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[Illustration]
THE REVENGE.
_A Tragedy_,
IN FIVE ACTS,
BY DR. YOUNG.
CORRECTLY GIVEN,
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES ROYAL.
_With Remarks._
[Illustration]
_London_:
Printed by D. S. Maurice, Fenchurch-street;
SOLD BY
T. HUGHES, 35, LUDGATE STREET, AND J. BYSH,
52, PATERNOSTER ROW.
REMARKS.
This tragedy is the dramatic master-piece of it's valuable author, but
at first was not so successful as Busiris and his other plays. Though
similar, in some degree, to the story of Shakspeare's _Othello_, the
motives for resentment in Zanga are of a more noble and consistent
nature, and the credulous object of his deadly hatred more excusable and
more pitied in yielding to it's subtlety.
There is great scope for talent in the character of Zanga; but the
whining nonsense of Alonzo and Carlos would tire in any hands.
We have inserted, on page 59, a narrative said to have really happened
in Spain a few years before this piece was written;--it is so nearly
followed by Dr. Young in his admirable _Revenge_, as to leave no doubt
of having formed it's ground-work.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Covent Garden, 1814.
Don Alonzo Mr. Conway.
Don Carlos Mr. Hamerton.
Don Alvarez Mr. Murray.
Don Manuel Mr. Creswell.
Zanga Mr. Young.
Officers Messrs. Brown, Grant, &c.
Leonora Mrs. Egerton.
Isabella Miss Logan.
SCENE--Spain.
THE REVENGE.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. BATTLEMENTS, WITH A SEA PROSPECT.
_Enter Zanga._
_Zan._ Whether first nature, or long want of peace,
Has wrought my mind to this, I cannot tell;
But horrors now are not displeasing to me: [_thunder._
I like this rocking of the battlements.
Rage on, ye winds; burst, clouds; and, waters, roar!
You bear a just resemblance of my fortune,
And suit the gloomy habit of my soul.
_Enter Isabella._
Who's there? My love!
_Isa._ Why have you left my bed?
Your absence more affrights me than the storm.
_Zan._ The dead alone in such a night can rest,
And I indulge my meditation here.
Woman, away. I choose to be alone.
_Isa._ I know you do, and therefore will not leave you;
Excuse me, Zanga, therefore dare not leave you.
Is this a night for walks of contemplation?
Something unusual hangs upon your heart,
And I will know it: by our loves, I will.
Ask I too much to share in your distress?
_Zan._ In tears? thou fool! then hear me, and be plung'd
In hell's abyss, if ever it escape thee.
To strike thee with astonishment at once--
I hate Alonzo. First recover that,
And then thou shalt hear further.
_Isa._ Hate Alonzo!
I own, I thought Alonzo most your friend,
And that he lost the master in that name.
_Zan._ Hear then. 'Tis twice three years since that great man
(Great let me call him, for he conquer'd me)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I with pious rage pursu'd revenge.
I then was young; he plac'd me near his person,
And thought me not dishonour'd by his service.
One day (may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me. (While I tell it, do I live?)
He smote me on the cheek--I did not stab him,
For that were poor revenge--E'er since, his folly
Has strove to bury it beneath a heap
Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot.
Insolent thought! and like a second blow!
Affronts are innocent, where men are worthless;
And such alone can wisely drop revenge.
_Isa._ But with more temper, Zanga, tell your story;
To see your strong emotions startles me.
_Zan._ Yes, woman, with the temper that befits it.
Has the dark adder venom? So have I
When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me!
For from that day, that day of my dishonour,
From that day have I curs'd the rising sun,
Which never fail'd to tell me of my shame.
From that day have I bless'd the coming night,
Which promis'd to conceal it; but in vain;
The blow return'd for ever in my dream.
Yet on I toil'd, and groan'd for an occasion
Of ample vengeance; none has yet arriv'd.
Howe'er, at present, I conceive warm hopes
Of what may wound him sore in his ambition,
Life of his life, and dearer than his soul.
By nightly march he purpos'd to surprise
The Moorish camp; but I have taken care
They shall be ready to receive his favour.
Failing in this, a cast of utmost moment,
Would darken all the conquests he has won.
_Isa._ Just as I enter'd, an express arriv'd.
_Zan._ To whom?
_Isa._ His friend, don Carlos.
_Zan._ Be propitious,
Oh! Mahomet, on this important hour,
And give at length my famish'd soul revenge!
What is revenge, but courage to call in
Our honour's debts, and wisdom to convert
Others' self-love into our own protection?
But see, the morning dawn breaks in upon us;
I'll seek don Carlos, and inquire my fate. [_exeunt._