ What made Porphyrius so officious be?

The action looked as done in scorn of me.

_Val._ It did, indeed, some little freedom shew;

But somewhat to his services you owe.

_Max._ Yet if I thought it his presumption were--

_Plac._ Perhaps he did not your displeasure hear.

_Max._ My anger was too loud, not to be heard.

_Plac._ I'm loth to think he did it not regard.

_Max._ How, not regard!

_Val._ Placidius, you foment,

On too light grounds, my father's discontent.

But when an action does two faces wear,

'Tis justice to believe what is most fair.

I think, that, knowing what respect there rests

For her late brother in the soldiers' breasts,

He went to serve the emperor; and designed

Only to calm the tempest in her mind,

Lest some sedition in the camp should rise.

_Max._ I ever thought him loyal as he's wise.

Since therefore all the Gods their spite have shewn

To rob my age of a successive throne;

And you who now remain,

The only issue of my former bed,

In empire cannot, by your sex, succeed;

To bind Porphyrius firmly to the state,

I will this day my Caesar him create:

And, daughter, I will give him you for wife.

_Val._ O day, the best and happiest of my life!

_Plac._ O day, the most accurst I ever knew!

[_Aside._

_Max._ See to my son performed each funeral due:

Then to the toils of war we will return,

And make our enemies our losses mourn.

[_Exeunt._

ACT II.

SCENE I.--_The Royal Camp_.

_Enter_ BERENICE _and_ PORPHYRIUS.

_Ber._ Porphyrius, you too far did tempt your fate,

In owning her, the emperor does hate.

'Tis true, your duty to me it became;

But, praising that, I must your conduct blame.

_Por._ Not to have owned my zeal at such a time,

Were to sin higher than your tyrant's crime.

_Ber._ 'Twas too much, my disgrace to accompany;

A silent wish had been enough for me.

_Por._ Wishes are aids faint servants may supply,

Who ask heaven for you what themselves deny.

Could I do less than my respect to pay,

Where I before had given my heart away?

_Ber._ You fail in that respect you seem to bear,

When you speak words unfit for me to hear.

_Por._ Yet you did once accept those vows I paid.

_Ber._ Those vows were then to Berenice made;

But cannot now be heard without a sin,

When offered to the wife of Maximin.

_Por._ Has, then, the change of fortune changed your will?

Ah! why are you not Berenice still?

To Maximin you once declared your hate;

Your marriage was a sacrifice to th' state:

Your brother made it to secure his throne,

Which this man made a step to mount it on.

_Ber._ Whatever Maximin has been, or is,

I am to bear, since heaven has made me his;

For wives, who must themselves of power divest,

When they love blindly, for their peace love best.

_Por._ If mutual love be vowed when faith you plight,

Then he, who forfeits first, has lost his right.

_Ber._ Husbands a forfeiture of love may make;

But what avails the forfeit none can take?

As, in a general wreck,

The pirate sinks with his ill-gotten gains,

And nothing to another's use remains,

So, by his loss, no gain to you can fall:

The sea, and vast destruction swallows all.

_Por._ Yet he, who from the shore the wreck descries,

May lawfully enrich him with the prize.

_Ber._ Who sees the wreck, can yet no title plead,

Till he be sure the owner first is dead.

_Por._ If that be all the claim I want to love,

This pirate of your heart I'll soon remove,

And, at one stroke, the world and you set free.

_Ber._ Leave to the care of heaven that world and me.

_Por._ Heaven as its instrument my courage sends.

_Ber._ Heaven ne'er sent those who fight for private ends.

We both are bound by trust, and must be true;

I to his bed, and to his empire you.

For he who to the bad betrays his trust,

Though he does good, becomes himself unjust.

_Por._ When Brutus did from Caesar Rome redeem,

The act was good.

_Ber._ But was not good in him.

You see the Gods adjudged it parricide,

By dooming the event on Caesar's side.

'Tis virtue not to be obliged at all;

Or not conspire our benefactor's fall.

_Por._ You doom me then to suffer all this ill,

And yet I doom myself to love you still.

_Ber._ Dare not Porphyrius suffer then with me,

Since what for him, I for myself decree?

_Por._ How can I bear those griefs you disapprove?

_Ber._ To ease them, I'll permit you still to love.

_Por._ That will but haste my death, if you think fit

Not to reward, but barely to permit.

Love without hope does like a torture wound,

Which makes me reach in pain, to touch the ground.

_Ber._ If hope, then, to your life so needful be,

Hope still.

_Por._ Blest news!

_Ber._ But hope in heaven, not me.

_Por._ Love is too noble such deceits to use:

Referring me to heaven, your gift I lose.

So princes cheaply may our wants supply,

When they give that, their treasurers deny.

_Ber._ Love blinds my virtue:--If I longer stay

It will grow dark, and I shall lose my way.

_Por._ One kiss from this fair hand can be no sin;--

ask not that you gave to Maximin.

In full reward of all the pains I've past,

Give me but one.

_Ber._ Then let it be your last.

_Por._ 'Tis gone!

Like soldiers prodigal of their arrears,

One minute spends the pay of many years.

Let but one more be added to the sum,

And pay at once for all my pains to come.

_Ber._ Unthrifts will starve, if we beforehand give:

[_Pulling back her hand._

I'll see you shall have just enough to live.

_Enter_ EROTION.